It's kind of like Yahtzee, but the dice aren't white.

Once again at the firm's holiday party this year, we were encouraged to select festive "Christmas names" for the silent auction. I didn't participate, as usual, but I was all about stirring up some trouble because I'm pretty sure not everyone celebrates Christmas. It's not merely politically correct to use the term holiday rather than Christmas; it's accurate. I helped one co-worker brainstorm her submission--Dreidel--and I suggested Kwanzaa to another co-worker. She smiled, put pen to paper and asked me how to spell it.
"K..W..A... Wait a minute, you do know what Kwanzaa is, don't you?"
"Yeah. Is it a game?"

WWJP?

Law Clerk: Parking near campus is just impossible lately. I used to park in the University Baptist Church lot, but they've turned it all into paid parking.

Melissa: Have they? That's where I used to park, too.

Me: Where Would Jesus Park?

Melissa: He wouldn't have a car.

Me: Yeah, they'd be all, "You can't park that donkey here."

Melissa: They wouldn't make Jesus pay for parking.

Me: I bet they would.

Melissa: He's Jesus. They wouldn't make him pay.

Me: Whatever. They don't care who his daddy is.

Melissa: WWJP?

Me: I'm going to spray paint that all over their No Parking signs ... Hey, where did the law clerk go?

His religious fervor is really cramping my style

Since about three weeks ago, we say grace in our house before every meal. Paolo has been trained at school to pause before dining to clap his hands together and say, "God is good. God is great. Let us thank Him for our food. Amen." I know he has the first two lines reversed. I've tried to correct him, but he answers to a higher power now. My husband keeps reminding me there's no harm in it (while telling me with his piercing glare that, if I roll my eyes again, I will be spending the night outside in the snow). I, however, feel that there are a lot more stops on the train ride between this "God" and our table. There's the cow, for instance, the farmer, the sun that shone on the fields, the rain that watered them. The butcher, the grocer, the loving, if faithless, mother who purchased and prepared this tasty and nutritious meal set before us, amen. I'm just saying, there are parties with stronger claims on deserving thanks for a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.

Like any religious fanatic, Paolo takes the whole blessing thing too far. I handed him the whisk I used to make whipped cream so he could lick it, and he had to pray first. He saw me mid-granola bar, chewing an unsanctified bite, and was appalled. "Mama! You didn't say 'God is good'." Last night, Paolo had to go poop right as we sat down to dinner (as usual), and he kept yelling from the bathroom, between grunts, "Don't take any bites! We have to say 'God is good.' You're not eating, are you?" This level of piety, I don't need.

I'm pretty sure my fraudulent prayer is worse than not praying at all. It certainly isn't doing my peace of mind any good. Leave it to my darling husband to put a twinkle back in my eye. He suggested, if this is bothering me so much, I can revise the rhyme ever so slightly to stick it to them at school:

God is great. God is good. Let us thank Her for our food.

Amen.

Penny for your thoughts

It was a drizzly, gray Sunday, and we were driving out to the mall to escape the four walls closing in on us and our increasingly petulant child. As we turned a corner, I noticed a gentleman on the sidewalk holding an umbrella with a book tucked under his arm. It looked like a Bible, which reminded me of a Baptist I know who would walk out of the house without his wallet, car keys and pants before his Bible. This Baptist had once said about me, "At the end of the day, it all comes down to a choice between God and dirt. I choose God, and Jennifer chooses dirt." My reply at the time was, "I'm just using the brain you say God gave me, and dirt makes more sense." Actually I rolled my eyes and walked away, wishing I had some clever retort. We heathens are notorious liars. Anyway, I was continuing this discussion in my head, arguing that honoring the creation is just as valid as worshipping the creator, especially since the creator has been on hiatus since the seventh day. Dude, break's over.

Sam broke into my musings to ask what I was thinking about. I hesitated, but then said, "What if I just came out and said I was thinking God is dead?" His eyebrows predictably reached for his hairline, so I retrenched: "Okay, I was thinking about trees." He gave me a sideways glance before replying, "I believe the first answer way before I believe the second."