Trash Talk

Okay ... and now for something completely different... I need to get this off my chest.

 

I love Willowick. I do.  Well, okay, I love it NOW.

When I was young and growing up here, I thought it was Snoozerville and couldn’t wait to leave home and move someplace fun and exciting like, I don’t know, Chicago or Las Vegas.  So, when I finally moved out of my Mom and Dad's house (yep, same house I'm back in today!) I moved to Willoughby (which is one exit down on the freeway).  Willoughby's okay, but basically it's a slightly more picturesque Snoozerville with bigger trees, smaller houses and way more religious statues sitting in the front yards.

But Willowick is a great town to come back to (which is what I really think its motto should be), and, with the exception of a few gripes (all of which I’m sure will eventually see the light of day here on my blog), I’m happy being here.  But there is one issue that’s been bugging me since 2011, and now that I have a captive (such as you are) audience, here you go:

Why is garbage day in this town such a hassle? 

When I was a kid, this wasn’t really all that hard.  Every week Dad would yell at me until I went out to the garage and banged our two stinky, maggoty aluminum trash cans (circa 1947) down the driveway, parked ‘em on the tree lawn, and that was the end of it.  The cans were great -- they made all kinds of noise, which masked my excessive swearing.  I used to love it at night when there’d be a wind storm and I’d hear the lids clattering up and down Ronald Drive, keeping everybody awake.  It was even more fun when somebody didn’t push down on a lid tightly enough and some enterprising raccoon would spew trash all over the sidewalks for the school kids to step over crossing the street to Royalview Elementary.

Okay … so maybe those rusted, sharp-edged, dented giant tin cans were bio-hazardous tetanus death traps that were smelly and disruptive.  The blue, 95-gallon plastic trash bins Willowick now requires each of us to use are easily wheeled up and down the driveway and are, admittedly, pretty efficient (except when the lids blow open at night, but let’s face it – here in northeast Ohio, we’d have to nail shut and superglue any container we'd want permanently closed.  Our own Lake Erie wind tunnel never stops making our lives more interesting.)  Of course, I still want to know how these things are going to function when winter comes (‘cuz we didn’t have winter this year – for some reason it totally skipped us, praise Jesus).  But in a REAL winter, you know how it is … the snow piles up three or four feet on the tree lawns, and isn't that where the garbage tote is supposed to sit?  What are we supposed to do then, park it in the street? Surely the City of Willowick doesn’t think I’m going to pull a Grinch and balance that thing atop the drifts like a sleigh full of toys atop Mt. Crumpet? I know, I know, it’s only the end of May … but hey, like I always say, it’s never too early to dread our miserable, God-forsaken winters. 

But besides how this is going to work in winter, I have one other major concern that comes every month, and that centers around (da-da-DAAAA!) “bulk pickup day.” 

Now, in my happier and much younger years, there was no limit to the amount of trash we could drag out to our tree lawns any given week. You could pile three garbage cans, 60 feet of soiled carpeting, an old bathtub and a dead body out there and the garbage men would still pick it all up, no questions asked.  But now that society is so much more advanced and efficient … well, we're not allowed to do that anymore.  Most weeks we can only throw out what will fit inside the container, and I’ve noticed many of my neighbors have a different concept of “fit” than I do.  You know how when you go to the airport and you have a carry-on, and there’s this tiny little metal container in front of the x-ray belt your bag is supposed to fit into (or you can’t bring it on the plane?)  And ... you know how we all ignore it?  Well, our little dumpsters are kinda the same.  I’m always impressed when a neighbor actually manages to close the lid, because on Thursday night (after 6 p.m. - NO EARLIER, OR YOU'LL DIE AND GO TO HELL ) I'll look up and down Ronald Drive and see a row of dumpsters that blatantly defy gravity and other laws of physics, their hefty bags bulging out of their tops the way teen aged girls do at the mall. The most resourceful Willowickians (Willowicksters?  Willowickites?  What the hell are we called, anyone know?) will always make their dumpsters look like a roasting pig with an apple in its mouth. 

But you see, if it doesn’t somehow go into the bin, it doesn’t get picked up.  That’s the golden garbage rule. You can’t put out anything other than your tote … EXCEPT ON BULK PICKUP DAY.  

Yes... on that magical day you can put out almost anything and somebody will pick it up and take it away.  Once a month we are allowed to return to the glory of yesteryear and put out that large, scary stuff we've been storing in the garage all month (unless it's on the exception list - check the brochure). The only problem is nobody can figure what day it is. Oh, there's a schedule. Every street has its own day - ours is Friday.  So hey, on Friday during the first full week of the month (unless there's a holiday in that week, then it's a day later) we're allowed to put out the bulk stuff.  But understand its the first FULL week of the month, meaning that if a nasty 30th or 31st from the previous month creeps in on a Sunday, it's not the first FULL week and you have to wait until the next week, and... you see? Already it's too complicated, and that shit just messes us all up.  The last time we had bulk pick up day, I had to go to the City of Willowick website (www.cityofwillowick.com) to download the schedule before hauling a queen-sized mattress out to the curb. I was still scared I had the wrong day because NOBODY else had any free-wheeling junk sitting out.  Well, once I put my cat-scratched mattress out there, guess what?  Doors started opening and little "presents" started popping up on everybody else's lawns.  I guess all we needed was one brave soul to start the bulk trash ball rolling around here because seriously, nobody can handle the complexity of all this.  

I mean, look at this flyer.  More than a year ago these showed up in our mail, just before the city gave us our dumpsters.  I've put together cheap furniture that came from Walmart in a flat box with instructions easier to understand than this thing:

But, in the end, I know I shouldn't complain.  My sister Barbara can't get over how easy we have it.  At least we don't have the trash police picking through our refuse to make sure we didn't do anything "un-green," like throw away organic waste or accidentally dispose of some useless piece of recyclable crap.  Can you guess what city she lives in?  Hint: think California and hippies.  

So ... I guess we've got it pretty good.  That frightens me.  And you can bet I'll be back to discuss this further after our next lake-effect snow event, when I know I'll be pushing that thing up Mt. Everest.

Showtime!

So here it was, my Confirmation Day … okay, so maybe it wasn’t like a wedding where someone shells out big bucks just to watch her cake topple over or to find out her fiance ran off to Canada with her savings (which wouldn’t get him farther than Niagara Falls on what I have in the bank, but I digress).  There’s no huge investment of cash involved, and there’s not a lot that can go wrong when all I’m basically doing is putting on a white polyester robe and participating in a ceremony that will confirm my faith and allow me to finally have my first Communion.    So … you wouldn’t think there’s much of a reason to be anxious, right? Georgette, my RCIA buddy, would be there getting confirmed as well, so it’s not like I’d be standing all alone up at the altar.

Nevertheless, I woke up Sunday morning in sweaty terror when I suddenly realized I was going “on stage” in two hours and had no idea what the choreography was. Did I miss a memo somewhere along the way? An instructional video? Psychic dream?  Where was I supposed to stand?  When was I supposed to get up? Sit down? Was I supposed to memorize anything? Would they make me kneel? What if I couldn’t get back up? What if ate something gassy for breakfast and, upon kneeling, embarrassed myself in front of friends and neighbors? Or what if they made me stand on a pew like they did with the kids? I could totter. I could fall.  Worse, I could fall onto somebody’s children and crush them.  Would I go to jail? Would I have to move? How would I sell a house in this market?  Would my employer let me transfer? 

This was just all too much to try to work out before breakfast. 

So, after a couple of eggs, some toast, three Aleve and about half a bottle of Beano, I put on my white blouse, white pants, white shoes, and wondered if my Aunt Tata was weeping in her grave because I was an adult woman wearing white before Memorial Day. I think I’ve already made it clear that I avoid the color white about as much as Cleveland sports fans avoid optimism, so I had to go out to the mall the day before to buy the blouse and pants.  My sister Barbara (aka: “the brains of the family”) talked me into a very summery, white, gauzy thing that felt like I was wearing a Kleenex.  When I pointed out that it was a little flimsy, she suggested that I’d thank her later when I was roasting alive inside of my robe.  Arguing with Barbara is way too tiring even when I’m at the top of my game, so I bought it.

Barb, Mom and I drove to the church.  The plan was for Barb and Mom to sit in the back in case either woman needed an unencumbered escape route to the bathroom while I (as befitting my starring role) sat in the front. I said goodbye to both women and went to classroom 103 where I put on my garment and waited for Georgette.  (Or “Jet,” as she insists we call her.)

Now – at St. Mary Magdalene - the general consensus is to not tell the newbies too much ahead of time so we won’t worry too much. To leave us in ignorance is intended to be an act of kindness and mercy.  Unfortunately, this strategy crashed and burned all over us. As Jet and I stood around looking terrified, Deacon Carl walked in, informed us we were going to be in the procession (huh?), and quickly ran through the sequence of events.  First, we would carry candles (huh?). We would sit in the first set of pews – Jet on one side, myself on the other – and our families could sit with us. (Family?)  I think Carl might have wondered if I came from a family of hunchbacked lepers, because he looked a little concerned when I insisted that no, my family was sitting in the back of the church and yes, that IS where I wanted them (I’d rather not move them up, don’t go there, leave it alone and thank you very much). He said Father Ron would call us up, light our candles, say some stuff, and anoint us. He'd talk some more and recite the creed. Our sponsors would give our confirmation names, we’d blow out our candles, and there was possibly more – and in a different order – but I don’t remember.  Easy-peasy, right?  The only thing we’d have to remember is when to say, “And with your spirit” in response to the father saying “Peace be with you.” This is something I say at Mass every Sunday, so I figured hey, no problem, at least I’d nail that.  I was, however, a little concerned about holding an open flame, given that I'd just emptied a half a bottle of hairspray that morning.

So we line up for the procession, and then – at the last minute – Carl tells us that we’re going to carry the offering up to Father Ron right before Eucharist and hey, don’t worry, the usher will let us know when to walk back to get it (excuse me...I'm sorry ... we're doing WHAT now?) Jet and I looked at each other, secretly praying the other would look wise and knowledgeable all of a sudden, but both of us were hideously disappointed. I was stupidly wondering if by “the offering” he meant the bread and wine.  And, oh yes,  I wondered if it would be considered bad form to take off running toward the parking lot, screaming and waving my arms like some giant demented Casper.

I’ve been a sales rep. I’ve talked to classrooms with hundreds of students.  I typically don’t get stage fright; in fact, I love “performing” in front of a captive audience (or a not-so-captive-shut-up-so-we-can-go-to-lunch audience.)  Here in church I was surrounded by love, acceptance, and happy, joyful well-wishers who I really didn’t need to impress.  Nevertheless, walking up to my pew, I kept re-living one of my worse anxiety dreams: I was starring in the high school play, hadn’t gone to any rehearsals, hadn’t memorized a single line and I had to deliver a soliloquy from "Macbeth" in five minutes.

I finally got to sit down in my “altared” state and exhale while the actual Mass went forward, but I became increasingly aware that I was, as Barb predicted, burning up inside all that polyester.  Now … I’m not very menopausal.  I’m perimenopausal (which means all the real fun is still ahead of me).  But I am occasionally getting hot flashes … usually when I’m exercising, stressed out, or getting ready to convince my boss I'm not crazy.  My face turns red and, like mid-day heat rolling off the sand dunes of the Sahara, the top of my head radiates steam. (I think this is why that cranky old bat in "The Wizard of Oz" really melted.) I know I’m supposed to be full of joy and inspiration and craving a connection with the Holy Spirit, but all I can think about craving is a bathtub filled with ice.

So then it was our turn…and I’d love to tell you that nothing got screwed up.  But that would be a lie because, friend, just about everything got screwed up.   I can even give you a list:

1) I forgot to blow out my candle (Deacon Carl finally figured out that I had forgotten I was supposed to do this and blew it out for me.)

2) The first time I sat back down, I didn’t sit in my pew – I sat In the row of chairs in front of my pew.  I kept wondering where the heck everybody went.

3) My sponsor – a darling lady – gave my confirmation name as “Gabriella,” when it was actually “Gabriel.” In truth, I was sort of relieved the screw-up fairy wasn’t only targeting me.

4) Remember I mentioned the creed?  Nope – wasn’t just the priest saying it.  We were supposed to chime in.  I remembered about half of it – the rest I sorta faked my way through by moving my lips and trying to look poignant.

5) Oh, and remember my one big line?  “And with your spirit?”  Yep... I screwed it up.  While Father Ron was talking, I lapsed into the sort of trance that comes from heatstroke, so when he looked at me and said, “Peace be with you,” I panicked because I had no clue what I was supposed to say.  So, naturally, I responded with “And also with you,” (which used to be the response until the church changed all the words a few months back.)  I caught myself, said, “And with your spirit,” and burst out laughing. 

I think, looking back on it, the imperfections made the whole thing a lot more beautiful and definitely more real, so I quickly made my peace with all that.  I’d rather have a real experience than a perfect one. And, on a higher note, the actual first Communion went off without a hitch.  I had been certain I’d forget to bow or say “Amen” after Father Ron said, ‘Body of Christ” and, worse yet, would either choke on the body or drop it on the floor. Nevertheless – I managed it okay, and friends and family afterward said it was all very beautiful. If I ever get a video, I’ll try to post it, and then you can tell me if they were all just being kind. J

"Recommunicating" with Catholicism

I’ve attended RCIA* at St. Mary Magdalene’s in Willowick** since last September. My Confirmation is now two days away.  And …I’m 49 years old.

My cousin asked me if I wanted to borrow her communion veil from when she was seven, but I thought it might clash with my deepening laugh lines and budding crow’s feet … so I politely declined. (Besides … the veil is 45 years old and would probably disintegrate on top of my head, which would likely lead to more explaining than I’d already have to do). 

So, there will be no veil for yours truly. However, it’s troubling enough to know they’re making me wear white. Never having been married (and certainly not planning on it now), wearing white in church was something I thought I’d never have to worry about.  I’m not a small person. Small persons have a lovely relationship with the color white. Someone like “American Idol” finalist Jessica Sanchez – who weighs, what, 17 pounds? – looks charming in white. Me, I’m a large woman who could put away a buffet the size of Jessica Sanchez.  So, when my well-meaning friends say things like, ‘Good news, I’m bringing my camera!” I have to smile and nod because I know they mean well.  What I’d like to do, of course, is reply with an emphatic “_____ *** no!” and gently smack them over the head with my Bible. I fear, however, that such a passionate display of violence might get me excommunicated before I even get “recommunicated” (I’m pretty sure that’s not an official Catholic term), so I’ll just keep smiling and nodding and praying that they all forget their cameras at home.

If even one person gets a photo of me wearing that robe, I’ll have to look at big ol’ Brenda scrolling across the TV screen in the church lobby (actually, I think the technical term for the lobby is “narthex,” which I had to look up on Google). I believe this is God’s not-so-subtle way of keeping me humble and wanting me, for His sake, to go on a diet already. 

Let me pause for a moment to explain the “recommunication” reference. I was born and baptized by well-meaning parents who intended to raise me Catholic.  Then, along the way, something happened (it might have been Vatican II, or Dad just being pissed at the church for some reason) that sort of derailed that agenda. I never received First Communion and was never confirmed, so I grew up knowing that while I was technically Catholic, I wasn’t Catholic in the ways that really counted. I was always one of those kids who  got left out of the good stuff.  So many of my classmates were participating in events which were beyond my understanding and so, consequently, sounded attractive. I used to feel let down when Donna or Debbie or Nancy or Susan would talk importantly about having to go to Catechism, attend Mass,and give up candy bars for Lent (side note: it was 1970ish… just about every girl in my class was named Donna or Debbie or Nancy or Susan). Plus, I never got to wear the white fluffy dress with the cascading white veil at a time when I was a much smaller person and who would have looked darling in white (now THERE was a window that certainly closed quickly!). Oh… and I would have gotten lots of presents. No kid likes missing out on that.

It took me this long to come back to the church because I just never got around to doing it sooner. I spent most of my 20s, 30s and 40s avoiding commitment of any kind, and the thought of going back to church overwhelmed and intimidated me. I did explore many other faiths and read a lot of books.  I did do a great deal of soul searching over the years…but, after awhile, I realized I was no wiser (and certainly no holier) than when I started.  So, I think what mostly brought me back was a combo platter of a strong cultural connection to the religion, a need to reconnect with a community where I had spent my childhood, and the desire to believe in something worth believing. In spite of all the lousy press it’s gotten over the centuries, Catholicism is a very comforting and beautiful religion. I realize I’m not worthy to step forward to receive my first Holy Communion on Sunday. I can’t honestly say I believe in 100% of everything the church teaches. And man, memorizing those prayers and responses is a real ___.  All I really know is that I’m keeping company with many good, positive people and I feel like I’m finally filling in a hole that’s been yawning inside of me since I was a child.  All of that is more than enough compensation for having to wear white on Sunday. 

Footnotes:

* RCIA - Rite of Christian Initiation of Adults. 

**Willowick - Lovely little suburb of Cleveland.  It's where I grew up and where I've come back to live.  

 

***My swearing can still be a problem. I’m working on it. In the meantime, it’s a good thing there’s Confession on Saturdays and both Father Ted and Father Ron are really nice and don’t yell at me or get mean or anything scary like that.

If you’d like to see a copy of our church bulletin (yes, you’ll see my name on the second page), please visit http://www.catholicweb.com/bulletins/58161/May-06-2012.pdf