The prayers are giving me cancer ²

It wouldn’t be a trip back to my husband’s hometown without a Sunday morning service at the Methodist church. This year, Memorial Day weekend coincided with Pentecost, which just so happens to be one of my favorite holidays on the Christian calendar.

Pentecost is often described as the “Birthday of the Church” and celebrates the descent of the Holy Spirit on the twelve disciples. The book of Acts describes the Holy Spirit appearing in the form of small flames of fire above each of the disciples heads–you’ve probably seem religious imagery and artwork depicting this. The disciples were in turn, filled with the Holy Spirit and began speaking in tongues. It is for this reason that fire has become a common symbol of Pentecost.

The church in Scott’s hometown decided to celebrate Pentecost with a special ritual involving fire. During Lent, members of the church had written prayers on post-it notes and attached them to a wooden cross. During the service, the pastor started a small fire in a steel bucket on the altar where all of the prayers would be burned. While I’m not totally sure what this symbolized, I realized the significance of fire on Pentecost, so I went with it.

My husband Scott was not quite as willing to accept the ritual without thorough questioning.

“Psst! Katrina! What’s he doing?”

“He’s burning the prayers.” I whispered quietly.

“Why?”

“Today is Pentecost, and fire is symbolic. Pentecost also marks the fiftieth day after Easter. All of these prayers were written during Lent, and I think there’s something symbolic in regards to the ashes rising to the heavens.”

“Oh. That’s stupid.” he scoffed.

“No. It’s not. Now be quiet…people can hear you.”

I couldn’t help but to notice my surroundings. My three-year-old niece was gingerly sitting in her grandmothers lap playing with her bracelet and blowing kisses to her mother. My seven-year-old niece was carefully filling out a Sunday School activity worksheet, her brow furrowed in concentration. My nine-year-old nephew was patiently watching each of the prayers quickly burning in the steel pail, his eyes twinkling with curiosity and fascination.

And my twenty-nine-year old husband was rocking back and forth violently, utterly consumed with a case of the church giggles.

“Scott! Stop it! People are staring at you.” I hissed.

“I…can’t…help…it! Heheheee!”

“Seriously…what is so funny?”

“It’s just so ridiculous! Why aren’t they doing this outside?!”

“Shh! I don’t know. I suppose it would take too long to get everyone outdoors.”

“Yeah…but at least that way they could use a big steel drum or something, that would make it go a lot quicker. This. is. taking. forever.”

He had a point. We were already ten minutes into the ritual and the pastor wasn’t even halfway through all of the prayers on the cross. I noticed him shoot the organist a look of desperation. She took the hint and quickly began pumping out a familiar hymn in order to kill the awkward silence. At ten-thirty in the morning, it was already ninety degrees outside, and the church was starting to feel a bit stuffy. The fumes from the burning prayers thickly rose through the dense air as I started to fan myself with a stray bulletin.

In between giggles, I felt my husband elbow me.

“What is it?” I whispered through my frustration.

“These prayers are giving me cancer!”

“What?”

“The fumes from the post-it notes he’s burning up there…they are giving all of us cancer! I told you we should be doing this outside.”

While the smell was certainly overpowering, I’m pretty sure you can’t get cancer from a few burning post-it notes.

“Seriously, Scott. Cut it out. Now.”

At this point, he was causing a scene. His mother leaned over my lap, pinching her son in the arm and whispering “Shape up, Scottie!” through her clenched teeth.

“But, mom! The prayers are giving us cancer!” he squealed through his high-pitched laughter.

“Most of those prayers are probably for you, a**hole!” she screeched.

“Hopefully they’re prayers that I won’t get CANCER!” he snorted.

I let out an exasperated sigh. This is exactly why I like to stick to the vanilla traditions of the Lutheran church.

Finally, the prayer burning was complete, and we were free to continue with our worship service. I’m only thankful that we had chosen to sit in the balcony so that the damage caused by my snickering, blasphemous husband was kept to a minimum.

At the end of the service, we exited the church, stepping out into the humid Nebraska air. Like a kid on kool-aid, Scott immediately began running laps around the parking lot, and wrestling with our nephew Keaton. When he eventually stopped to catch his breath, I pulled him aside for a good old-fashioned Sunday scolding.

“I’d just like to point out that in spite of the fact that we were sitting with a nine, seven and three-year old, you were by far the worst behaved boy in church.”

A slow, mischievous smile spread across his smug little face.

“I know.” he giggled, before launching into a cart-wheel and chasing my poor little niece around the church lawn like a crazed zombie.

Here’s hoping the maturity switch flips on in time for his 30s.

Want more? Subscribe via email.

Liked this? Then try these:

Sweatshirts are Sexy

Pitching a Tent

The litterbox chronicles

Celebrity Crushes ³

We all have them, right? In fact, I’d go so far as to say that your celebrity crush says a great deal about you as a person.

Which is precisely why I’ve put off admitting mine for so long.

I suppose it’s time to finally come clean…but please…don’t be too hard on me. I mean…everyone needs a little man candy every once in a while, right?

1. President Obama

I must admit, the Commander-in-Chief makes me weak in the knees every time. When he slow jammed the news last month on Jimmy Kimmel? I giggled in sheer delight before watching the video twelve more times. If such a video had been in existence in July of 2007, I probably would have made the audio track the first dance song at my wedding.

That is how much I love this man.

On a recent trip to Honolulu, I made my friends Si and Nathanael take me to Barack’s favorite shave ice shop. They even have a picture of him on the wall eating his favorite flavor and flashing the “hang loose” sign. For twenty oh-so-blissful moments, I stood beneath that photo, batting my eyelashes while delicately eating my pineapple dessert and trying to make witty conversation about foreign policy.

I may or may not have been pretending we were on a date.

No offense, Scott…but it was kind of the best date ever. Although, Obama technically didn’t pay for my shave ice, so I don’t know if it actually counts?

I should clarify that my love for President Obama is about ninety percent platonic. You see, the only person I might adore more than him is his lovely wife Michelle.

Talk about a class act.

I just couldn’t bear to be responsible for breaking up such an All-American marriage. I mean…then Michelle would never go shopping at J. Crew with me, which is completely unacceptable. Also? With arms like that I’m pretty sure she could take me in a street fight, in spite of my mad Turbo Kick skillz.

2. Sven Sundgaard

Sven is the very, very Norwegian weather man for KARE 11, the NBC affiliate in Minneapolis.

His middle name is Olaf. *sigh*

The Scandinavian in me was always intrigued by his hyper-Norwegian name…but it wasn’t until I came across this photo of him in a full-out Norwegian sweater for last year’s KARE holiday special that I realized I was harboring an extremely intense celebrity crush for the man who predicts our weather with an 80 percent chance of accuracy.

Back off, Grandma Solveig…he’s mine.

Upon realizing my love for all things Sven, the next step was a trip to his Facebook fan page, naturally.

That’s when I saw the perfectly hairless, chiseled vacation photos.

I can’t really put them up here because it’s like, a copyright violation or something, but you should totally go check them out.

Like, immediately.

3. Eminem and Aaron Paul

Eminem photo by WhiteBoyzCantRun, Aaron Paul photo by Gage Skidmore

I’ve paired these two together as they basically fit into the same mold: white men who think they are black and at some point have had a history with drugs.

Well, Eminem is the only one who actually fits that description. Aaron just plays Jesse Pinkman, everyone’s favorite meth cook on Breaking Bad.

So why am I attracted to this type of bad boy? You know, the ones who sport sketchy looking peach fuzz and use phrases like “I spit da troof”?

I’m not exactly sure, but I’m almost positive it has something to do with the fact that I’m from Parkland. Holla.

4. Pete Wentz

Photo by Ashley Rehnblom (Vanilla Twilight)

I know.

Ewwww.

The man wears eyeliner, named his son Bronx, and made his millions in a “punk pop” band that really, was just a whiney boy band with a pinch of annoying hipster added in for good measure. I also think his hairstyle might actually be capable of feeling human emotion.

Double ewwww.

Believe me, this is as painful for me to talk about as it is for you to imagine. I mean…I don’t even like the guy. Or his music! Or his terrible taste in body art! Yet over the past twelve months, I have had no less than three romantic dreams about Mr. Fallout Boy.

To borrow a phrase from my latest erotic read, I think my “inner goddess” is trying to tell me something.

Triple ewwww.

Want more? Subscribe via email.

Liked this? Then try these:

It's Britney, B****

My Date with Katniss

Off with her head!

Fifty Shades of Awkward ⁸

I totally broke down, you guys.

In a moment of weakness, I followed in the footsteps of the filthy minded masses and downloaded “it” onto my iPad.

By “it” I mean the book that is so inappropriate, it makes the puppet sex scene in Team America World Police seem more tame than a Mr. Rogers episode.

Photo via Amazon

Apparently, downloading the bestseller onto Kindle for the iPad was a smart call. A friend of mine was nearly shanked by a judgemental housewife in the Borders checkout line for having the courage to publicly purchase such a naughty, naughty book. Another iPad benefit was that everyone assumed I was reading something wholesome this weekend while sunbathing at the kiddie pool in Arapahoe, Nebraska.

Yes…I read the book that deserves to be burned at the kiddie pool. Don’t judge me.

You’d think, as far as embarrassing book moments go, I would be in the clear.

And that’s where you’d be wrong.

Wrong because reading this book during a 10.5 hour drive to Nebraska while sitting just inches away from your in-laws is beyond awkward. Almost as awkward as time you sat next to them while watching the puppet sex scene from Team America World Police…a memory that still makes you shudder. (And by “shudder” I clearly mean rocking back and forth like a trauma victim while singing I’m so Ronery in your very best Kim Jong-il voice.)

Wrong because having your little nephew stumble across the word “fondle” (and then proceed to ask you what it means) when he borrows your iPad to play video games is like a guilt trip on steroids.

Wrong because wanting to claw your eyes out when your husband asks you how his tie looks, simply because it’s identical to the necktie in the book is quite painful.

Wrong because you wanted to name your future son Christian, and now it’s tainted.

But mostly wrong because admitting that you actually ~~kind of~~ really like the book on your blog says a lot about you as a person. I mean…you know you’ve hit a low point when you think even your iPad is judging you, no matter how many times your Google research confirms such a phenomenon to be impossible.

Because, when you’re in the thick of a particularly steamy page, only to be interrupted by a push notification informing you that your little nephew (who now, thanks to you, knows what the word “fondle” means) just sent you a move in “Chess with Friends”, iPad judgement is the conclusion you will undoubtedly jump to.

I’m just thankful that I didn’t opt for the book on tape.

Or the picture book. (Cue massive eye bleeding a la Indiana Jones.)

I’m about halfway through the novel, but ultimately, I’ve found reading the reviews on Amazon to be almost as good as the actual book. In closing, I’d like to leave you with a snippet of this guy’s customer review, which already has over 700 comments on Amazon. It was written by a self-proclaimed “male senior citizen, semi-retired gynecologist whose customary literary fare is spy novels and military techno-thrillers.”

“At my age, my arthritis flared up just reading about Ana’s sexual gymnastics. And for some reason, I kept thinking about her contracting genital warts.”

I’m just glad to know that while sitting at the Arapahoe kiddie pool, knee deep in chapter twelve, there was a semi-retired gynecologist in Upstate New York who was just as concerned about the possibility of poor little Ana contracting warts as I was.

Perhaps I should take a note from my new literary soul-mate and start getting into military techno-thrillers?

Want more? Subscribe via email.

Liked this? Then try these:

Lent. Enough said.

The Flask is Back

Jolie goes to the Dermatologist

Pitching a Tent ⁰

I have a Memorial Day Weekend confession.

I’ve never been camping.

I know, I know…it’s extraordinarily un-American of me. I blame this gap in cultural experience on the fact that my parents were too cheap for any activity that would require the purchase of name-brand Doritos and Capri Suns.

Also, I’m not very rustic. I’ll avoid mosquito bites at all cost, and my idea of “camping” is staying in a hotel that, at the very least, has a 3-star rating and complimentary made-to-order omelette station.

So yeah…never been camping.

Unless you count the time my dad decided it would be fun to camp in our backyard. This saved money as there was no need to spend money on gas, charcoal or a camping permit. I lasted for all of two hours before realizing how utterly ridiculous it was to be laying on the cold, hard ground of the backyard when I was literally thirty seconds away from my warm, comfy bed inside.

Possessed by a fit of anger at whoever thought sleeping in the back yard was a “good idea”, I stormed up the stairs and slammed my body onto the mattress as an expression of rage and disgust at our “imitation camping”. Unfortunately, this peaceful demonstration of protest was overshadowed by the fact that my “body slam” was ever-so-slightly misaligned, causing me to bash my noggin on the headboard and end up with a cartoon-like goose egg on the back of my skull.

I’m sure it comes as no surprise that such an experience sucked the appeal out of camping for a good twenty years.

Scott and I are spending the holiday weekend with his family in rural Nebraskan hometown. His sister and her family are camping on a nearby lake, so we dropped by yesterday afternoon for a few hours of swimming, boating and good old Memorial Day weekend cookout. We had crossed the first two activities off the list, and were about to start in on dinner preparation when an unexpected visitor arrived.

The wind.

Normally, I love wind. As a baby growing up in wintry Alaska, my mom would take extra care to bundle me up from the cold, blustering air with a blanket, only to have me thrust it off my face, throw my head back and scream “Weee!!!” as the wind ripped across my rosy little face. Once we moved to Washington, I would look forward to windy days so that I could craft a ghetto-style kite out of string and a plastic grocery bag and run around Parkland letting it soar with pride.

Dare I say it, I love the wind.

Unless it is one hundred degrees outside and I’m trying to, you know, cook food outdoors.

Cue the tent collapsing.

Let me clarify that this wasn’t just any tent. The massive canvas domicile was larger than my bedroom, could comfortably sleep at least eight people, and brags a scaffolding system that makes it easily more structurally sound than my first apartment.

It was a tent that made me believe that maybe, just maybe, I could survive a night of sleeping outside.

Until its central post gave way.

At this point we realized two things.

1. The cookout would need to be moved indoors.

2. Scott’s sister and her family would not be spending another night on the campsite as a storm was clearly on its way.

We needed to pack up the supplies as quickly as possible and hightail it out of there. No easy task as when two adults and three children spend the night in the wilderness, there are a lot of accoutrements involved.

In situations like this, I’m not all that helpful. I’m clumsy, unable to lift heavy things, and am never really sure where to put stuff that isn’t mine. I stood there, paralyzed by indecision for a few moments as I watched everyone else crawl into the tent and attempt to rescue as many supplies as possible. This was no simple feat as the tent had completely folded to the ground and the wind was whipping it about in an extremely violent manner.

That’s when it hit me.

While I may not be helpful at lifting or organizing, I think I possess the stubbornness and mental hootspa necessary to successfully turn myself into a make shift tent post. I crawled beneath the writhing underbelly of canvas fabric, found what I assumed to be the central point of the canopy, and stood up. My thick and determined head held the tent up off the ground so that people might retrieve their belongings with slightly more ease and convenience.

The wind was blasting at full force by this point, its sheer power only magnified once inside the confines of the collapsed tent. The pressure I felt as my head supported the roof was so strong, it seemed there was a chance I might seriously sprain my neck, or at the very least, fall over.

But I endured. Dare I say it, I was even kind of useful.

This whole situation made me realize that while it’s probably going to be a while before I work up the courage to try camping, I was still able to sacrifice my body and transform myself into a blonde, bikini wearing structural support unit for what might just be the most magnificent tent I’ve ever seen.

I was a human tent post–an honor I’m assuming not too many folks can claim.

Want more? Subscribe via email.