GOING TO CHURCH

GOING TO CHURCH
 

My family was a regular church going family until each of “The Boys” was safely confirmed as full members of the church.  At that point, apparently mom and dad had done their job, and participation at Church was voluntary. 

For the most part, we volunteered to not go.  Mom and dad were ok with that, and Sundays became pancake and bacon, and what time is the game on Sunday.

Pop still paid tribute to the church, he sent a check every January that represented what would be a weekly contribution had the whole family gone to church on a regular basis.

We generally went to church one day every year.  We went to church on Easter.  We usually went to the Easter sunrise service which required getting up at 4:30 am and suffering through an early spring frigid morning outside the church.

Every Easter sunrise service, in the freezing cold of a spring dawn, the minister started his sermon with a little joke.  Looking out over a packed audience, probably double a normal Sunday, he declared,

“Welcome everyone to this wondrous day.  It is nice to see so many new faces.  You do know we are here every Sunday, not just once a year don’t you?”

This always got a lovely knowing chuckle followed by buzzing and head nodding from all the church “better than thou” regulars, most of whom were little old ladies in funny hats with very stern looking husbands by their sides.

Every year, when this little joke was made, I could see my father do a slow burn.  Every year going home I heard the same rant from my pop.

“You know, I pay a considerable sum every year to that church.  If I choose to only go once a year, that is my business and I really don’t like to go and then have some dweeb with a funny collar point out to everyone that many of us, based  on attendance, are not as good as the regulars. 

I don’t know what makes those regulars such wonderful people.  I do know that I have raised my sons to respect the church; I do know that I am a charitable person who has volunteered for community service, has taught Sunday school and tried to live my life as a good Christian.  I have a good mind to tell that pastor off and stop making any payments except on the one day a year that I choose to attend.”

Every year my mom shut this rant down with just two words in a way that only moms can.

“Now Jim…”

The next year, we would all be back shivering through the Pastor’s smug insider joke and another Easter sermon.

Which came first, the Jerk or the Bitch?

Which came first, the Jerk or the Bitch?

Which came first, the jerk or the bitch?  It’s a question I am sure that many married couples ask.  It was asked in the Cranky home this morning.  It started when Mrs. C complained to me that I over cooked her waffle.  

I guess I need to explain.

Every morning I get my breakfast, eggs and bacon, and when I come back upstairs with my cup of coffee I bring Mrs. Cranky a glass of OJ and a toasted Eggo Waffle (plain, no syrup…I KNOW!).  This morning she complained to me that I left the waffle in the toaster too long while I was brewing my coffee.

“Next time, brew your coffee first, so you don't leave the waffle in the toaster.  That overcooks it.”

How she knew I toasted the waffle and then hit “brew” on the Kurig thing leaving the toasted waffle in the still hot toaster I’ll never know…she just knows stuff. 

Anyway I complained that she doesn’t appreciate that I bring a waffle and juice to her every morning.

“I never ask you to make it for me, but if you are going to make it, make it right.”

“Oh, I forgot you don’t like people to do things for you, you don’t want to be beholding to anyone.  It’s OK I won’t bother you with bringing you breakfast anymore.”

“That’s not true, I like that you bring me the waffle and OJ!”

“Well you never show it, you usually complain about the way it is toasted.”

“Not true.”

“Very true.”

“Jerk”

“Bitch”

“If you weren’t such a jerk, I wouldn’t be a bitch.”

“If you weren’t such a bitch, I wouldn’t be a jerk.”

And so the discussion morphed from complaining about an over toasted waffle to which came first, my being a jerk, or Mrs. C being a bitch.

We still have not reached a conclusion.

Currently I believe I am losing.

HIGHWAY ROBBERY

 HIGHWAY ROBBERY

Last week I got a letter in the mail from EZ Pass.  It seems my car was photo tagged as running an EZ Pass toll.  Sure enough, they had a picture of my license plate.  It was taken at a Delaware River bridge crossing.  It was taken the same day and time I regularly cross the bridge on my way to baby sit for the Pa. Crankettes. 

It was me alright. 

Except, I don’t use EZ Pass.  I never go through the EZ Pass lane, because I don’t use EZ Pass.  This bridge costs one dollar to cross.  I always go through the same lane, stop at the toll booth, hand the attendant a crisp one dollar bill, say “Have a nice day,” and merrily go my way.  Somehow the camera still snapped my plate and now they want their one more dollar plus thirty bucks in administrative charges.

WTF!

Who just runs through the toll, waves at the attendant and doesn’t pay?  Certainly not a 69 year old fart in a slow ugly green Jeep Wrangler.  How do you even fight this?  They have a picture of my plate.  Thirty-one dollars…talk about highway robbery.

It’s not the first time I’ve been a victim of highway robbery.  I’ve been nailed three times in a speed trap.  Highway speed traps are simply a local government shakedown.  

The first two times I was nailed in a speed trap was in the first year I had my license.  Both traps were set on the bottom of a hill where the posted speed limit suddenly dropped from 40 MPH to 25 MPH.  They were known speed traps and locals knew to slow down.  I was local, but new to this shakedown thing and did not know the cops would be waiting.  On one of them, a driver coming in the other direction even tried to warn me by flashing his lights at me.

“What the fuck is that idiot doing flashing his lights at me?”

Hey, they didn’t teach that etiquette in Drivers Ed.

My third speed trap came twenty years ago, and it was the most ridiculous.  Driving south on the Rhode Island Turnpike there was a small sign “Construction next 20 miles speed limit 30 MPH.” The construction was on the north bound side.  

“Thirty MPH! That can’t be right.”

 I took my foot of the gas and slowed from 65 to 55 when no more than one quarter mile from the warning sign five state troopers were pulling cars over as fast as they could.  They pointed and waved and if you didn’t pull over they had a chase car.

I pulled over and got a speeding ticket; it cost me $75, and pushed my insurance rate up another $200 a year, every year. 

I asked the trooper, “How long do I have to maintain a speed of 30 MPH.”

“The next twenty miles.”

“Twenty miles, but there is no construction on this side, everyone is doing the usual 65 MPH.” 

As I said this, cars were roaring by safely as the five troopers were too busy writing their tickets to pull them over.

“Next twenty miles, no more than 30 MPH unless you want to risk a second ticket.”

I pulled out and grudgingly drove only 30 MPH for maybe two miles.  During this time I was almost rear-ended five times by cars traveling at normal turnpike speed.  I also received eight angry horn blasts, and several middle finger salutes.

“Fuck it, this is ridiculous, we’re going to be killed at this speed”

I pumped it up to a safer 65 MPH.

ARRGHH!!

I get it, the government needs revenue, I just wish they would call it what it is…robbery.

“Boop boop boop“ pull over.”

“Shit!”

“Sir, do you know why I pulled you over?”

“No.”

“Well sir the great state of Rhode Island has authorized me to randomly stop anyone I want and collect $75.  I am required to do this at least twenty times a day.  Do you want to pay with cash, check, or Visa?”

“But that is just highway robbery!”

“Yes sir, yes it is.  Would you rather I make it a speeding ticket and have your insurance company rob you as well?”

 No, I guess not.  Thank you.  Did you say you take Visa?”