Public Service Announcement: The Lesser Known Apocalypse

I've written many a blog about zombies, and for good reason. Well, for good reasonS, actually.  1) People are crazy and like to play with science, so zombies could totally happen.  2) If zombies totally happen, I want everyone to be prepared with red jello.  And not green jello.  3) Even if zombies never totally happen, zombies are still totally cool.  Totally.

I feel like I just got trapped in a movie from 1994.  Let's move on.

In this day and age, what with all the zombie movies and zombie video games and zombie running apps and zombie retellings of classic Jane Austen novels, there really is no excuse for anyone to be caught unawares in the midst of the zombie apocalypse. Even without my informative blog posts, there's so much zombie junk out there that everyone should know how to evade and survive zombie attacks. So if zombies attack and eat your brainz, that's on your own head.

But sometimes it seems as though everyone is talking about the zombies, forgetting that there are other ways this world could meet an untimely demise. Sure, there are any number of apocalyptic movies about evil robots or homicidal aliens or hostile governments gone crazy, but what if the real killer is quiet? What if the real killer is so deadly that it doesn't want to attract any attention?  What if the real killer is lurking above us, never making its sinister intentions known? 

When I went to church as a child, I got bored easily during service.  I know, I know, I should have been paying attention to the sermon, but...I didn't.  Some other more permissive parents let their kids bring toys to "big church," but for some reason my parents thought it was a bad idea to let me bring three coloring books, two packs of crayons, my entire collection of My Little Ponies (which, to be exact, contained...one), a box of Raisinettes, a pack of gum that was large enough to provide weeks of chewing enjoyment to an entire third world country, a handheld video game, a pet ferret, and a magna doodle to church.  Those other kids had it good.  They never got bored during church service.

But I, on the other hand, had little to entertain me.  Sure, I could doodle on the bulletin, but that wasn't terribly diverting. Plus, mom and dad thought that was too much entertainment for me to have in church and put an end to bulletin doodling. So I was forced to look around me.  First, I eyed all the other children who were playing with their various toys and pet ferrets, but that just made me jealous.  So I looked at the stained glass windows, but I wasn't fortunate to go to a church with really fancy windows.  They were just randomly colored squares that went all the way up to the high ceiling in long columns.  No pictures.  No stories.  Just glass.

The ceilings, on the other hand, were pretty cool.  They were high and arched and looked, well...when I was a kid I thought they looked like heaven, all bright and tall and mysterious.  Plus, they had these really cool chandeliers. 

And now that I'm grown up and going to a completely different church in a completely different style of church building, I have to say that it's kind of weird that we have the exact same type of chandeliers.

A chandelier from my current church, which is identical to the chandeliers in the church where I grew up.

 

And I know these are the same kind of chandeliers because I spent so many Sunday mornings and evenings staring at these chandeliers.  Examining them. 

 

Fearing them.

 

What place do chandeliers have in a blog about the Apocalypse?  What if zombies and/or killer robots don't get us?  What if it's the chandeliers?  What if it's always been the chandeliers?

 

Because honestly, most of the time when I was staring at those chandeliers on the heavenly ceiling of my childhood church, I was silently freaking out--because who knows when of those puppies was gonna fall and crush EVERY BODY?

 

And while I was bored in church, I entertained myself by thinking up escape plans, things to do in case the chandeliers attacked.

 

I have decided to pass my thoughts on to you, just in case, JUST IN CASE the Chandelier Apocalypse is ever upon us. 

 

The Chandelier Apocalypse Survival Plan:

 

1. Be prepared*

 

Look, I'm not advocating that you never pay attention in church.  You should totally pay attention in church.  Even if it's a guest speaker.  Don't go away from this blog post saying, "She said we should not pay attention in church" because that's NOT what I'm saying. 

 

What I am saying is this.  Kids don't pay attention in church.  Do you know what kids do in church?  Well, provided you haven't brought a whole blasted circus in a bag for them to play with, kids will find anyway to entertain themselves while sitting in church.  So talk to your kids, see if they have noticed the GIANT FREAKIN' CHANDELIERS above their heads.  Chances are, they have.  Chances are, they're secretly scared of them.  Chances are, they're just WAITING for the day when one of the chandelier's chains break, causing a literal chain reaction where all the other chandeliers also decide to fall, crushing everyone in their midst. 

 

So make your kids the informants.  Talk to your kids about the dangers of chandeliers.  If you don't, who will?  Make sure your kids know it's okay to scream bloody murder in the middle of a church service if the chandeliers start to fall.  In fact, let them know that it is their duty to scream bloody murder in the middle of a church service if the chandeliers start to fall.  And if they don't scream bloody murder in church service if the chandeliers start to fall, then it will be ALL THEIR FAULT if everyone dies.  Really drive home that past point.  This is serious bidiziness.

 

*Also, don't think you will escape the apocalypse if you don't go to church.  Chandeliers are everywhere.  Restaurants. Mansions. Light fixture stores.  You really can't avoid them.  Don't even try.

 

 

 

2. Special Operations Deacon Training

 

Deacons are awesome.  They pass around plates.  And I know that's not even the most important thing that they do, but let's face it.  That's the coolest thing they do.  I mean, those guys can work it.  Most worship leaders give the deacons a good five minute offertory song for them to get those plates passed around.  Dude, pssh.  I've seen deacons cover the whole flippin' room in less than thirty seconds.  They're amazing, they are. 

 

In fact, I'll bet they've all had Special Ops Deacon Training.  SODT.  Yep, yep.  And I see NO reason why deacons can't incorporate some chandelier evasion and defense strategies into their training.  In fact, they might have already thought of that.  When the chandeliers attack, I'll bet they start throwing around those special offering plates like ninja stars, taking out the "chandies" before they have a chance to strike.  I feel safer already.

 

If your church doesn't have SODT, you need to call up your pastor and request, nay DEMAND, SODT.  I'm only thinking of the safety of the flock.

 

 

 

3. Mood Music!

 

If your church has an organ, you're in luck!  Well, actually, scratch that.

 

If your church has an organ AND an organist, you're in luck.  The organist should be prepared AT ALL TIMES to rush to the organ in light of a chandelier attack.

 

When the "chandies" start to fall, it's time to play some "Phantom of the Opera." 

 

You know I'm right on this.

 

 

 

4. Recycle!

 

When was the last time you used a hymnal.  Really.  Think about it. 

 

When I was a kid, hymnals were amazing.  The worship leader would tell you the page number (if you hadn't already looked it up from the bulletin), and the whole worship center would be filled with the beautiful sound of pages turning.  And the aroma!  Ah!  The lovely smell of hymnal paper, filling the sanctuary like holy incense. 

 

Alas, hymnals have gone the way of their fathers.  Now, all the words to all the non-hymnal songs are up on a big screen, and the hymnals are sitting there collecting dust, wishing they could be used again.

 

Well, when the chandeliers attack, the hymnals CAN be used again!  Those things were made to last.  They could make awesome "chandy" protective helmets!

 

When the first alert child screams bloody murder during the church service, that is your cue!  Grab your hymnal!  When the first deacon starts throwing around his offering plate, put your hymnal on your head!  When you see your friends and family wearing hymnals on their heads, resist the urge to laugh.  When you hear the organist start playing, "DUUUUUUUUUH!  DUH DUH DUH DUH DUUUUUUH!" start screaming and panicking.

 

Why?  Because it's an apocalypse.  Everybody screams and panics.

 

 

 

5. Run away!

 

Seriously, folks.  Those "chandies" be crazy.

 

 

 

 

6. Regroup

 

When you are free of the worship center, having evaded the chandeliers, attempt to locate all members of your immediate family or those who were seated nearest to you.  If you cannot locate a friend or family member, DO NOT attempt to go back into the worship center.  We don't need any heroes here.  That's what the deacons are for.

 

 

 

 

--Special Circumstances

 

The previous steps were all directed towards members of the church congregation.  Being a member of the choir and praise team at my own church, I understand that there are times when the normal rules will not apply to you. 

 

If you are a church greeter, you probably should have at least some basic SODT.  I'm not saying you should be able to wield an offering plate like a true deacon, but you need some rudimentary skill if you're going to make sure the visitors get out alive.  We want visitors to come back, right?  Right.  And if they are killed by rogue chandeliers, they can't come back.  So get the visitors out alive.

 

If you are a choir member, you need to learn how to pole vault.  When the chandeliers start falling, the choir members closest to the stage microphones need to grab them, MAKE SURE THEY ARE UNPLUGGED, and use them to pole vault into the baptistery.  Then hand the microphone off to another panicked choir member.  And if you're electrocuted in the process, I'm sorry.  But if it's any consolation, the "chandies" were probably going to kill you anyway.  They don't care if you are first soprano.

 

If you're a member of the praise band or praise team, make way for the drum cage.  Do not pass go.  Do not collect $200.  The drum cage is made out of material that could withstand anything.  Anything.  You're safe.  You're probably the only safe ones in the building, maybe even on the whole planet...as long as you can make it to the drum cage before the "chandies" get you.

 

True story.  I mean, why do you think I'm on the praise team, anyway?  It's because I want easy access to the drum cage.

 

Hmm...maybe I should take drum lessons...

 

The most vulnerable person in the church?  The organist, of course.  While he/she is playing "Phantom," he/she is likely to be chandeliered to death.  Think I'm wrong?  How many church organists do you know?  I rest my case.

 

 

Well, there you have it, the Chandelier Apocolypse Survival plan.  I sincerely hope you will ever need it, but let's face it.  It's only a matter of time before those chandelier chains snap.  And when they snap, be ready. 

 

The "chandies" have no mercy. 

 

SAA Ep. #75: The Scariest Thing About My Weekend

There are many things that scare me. Spiders. Check. Snakes. Double check. Clowns. INFINITY check.

Basically, the greatest horror movie of all time would be about a creepy rodeo clown riding on the back of a giant spider and using a big ol' snake as his lasso. Seriously, you can thank me for the nightmares you'll have later on tonight.

But my scary weekend had nothing to do with clowns or snakes. There were a few spiders...and centipedes, but none of them were particularly scary. The only thing really scary about them was that I kept hearing high school aged kids say things like, "Ooh! A centipede! I'll pay you a dollar if you eat it!"

As scary as that was, it could have been worse. It could have been much, much worse. After hearing such an offer, I began silently praying I wouldn't hear an even scarier counter-offer:

"Make it TWO dollars, and we've got a deal!"

But no one said that, at least not to my knowledge....

Yes, I spent my weekend with something much scarier than spiders, snakes, or even clowns. I spent my weekend with...

YOUNG ADULTS!

THE HORRRRRROR!

Last Saturday, I was at work, minding my own business, not knowing the terror that awaited. Because at church Sunday morning, the youth pastor announced they were still short a couple of workers for a weekend-long youth event known as Disciple Now. And since I didn't have to work the following Saturday (which is now the previous Saturday...I know, I'm confused, too), I figured I might as well do something useful.

The problem? I work mostly with preschoolers and elementary school aged kids. High schoolers are a-whole-nother thing. I don't know nuttin bout leadin no high schoolers! And being a socially awkward individual, I must admit I was more than a little intimidated by those sweet, beautiful young ladies God placed in my group.

But it was a wonderful weekend. I was with another leader who is as about as extroverted as a human being can be, so she more than made up for my lack of awesome. It was a blessed time, and those beautiful young women with servants' hearts did yard work and played games and worshipped and just generally rocked. It was encouraging to experience.

I did learn I'm not as young as I used to be. I pulled pretty much every muscle in my entire left leg sprinting after the young ladies as we played a game against the other groups. And even sprinting at my fastest, I couldn't keep up with ANY of them. And I realized I hadn't sprinted in a church since *I* was an intimidating young adult.

But the weekend was amazing. The youth learned a lot; I leaned a lot. No one got hurt, not even Grace, whom EVERYONE warned me to try to make sure she didn't get hurt. I try not to use names, but it's just so ironic that the most accident prone one in my group, in possibly the whole youth group, is named Grace.

So, yes. All in all, despite the not-really-so-intimidating-after-all young adults, despite the spiders and centipedes that hopefully did not get eaten, despite the ridiculously scary amounts of calories I consumed in the form of chocolate chip cookies and potato chips, the weekend wasn't really all that scary.

But there was still one thing that terrified me this weekend. In fact, this one thing scared me more than all the other things combined. It might be the scariest thing I'm all the known universe.

You see, during the weekend, I stayed in a host home. The host home belonged to a wonderful family who had a wonderful middle school aged daughter who was saying with another group at another host home. So I got to sleep in her room.

Middle school aged girls have very scary bed rooms.

And so for two nights, I got to fix my hair and make up, change clothes, and sleep, all while THIS was staring at me:

Story Time #3: Why I Don't Like Lilac

The story you're about to read is true. The names have been omitted because I can't remember most of them anymore.

Long ago in a far away land, there was a learning institution for average teenage muggles. It was a very special place known as "public high school."

The teachers at the public school were also muggles, except for one odd English teacher who might have been a squib. The squib mostly brooded and performed his own bad emo poetry for the victims in his class, whilst the other teachers engaged in various lighthearted muggle activities known as "pranks"...and also occasionally taught their classes.

All was merry in the land of public high school, until one fateful day, the anatomy teacher began a prank feud with the precalculus teacher. No one can recall how it began, no one can remember who dealt the first foul prank blow, but all who lived through such desperate days could tell you exactly how it ended.

It was springtime. A lovely day. A day where anything could happen. But no one could expect this.

THE SPANISH INQUISITION! Wait. No. Wrong story. Shh.

As the unsuspecting muggle students made their way to the anatomy lab that warm spring morning, a curious, foul smell greeted their offended nostrils. To their horror, the odor only grew more evil as they neared the classroom.

And when one brave soul opened the door, as a cloud of toxic fumes filled the hallway, a strange sight also appeared before the students' eyes. The anatomy teacher, a surgical mask covering his face, was leaping around the anatomy lab like a ballerina, dispersing the entire contents of a can of air freshener as he carried out his frantic dance.

The air freshener did not mask the scent, the scent that was so repulsive, so unidentifiable.

Was it a science experiment gone wrong? Was it the anatomy teacher's lunch that had accidentally been left in the classroom over a long weekend? No. It was...it was...it was....

A prank.

A prank gone horribly awry.

The precalculus teacher had gone too far. He had placed an item in the room the night before, in a failed attempt to merely freak the anatomy teacher out.

Well, the attempt wasn't really failed, for the anatomy teacher was indeed sufficiently freaked out...and possibly scarred for life...along with his innocent students.

For the precalculus teacher did not realize the stench his prank would bring, nor how long said stench would linger, nor how useless a mere can of air freshener would be against it.

The dreaded, smelly item? What was it? What could possibly cause such a foul stench?

It was...it was.............

A. Cow. Placenta.

Yep.

No one knows how this disgusting object was acquired. One can only hope the precalculus teacher wasn't stalking poor, pregnant cows, waiting for his chance to strike. Maybe there is a black market for odd bovine...stuff.  But no matter how he obtained it, the precalculus teacher was blissfully unaware that the afterbirth of a cow could produce such a potent aroma when left on another teacher's desk overnight.

The precalculus teacher, ashamed by his bizarre and smell-producing actions, declared an end to the prank feud. And once again the land of public high school was at peace. Except for all the teenage angst. And the bad squib emo poetry.

But the stench that the prank left behind lingered for many days. It mingled with the scent of the canned air freshener, creating a new fragrance, more ghastly and stubborn than the first.

Because if there's anything that smells worse than two-day-old cow placenta, it's lilac scented two-day-old cow placenta.

You can take my word for it. I was there. I breathed the evil scent with my own two nostrils, and they have never forgotten.

They never will.

The moral to this story, of course, is: "A rolling cow placenta gathers no lilacs."

Wait, no.

How about: "Those who steal cow placentas shouldn't throw lilacs"?

Um...

"Slow and steady wins the cow placenta"?

"A placenta in the hands is worth two in the cow"?

"Placenta cometh before the fall"?

Ah.

"Leave a sleeping cow placenta where it lies."

That's the one.

SAA Ep.#74: Rude and Not Ginger

So since we last met, I have succumbed to the inevitable. People told me it would happen, and I think that deep down, I knew it was only a matter of time. Wibbly, wobbly time. Wime.

Yes. I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry. I have become a Whovian, a fan, a fanatic really, of Doctor Who. And if you've been following me on Facebook, you already knew that. Because when I really like something, I don't just really like something. I obsess. I talk, post, geek out about it constantly. And the only thing to do is to let it run its course. Sorry Facebook followers.  It's likely to only take a few months...or years. Not that long....

But this is not a post about Doctor Who.

This is a post about my hair. And before you get all uppity and call "Foul! You already wrote a post about your hair and its general tendency to get all out of control and sometimes eat small children," I'm not talking about my hair's general tendency to get all out of control and sometimes eat small children. ...Ok, well. Yes. There is that.

But more importantly...



I'm not ginger.




See, I've always wanted to be ginger-which is something the Doctor and I have in common (and if you're confused and have to ask 'Doctor Who?' then you've already answered your own question, sweetie). The Doctor has never been ginger, either.





It's so sad, because I have several ginger friends and a ginger nephew and a VERY ginger niece. So I am forced to see all these gorgeous people with hair resplendent like the noonday sun, and here I am with blah nonginger blah hair of blahness.

I have gotten so fed up with my nongingerness that I've artificially made myself ginger, but it's just not the same coming from a box of Natural Instincts, is it? Natural? No. The box lies.

The ginger is a lie.

I cannot live with ginger lies.

But see, I have all the basic ginger qualities. Hot temper. Extreme paleness. Or is that the other way around? Hmm....

At any rate, its just not fair that I have the complexion and temperament of a ginger without actually being ginger. It's like God's cruel joke. "Let there be Ruth. Let her be made like a ginger in every way. But not actually ginger. That will really burn her bisquick."

I kid. I kid. God knows what He's doing. Ginger is power, and I'm not worthy to weild it. "If you only knew the power of the ginger." "With great ginger comes great responsibility." "I want the ginger! You can't handle the ginger!" "It's not the wizard that chooses the ginger, but the ginger that chooses the wizard." "They're taking the gingers to Isengard." ...I think I've gotten off track...

Oh. Yes. Right.

The truth is, I'm just not worthy to be ginger.

But I have hope. This ten year old boy-type ginger came into the drop in center the other day. I commented on his hair, congratulating him on being ginger, lamenting over the fact that I was not ginger.

What he said next were the words my ears had wanted to hear since the day of my birth-that day when the doctor (NO! Not THAT Doctor) pulled me screaming from my mother's womb, slapped me on the rear, and proclaimed me "NOT A GINGER!"  Since then, I'd been longing, hoping, praying...and that amazing young man uttered such fateful words:

"There is ginger in you," he said with great emotion, "I can sense it."

Actually, what he said was, "Your hair is mostly brown and blonde, but I can see some red in it, too. Can I stop talking to you about hair and play xbox now?"

Most people would not pay that any attention, but after years of being NOT GINGER, I was going to take what I could get. And if a cool ginger ten year old proclaimed me "part ginger," then I would take it.

Oh, yes. I would.

I'm part ginger, puny mortals. Cower before me! My hair, while not quite resplendent like the noonday sun, is at least radiant like the innards of a day-old glowstick. Cower! Cower before me!

Meh. Actually, being part ginger isn't all that amazing. Because deep down, what I really want is to be ginger AND Scottish. Because let's face it, with my Edward-Cullenish-avert-your-eyes-lest-my-whiteness-burn-your-corneas-complexion and my out-of-control-child-eating-part-ginger hair, I could totally pass for Scottish.

Like David Tennant.
Only a girl.
And not nearly as awesome.

Actually, it was just a few generations back that my ancestors decided to be Americans instead of Scots and came across the pond to the land of amber waves of grain (Seriously, even the grain gets to be ginger, too? Not cool. Consider my bisquick burned). So really, the Scot is in my blood. On both sides of my family. Hmm. You could even say I'm part Scottish.

Part ginger. Part Scottish. But only part. Yeah, that will have to do. Cuz I don't want to press my luck.
Because, see, when I say I want to be ginger and Scottish, this is what I have in mind:

Maybe this post really is about Doctor Who...

But in actuality, if I were all Scottish and ginger, I'd probably look more like this:

Change your fate? Get a flat iron.

Yeah.
I'll just be happy being part ginger and part Scottish.

But no matter. I'm still ALL awkward.