What's Your Sign?

In this day and age, mass communication is literally at the tips of our fingers. If I want to invite sixty people to my house tonight, I can do it in a matter of minutes (I'm not doing that -- don't come over). If I want to tell the world I love brownies, I can just tweet it. Then, in an instant, all three people who follow me on Twitter will know I love brownies.

It's amazing.

And yet, even with this technology being so accessible, when we really want to make a statement and share it with the world -- I mean really get it out there -- we go old-school. Like, old-old school. We get out the magic markers and make big signs.

Going out in public and physically standing next to your message is a lot more powerful than posting it next to your picture on Facebook. There are no privacy-control settings on a poster board -- anyone can see it.

This is why I am often so surprised by the ignorant things people write on signs.

According to signs, God hates so many things. Lately, he seems to hate gay people and gay marriage in particular. I wonder, where are these sign-makers getting their information? Whenever I ask God what he hates, he says genocide. And pistachios.

Of course there are other, less hateful reasons to make a good sign. For example you might be supporting someone during a marathon, or panhandling.

I once made some pretty amazing marathon signs . . . but that is a topic for another entry. We don't have all day, guys. You need to get back to work.

Instead, here are some tips for sign-making. Refer to this entry the next time you are attending a political rally, or running for student-council president:

1. First, you need to go to Walgreens and buy the poster board. I don't know why, but Walgreens always has poster board. If you're really serious, you might want to pony up the extra dough for foam core. It will hold up better if people throw stuff at it.

Did you think you could just tape some regular pieces of printer paper together? Are you an idiot?

2. Once you have the canvas, you'll need the paint. This might mean literal paint, or a chisel-tip sharpie, or large words from the printer cut and pasted. No matter what, your objective is clarity. If they can't read it, they can't heed it! Am I right?

3. Important: spell-check! I can't tell you how many hardcore sign-holders have blown their cause by lack of proofreading. I mean honestly. If you hate gay marriage enough to make a sign about it, maybe look up how to spell marriage.

4. Finally, once your sign is complete, you need to get out there and hold the crap out of it. Some people like to wear their sign, which can be easier on the arms and shoulders, but can also look lazy; use your best judgement.

Note: If you've been hired to draw in more customers for Little Caesars, then you're going to have to do some spinning and dancing. That's advanced-level stuff.

A lot of people don't care about anything enough to go out in public and hold up a sign about it, for example me. So to the people standing on street corners asking me to honk for peace, I respect you. But to the people religiously condemning others for their life choices, you should know that the only thing God hates is genocide, pistachios, and probably your sign.

Though I couldn't say for sure.

Transubstantiation 4-Eva

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The other day I was reading my son some books when our doorbell rang. It was 10:45 AM on a Saturday and we weren’t expecting company, so I sat perfectly still until they went away.

I know; it’s a sad commentary on the slow disintegration of human interaction, but if you are a stranger and you ring my doorbell, I will definitely hide from you and so will my husband. That’s how we roll.

Later that day, I found a pamphlet on our door inviting me to learn how Jesus takes away the sin of the world by going to a Jehovah’s Witness meeting. I felt an immediate wave of relief; our decision to hide was correct.

It’s not that I don’t appreciate this person’s attempt to make me a better person, I do. It’s just that I already have a religion, and like many people I’m not good at getting out of awkward conversation. It would be a long, uncomfortable, and fruitless experience for both of us. Really, I was doing this person a favor by crouching beneath the window and shushing my son repeatedly.

I grew up pretty Catholic. My parents grew up a little more Catholic, and their parents a little more than that. It seems that Catholicism loses some of its potency from one generation to the next. This can be proven by the amount of children each generation has. My grandmother was one of eight; my mother was one of five; I am one of three; and I have two kids. You see where I’m going with this.

I went to Catholic grade school, high school, college, and graduate school (I’m what’s called a quadruple-threat to sin). Basically that means I am very comfortable studying science in a room with a crucifix on the wall. The only non-Catholic educational experience I had was my preschool, which was laid-back Lutheran. Those crazy Lutherans . . . they tried to convince me that the Holy Virgin Mary did not ascend into heaven, but I would not be swayed. Transubstantiation 4-eva!

Fun fact: many great comedians were raised Catholic, such as Jim Gaffigan, Molly Shannon, Alec Baldwin, Jen Kirkman, and Amy Poehler (although I think a lot of these guys are considered “lapsed” at this point). I tried to look up more, but I got a bunch of hits about “Clean Catholic Comedy” “Comedy for Catholics” and “Clean Catholic Comedians.” I’m sorry but no thank you.

There you have it: I have a religion, and while I respect yours I'm not interested in converting to it. So if you're going to drop by for a visit, please phone ahead, or I will mysteriously not be home despite the fact that the car is in the driveway and there's music is on in the garage and my children are just standing there in the doorway staring right at you.

This one's for Whoopi.

 

There comes a point in every attention-deprived child's life where he or she makes a great discovery; a wonderful secret kept from them by mean adults who don't want it getting out. For me, it happened in the sixth grade, during a school-wide Mass to honor the feast of Mary. I was standing there, thinking of the Blessed Virgin and her grace-filled ways, when it hit me like a Tearjerker from the back of the school bus: Getting in trouble with teachers was funny, and kids like kids who are funny. I could get in trouble and be funny!

We were singing the hymn “Hail Holy Queen.” You may be familiar with this song because you are:
A) Catholic and probably related to me, or
B) a fan of the iconic Whoopi Goldberg.

Whoopi's hilarious turn as lounge-singer-posing-as-a-nun in the 1992 comedy “Sister Act” was nothing short of genius, and at that moment it gave me the inspiration to turn my life around. Maybe I wasn’t the coolest kid in school. Maybe I wasn’t the prettiest. But I could be funny. I could be brave. I could be like Whoopi. 

In the movie, Whoopi helps the struggling church choir by beefing up their repertoire, taking hymns like “Hail Holy Queen” and making them rock-and-roll gospel songs.  [This is achieved in part by adding lots of “whoa-whoas” and “ooh-oohs” between lyrics.] If you haven’t seen the movie; do. It’s a classic.

Always a Whoopi fan, I’d seen the movie and its sequel, “Sister Act 2: Back in the Habit” a few times. And I saw an opportunity within the music choice of Mass that day. While the rest of the school sang with the quiet dignity of a repressed Catholic, I tentatively started adding in some whoa-oh-oh's. I heard a few giggles, so I got more aggressive. Before too long my bee-bops and scats went beyond the tidy path Whoopi had laid out for me. I lost my inhibition and ran with the thrill of being supported by my peers. I was like that quiet, nerdy nun who suddenly busts out with an awesome voice! Minus the awesome voice.

Naturally, there were consequences to my actions.

At my grade school, at least in the 1990’s, if a student acted inappropriately, he or she first received a warning. If the behavior continued, the offending student was sent to “The Support Room.” This was a room where, as you would assume, the student was supported.

In this case, being supported involved sitting at an old-fashioned study carol and filling out a slip of paper detailing your crime. The school librarian would watch you disapprovingly, and after ten minutes you were sent back to class to have the paper signed by your teacher. That night, your parent would sign the paper. Then you would bring it back to school, where your teacher would probably throw it away.

This process was meant to make you feel so deeply ashamed that you would never do anything so terrible ever again.

But, if for some reason the devil had made camp in your soul and you were impervious to disgrace thus earning more visits to the support room for hilarious musical antics, “Lunch in Solitude” was the next step. [Exactly what it sounds like, only worded more pretentiously.] Believe me, after eating your PB&J alone in a classroom, you'd be begging for mercy.

Buuuuut, if for some reason you continued to act out and embarrass your Lord and Savior by getting sent to the support room and assigned multiple lunch-in-solitudes, then . . . they were out of ideas. Case closed. You were a hopeless, godless, heathen. And SO popular.

Just like Whoopi.