The Church Douchebag

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Sunday morning. Ah, the day of the week that I reserve for sleeping in, no underwear, entire apartment vacuuming, dishwasher emptying, and my laundry. I am in quite the slump. Happily. Like a pig in mud.

I did the regular Catholic Church worship situation for almost 14.5 years. My ex-husband was a Catholic. After my divorce in 2005, I did what fundamentalist refer to as, “backslide”. I stopped attending church of any denomination. No particular reason.  Looking back, any church probably would have imploded as soon as I walked in it throughout the entire year of 2006.

Fast forward to 2013. Back in the Bible Belt, there is a church, or two, on every corner. After 27 years, I moved back to my hometown, and knew no one locally. I don’t go bar hopping, or hit the gym, so I thought that perhaps I could broaden my peer base through church attendance.

I had been invited to a church by a neighbor down the street. I decided one Sunday that I would go with her. I went. All I will say is that I kept falling asleep during the sermon, and it was well lit, so people noticed.

I attended two more times, and then stopped. This time, my reason was because I couldn’t stay awake and was embarrassed to be caught sleeping.

2016. I have been living my Sunday dream for a couple of years. The routine is still the same. I wear a bra now though because I moved to an apartment complex.

The winds of change have been blowing, and I was once again thinking about my peer base. Mind you, it’s not about quantity when it comes to friends, but quality. I had to get burned a few times to get that through my thick head. Eh, I don’t go paint and drink wine, still don’t bar hop or go to the gym. Netflix & Chill is my favorite weekend pastime, so the church idea comes up again.

I had been mulling over a local church, and thought about going for four weeks straight. I didn’t want to go alone and someone who shall remain nameless, J., bailed on me. This past weekend, the monthly “Women’s Night Out” happened.

*NOTE: This WNO is usually referred to as GNO, or Girls Night Out. It was pointed out to me that we ladies in our 40’s are WOMEN, not “Girls”. There is more to it, but you get the idea.

A. spent Saturday night with me. She agreed to go to the church service with me. She is a real trooper.

We made a pact the night before that we would actually get up, get dressed, and attend the 10:45 a.m. service. We successfully arrived at the church, in the rain, and began looking for a parking space.

I know I made Jesus sad, but this douchebag, in this douchebag SUV, literally parked in the middle of two spaces! I began to work in obscenities like they were oil paints and I was painting the Sistine Chapel. I have zero patience for idiots, and here I was, in the Lord’s parking lot, and the King/Queen of all Idiots was in my eyesight.

We found a park. We attended the service. We went back to my Ford. The King/Queen was still parked in the two spots. We actually sat and stalked the douchebag’s vehicle for 15 minutes, but the douchebag never came out. A. was working with a limited bag of trail mix, so we decided to drop it and go get lunch.

I took photos. You can see for yourself the level of douche I was dealing with. Do I feel bad that I lit up the sky like the 4th of July with my verbiage? Yeah, for a little while I did. My Chipotle steak bowl made me forget about my feelings.

*NOTE: Emotional eating is never ok.

Until next time –

AGS

Netflix, Friends, and my OCD

OCD

I have some OCD tendencies. Mild OCD if you Google the definition. My desk at work, things have to be in a precise place and I notice if something is moved. It will bother me until I put it back in its place. I can’t just wash one hand, I have to get both hands wet. I can’t have trash in my vehicle. I can’t stand the feel of lotion on my hands. I need to move the furniture when I vacuum. My home accouterments must be in precise places and I will literally start to flip out inside my head if one of them is moved, etc., etc.

Trust me, I have gotten a thousand times better than I was. I didn’t allow my children to get spaghetti until they were older toddlers because of the mess. Messy children make me flip out in my head too.

I have given you some background, and now let me explain the correlation between the Netflix, Friends, and my OCD.

When a lot of the population watched Friends when it originally aired in 1994, including me, I didn’t notice so much. Now, the entire series is on Netflix, and I have watched it about 4 times in it’s entirety (236 episodes) and am on Season 9 as of this writing.

When TV series premier after the summer hiatus, you have forgotten small details about the last episode you saw.

I have the very bad habit of noticing little nuances when watching series with less than 2 minutes between seasons.

Friends is my current OCD “bone of contention” if you will. Let me share a couple of things that are putting my OCD into overdrive over this long holiday weekend:

  1. Season 6 – Chandler is overly chubby. I know that in real life, Matthew Perry was battling an addiction to alcohol & drugs. By the final episode of that season, he was just chubby, chubby, chubby. Season 7 picks up right where 6 left off, and Chandler is almost anorexic. I know that you can’t help dealing with your personal demons in the public eye, but it’s doing a number on my OCD. Spoiler, he gains weight back over the 24 episodes, and naturally, I notice it.
  2. Season 9 – Phoebe’s hair. Dear Lord, I just want to reach into the TV and shave her head! Lisa Kudrow had beautiful hair in the early seasons, but in Season 8, she was stretching it. By Season 9, her bangs and end look like crispy fried chicken. Granted, throughout the series, Phoebe rocked hairstyle like no one else ever has, but man, it looked abused by Season 9. *Let me add here that I wish we lived in a world of Phoebe clones instead of a world of cloned Kardashians.

Those are two of the things that my OCD fixated on like a laser beam. Don’t get me started on the transformation of Patricia Heaton in Everybody Loves Raymond when I watched it in its entirety on Netflix earlier this year…

Thankfully, my OCD does not cause me to love Friends any less. I still “laugh out loud” to many episodes that are as well-worn as an old shoe. I did hit the “Back to Browse” option today while I moved furniture and vacuumed.

I must close now. Phoebe and Mike have a box of rat babies at Rachel’s birthday party over at Monica’s place. Nothing could go wrong there.

AGS