My DSL connection crapped out on me this morning – someone forgot to wake up the Amish and put them on the treadmill that apparently powers what they laughingly call “high-speed internet” around here. Since I am officially back full-time here at Really Big Consulting and all my work is done online, lack of internet means hunting down the nearest Wi-Fi hub is essential. Preferably one with access to an electrical outlet and 16 different kinds of beer on tap.

Since I didn’t think my team would appreciate Smithwick’s-fueled emails from me at 11 am, I trundled off to a local coffee house - one that makes the most awesome lattes and quesadillas.

They are awesome because they are flavored with the power of God Almighty himself, amen.

It happens that my favorite haunt is a Christian Coffee House. Yes, with initial caps. They are as common as Starbucks in San Fran around here and come in many kinds of flavors. This one is the full-on, no holds barred contemporary Christian stereotype – extraordinarily bright and cheery decor, perky, well-scrubbed staff, Christian pop piped in via satellite radio (where every song sounds like a cheap rip-off of an existing song), flyers about upcoming youth revival events and uplifting signs with many exclamation points.

(I have to interrupt my cynical rant as the perkiest of the staff came over to ask how I was doing. Or maybe it was “how strong is your personal relationship with Jesus?” I was too distracted by her apple-pink cheeks and gleamy, perfect teeth to know for sure.)

This is so completely not the place I would normally haunt. I am illogically tempted to start an idealogical argument, come in wearing an “if you can read this shirt, the bitch fell off” biker shirt and respond with a “fuck, yah” to a question about whether I would like whipped cream. The unctuous ooze of religious sincerity and fervor, and the dogma it is based on, are things I would normally, and instinctually, run far, far away from.

But weirdly enough, I really love this place. I think it is because coming here, for a minute or a few hours to work, are just…soothing. I don’t have to think, I can simply let the bright candy-coating of cheerfulness wash over me. When I tune out the actual content of the message being communicated here, its buzz provides a pleasant escape from the real world. I feel like a bit of a fraud, this is not my home turf – and my own well-scrubbed cheeks are pink from cosmetics, not a belief in the afterlife.

So I’ll save my religious naysaying to my husband, close friends and the occasional conversation with my born-again sister in law. In the meantime, as long as they don’t start infusing my lattes with ground-up scriptures or asking about the state of my soul, I think I’m content to enjoy the coffee and the free interest service. It’ll be our secret.

I have absolutely no problem being direct and forthcoming with executives of multi-billion dollar companies.

But I am absolutely unable to tell my housecleaner that her current work just isn’t all that great. Today I had to ask her to actually MOVE things when she dusted and I wanted the floor to swallow me whole.

WTF is up with that?

More and more, I am growing to love the local media in Lancaster County. Complete with a little sparkly heart over the “I.” Growing up in central New Jersey, I never could have imagined seeing something like this in the daily newspaper.

The world has always contained more disbelievers than believers. Over a thousand years ago, Jesus told us that wide is the road to destruction and many are those who follow it, while narrow is the road to life and few there are who find it!

God never forces anyone to spend eternity with him. It’s a choice, and God initiated freedom of choice in the garden with Adam and Eve ... it’s the consequences that we are not free to choose!

Followed by the requisite supporting scripture.

So THAT’S why I’ve been feeling so stressed lately. I’ve been worried about the numbers of disbelievers in the country! Who knew?  Oh, that’s right…GOD KNEW, but fear not, because he is not panicked.  What a relief!  Thanks for talking me down off that ledge.

These types of letters are pretty commonplace for this particular newspaper. And I want to throw my arms around every bible-beating one of these submitters and thank them for brightening up my morning coffee.  I never get tired of reading them.

************************************

As a general rule, I tend to steer clear of television news, out of disgust for the trend toward sensationalism and grasping at sound bites meant to keep you glued by promoting panic (although, God’s probably chill about that too) without providing any actual content.  However, recently I think I’m crushing on our local news station.

I was half-listening to a snippet on the evening news about a bunch of high school girls in Florida who beat the crap out of another girl while brilliantly videotaping the whole thing.  At the end of the segment, the male anchor turns to the female anchor and says “And didn’t I hear these girls were CHEERLEADERS?”

To which the female anchor turned back to her colleague in apparent disgust and said, I swear, “I don’t see WHAT that has to do with the story!”

I may have to start slipping love notes in that anchor’s locker.

I have to get something off my chest.  It’s tough to share this, because it’s been a secret for so long. Of course, Michael knows…he loves it almost as much as I do, although he won’t admit it. But, let’s be honest, the man doesn’t have the stamina for it that I do.  It’s also a little embarrassing, because I find myself thinking about even when I’m not doing it.  I dream about it.  I even go to the internet for it and have a stash hidden away so I can go back and drool over the pages again and again.  I love everything about it.  The anticipation.  The preparation, getting dressed up, carefully making my choices.  Then the actual experience, the sight, the smell, the touch…three hours of bliss and, although sometimes I’m left a bit wanting, I know there is plenty more to be had.

As far as type goes, I’m not that fussy but, don’t let anyone fool you, size DOES matter. Also, I’m surprised to find that, unlike a few years ago, I’m no longer much of a do-it-yourselfer…I much prefer to have someone take care of it for me. And I’m definitely willing to pay for it to be done right.  From all sides, in every room, all over the county…I just can’t stop.

Hell, I’ve even gotten my mother into it. She loves it as much as I do and sometimes?  We even do it together.

So, it’s going on four days of gorgeous 60-70+ weather here in Lancaster.  I’m cautiously optimistic that it’s going to stick this time.  I’ve got to believe that, because the previous cold weather has just about beaten me down.  I’ve been dying to get started on the flowerbeds, digging out the stuff that just didn’t make it and try out a few new plants I’ve been reading about over the winter.

Although I love gardening, I am pretty hopeless at it.  The joke around the house is usually as follows:
Me:  Hey, I’m headed to the garden center
Him: What, need more victims for sacrifice?

My ability to keep plants alive is directly proportional to my attention span.  Meaning, wait, what were we talking about?

I’d really like to take a serious shot at vegetable and herb gardening this year, but couldn’t see myself tearing up perfectly good lawn for what will most likely become a tomato cemetery. Also, with my track record, that prospect of losing hard-earned grass is enough to make Michael weep. I was originally thinking of Square Foot Gardening, which Mac seems to love.  She practically produces her own farmer’s market every year but, then again, she’s got some discipline. Guaranteed she’s not drawn away from her gardening by a new episode of Work Out. Have you seen that woman’s abs?  Delicious.

Then I saw this over at All and Sundry, and a tiny, energy-conserving bulb appeared in my head (casting a weird yellow light, flickering and then going out, as those bastard bulbs are wont to do).  Tub-gardening!  No rototilling! Portable!  Easy to hide the incriminating evidence if I kill it.  I already have one galvantized tub of mint off the back deck, which worked really well, because that stuff has a life of its own.  If you don’t contain it, mint will overrun the lawn, break into your house and try on your underwear while you sleep.  Be warned.

So I’m excited.  Which means a trip to Lowe’s that is sure to drain my bank account is in order this week. Maybe I should just create a little ornamental fire with that money instead.

I leave you with what is probably a typical Lancaster County conversation during the first few warm days of spring, after opening the windows.

Me:  Jesus H., what did you eat last night?
Him: What are you talking about?
Me:  Didn’t you fart?
Him: No!
Me: Seriously? Then what the hell…? Is that the kid’s room?
(much sniffing ensues)
Him: Is it the bathroom?  God that’s horrible.
(more sniffing)
Me:  Oh wait. (sniffs out window)
Him: It’s the farm.  They’re spreading manure.
Me.:  I’m glad it wasn’t your ass.  I was afraid I needed to take you to the ER.

I’ve officially been living in Lancaster County for four years now.

*clunk*

Sorry, I blacked out there for a minute.  Four years doesn’t seem possible. It’s getting frightfully close to the longest I’ve lived anywhere, except my hometown.  I’m not sure how I feel about this milestone.  Until about six months ago, I had really been yearning to get back to a place where people actually said fuck, rather than “oh my word!”, where Ann Taylor Loft is not considered the “that fancy shop”, my family isn’t the sole liberal in a five mile radius and I’m not quoted biblical scripture from mailboxes and front lawns around the county.  Also would be nice to have more than one Dunkin’ Donuts in the county and more than one wine store open on a Sunday.

Some people might consider that superficial but, you know what?  It is what it is.

But, considering everything that has happened during the past few days, it’ll have to do.  We’ve been without running water at the Karma Farmhouse since Friday morning. See, we had massive storms Thursday night.  And then we woke up Friday morning and our street had caved in.  Sinkholes.  Massive, gaping maws in the asphalt a few houses down. 

And right over the water main. And, since the State owns the road?  No workie on the weekend.  I’ve had to get a bit creative in the bathing department, which is always fun when you have a full week’s worth of meetings with attorneys.

There has been a silver lining, though, because I’m a girl who loves a little glitter. 

No traffic.

There has been no traffic down our road since Friday. So what, you say?  We live on a main road, and street is heaving with cars, 18 wheelers, pimped out Harleys and a startling amount of buggies from about 4:30 am until midnight.  We might be a bit stankus, but we’ve slept better in the past few days than we have in the past two years of living here.  It’s made us realize, beyond any shadow of doubt, that we can’t stay here long-term.  Between the constant noise and the fear that a double decker pig hauler is going to come through the front of the house at 60 mph, it’s just not worth it.

Sunday check list. Pray to God. Eat lunch. Visit sinkhole.

This is an ongoing saga, so stay tuned.

“Large coffee with cream, please. Two Splenda.”

“Good morning, Jenny.  Sour cream donut?”

“Nope. Not today.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“Why?”

“I’ve already had breakfast.”

“Why?”

“……”

“What did you have?”

“Uh…cereal.  Yogurt cheerios, actually.”

“That doesn’t sound as good as a donut.”

“Hahahahaha.  Uh, not really, but I’m kind of watching my…”

“You no eat cereal tomorrow, OK? You come get donut, OK?  Drive around.”

“But I…”

“Thank you, drive around!”