Poverty is a series of compromises. Every decision I make is based on money, not will.

And yes, that's true for most people. You may want a new Mercedes but you can only afford a used Honda. That's life.

But. When you're living at or below poverty level, the choices are more like, "I need shampoo and toothpaste but I only have $3, so I can only afford one of those items, so I'll get toothpaste because I have some handsoap I can use to wash my hair." (Yes, I really have made that choice. More than once in the past three years.) Some will argue that using handsoap to wash your hair isn't a compromise, it's a clever, outside of the box solution. Tomato tomahto. I can personally attest that handsoap does, technically, clean your head and hair. But it's also really difficult to fully rinse out of your hair and can dry your scalp (making it itchy), and leaves your hair looking and feeling, well, "weird." Especially if you use it more than a few shampoos in a row.

I knew being unemployed is rough on a lot of respects other than financial. I knew the wounds it gives a person take a long time to heal. I knew that. I didn't have to live it to know that. But I had no idea how deeply the knife actually cuts.

I've lost friendships because of it. Long term friendships. People I've known for 10, 15, even 20 years have either faded from my life or got so angry, frustrated or apathetic with me and my "situation" that they vanished because they can't "deal" with me, or, in most cases, because I can no longer afford to "play" with them.

I know, you're thinking, "they weren't real friends, then." But, I'm going to defend them. 1) Because I'm a loyal friend, even if they aren't, and 2) because it doesn't make sense for us to be friends anymore.

Every friend I've lost since being unemployed is married with children. Since I do not have a husband or children I was already odd one out in most situations. But every now and then they'd get a sitter or bring the kids into the city, or they'd invite me to a barbecue or event, so, we did socialize. I, and I think they, desperately wanted to believe that women who are married with children can maintain friendships with women who are single and childless. We're all women, and before they had children they had careers and, we have things in common. Enough in common to maintain friendships. I, and I think they, clung to that ideal because to admit that marriage and children alters your friendships means owning up to some difficult character judgements.

The only thing that bothers me about these friends who won't take the time or conscience to stick with me through this rough time is that, heh heh, I have to laugh at this, they haven't worked for 10 - 15 years. They got married, got pregnant and have "been on maternity leave" ever since. They are completely dependent on their husband's income. Technically they've been unemployed years longer than I have, they haven't earned a dime in all those years. I know, I know, they're maids, cooks, valets, nannies, coaches, tutors, blah blah blah. They're mothers. That's what mothers do. Except, heh heh, some of my friends who are mothers pay other people to clean their homes, coach and tutor their children, and in two cases, I have friends who have nannies. Yes. They haven't worked in 10 years because they quit their jobs to be stay-at-home mothers...and they are paying someone else to mind their children. To clarify, it's not the irony that bothers me, it's that they don't see the irony. And it's not just that they don't acknowledge it, they truly do not see any irony or hypocrisy in their opinions. Sure, I could simply say, "Big words coming from someone who hasn't earned a dime in 12 years..." but what purpose would it serve to slate them? Do I need to have the last word? Prove I'm the bigger bitch? No. Accept. Forgive. Heal. Peace. Love. Duh. Repeat as necessary.

And yet...these same women are angry at me for not "trying hard enough" to keep my condo out of foreclosure. They tell me I am part of a community problem, that they would never let their homes go into foreclosure because of what it does to the community - it victimizes neighbors - and therefore they would scrub toilets and turn tricks* if that was the only way they could earn money to honor my financial and community commitments. So, yes, my friends suggested that I take up custodial services and prostitution. One even got me an interview for a janitor job at her husband's company. The job was minimum wage and would have required a 2 hour (each way) commute (by a series of trains and buses, the price of which would have equaled a couple hours of take home pay...and wouldn't even put a small ding in a mortgage payment). An offer wasn't extended so that was the end of that, but, my friend held me responsible for not being able to "even land a job as a janitor." She assumed I thought I was above custodial work and would rather drag down my community and victimize my neighbors with my foreclosure than get a job. She accused me of being too proud and, oh yes, she said it. She called me lazy. (reminder, these accusations came from a woman who has not earned a dime in 12 years and has what she calls "home maintenance service" and "development specialists." For those of you who don't speak gated community, that translates to: she has a maid and a nanny.)

Insert ivory tower cliche of your choice.

They're angry at me for not finding a job that pays enough to pay my mortgage, but there's another issue. I can't afford to do anything, especially not the things they do. It frustrates them that I can't do "anything." They like $5 cups of tea and $20 salads and $12 martinis. They attend charity fundraisers where the price for a seat at a table is a hefty donation. They take girls' weekends at 5 star resorts. You get the picture. Considering I have to make choices between toothpaste and shampoo, it's obvious I can't afford any of those things. For a while they threw me an occasional invitation, but I politely declined. Eventually I just started telling them it wasn't in my budget, and the invitations ceased. Well. Except the invitations to donate to their charities. Those invitations are extended with, "I know you're on a tight budget right now, but this is for charity." The implications of that statement are too deep and too many to get into and I'm pretty sure I don't have to explain them to you anyway. I always offer to help, I offer my time and services, but, that's not what they want or need. They only want financial contributions.

Okay, so I've lost friends. I realize I'm not painting them in their best light and it may sound like I'm better off without them. But. These are basically nice women. Educated, well traveled, (formerly) professional, women with whom I've shared some really good times. But, they've moved on and up in their lives and I have moved down and out. The small chasms of disparity that developed in our friendships when they got married, had children and quit their jobs have turned into deep abysses without bridges since I've been unemployed.

Poverty is a series of compromises.

I know. I need poor, unemployed friends who are single and childless. And I know there are a lot of us out there. But the nature of our status is isolating so by definition we're not going to meet each other. Maybe in online unemployment forums, but while commiserating with people in the same situation offers some salve to the wound, when you log off you're still alone and jobless and homeless/living with your parents/couch surfing.

I'm lucky. I have been able to parlay some of my professional skills into occasional freelance/consulting work. The clients dictate the price which is usually well below the going agency rate, but that's why they're looking for freelancers/consultants. They can't afford/don't want to pay the going rate. They want cheap and fast solutions. So, for instance, a project that would cost $4,000 at an agency might be offered to me for $500. Because I am desperate for money and more to the point, desperate to work, I take the projects. On the rare occasions when I'm asked to bid on projects, I low ball to the point that I'd be making $5/hour on the projects, and yet, still, I have been outbid by someone willing to do the work for less money. It's hard out here for a pimp. But. I'm more fortunate than other people who are long term unemployed because I have had some work, I have maintained some professional credibility and viability. Which is another reason I take on the cut-rate projects: There's intrinsic value for me. I have something to show for my time. I don't have a huge gaping project hole in my resume. If these clients were willing/able to pay more, or if there were more projects, I wouldn't be thriving, but I'd be doing "okay." I wouldn't be choosing between toothpaste and shampoo. I might not be living on the poverty diet of potatoes, mac and cheese and beans and rice. But. I've run the numbers and even if I got half the agency rate for my projects, making the mortgage payment, property tax, internet and cell phone bills would be a stretch, I'd still be scraping by, barely.

But I'm fortunate and very grateful for the projects that have been offered to me.

Or, at least that was my outlook until last week.

Last fall I got that walking pneumonia that was going around. It's a nasty, nasty bug. And I put off doing anything about it until I was knocking on death's door. I went to a walk-in clinic and got a prescription for an antibiotic and cough syrup. Neither really helped, so I bit the bullet and spent my last $120 on a visit to my doctor. Turns out I had "regular" double pneumonia. My doctor said she would normally hospitalize someone in my situation, just to get them on oxygen and monitor their progress and make sure they're on the road to healing. That wasn't an option for me and we both knew it, so she did the best she could with medication and instructions for some in-home care. I had to ask my mother for money to help cover the chest x-ray, blood test and prescription expenses. So, yeah, I was sick. I figured I'd either die or get better and I was okay with either result. I didn't die and I'm kind of disappointed about that. It seemed like a good solution. It wouldn't be suicide, so my mother wouldn't have to live with that after I was gone. And it would be a graceful, even fitting, way out for me. But here I am, still breathing.

But here's the problem. I was really, really, really sick. And there are consequential health issues that have cropped up as a result. And I've been living under the weight of a lot of stress for three+ years. The combination has culminated in a couple health issues rearing their ugly heads. Trust me on this, you do not ever want to hear your gynecologist say, "I want to do a few more tests..." You especially do not want to hear your gynecologist say that when your best friend just went through ovarian cancer. My doctor generously didn't charge for a few office visits, but I had to pay the lab fee for the blood tests and some in-depth (and I mean in depth) gynecology exams. One recent round of blood tests cost me $490. That was my entire income from two projects. That was my food budget, bus/train fare, and cell phone expenses for seven weeks. I cannot afford the cost of the tests and care for some of the health issues, and my doctors know this. So, my doctor recommended me to a social worker at the hospital, hoping I would qualify for one of the low income programs.

I, full of innocence and hope, thought perhaps Obamacare was a solution for me and the social worker would be a wealth of information and  I'd be on my way to healthcare coverage.

I showed up at the appointment eager to get my Obamacare ball rolling. I knew, roughly, what the penalty fee is for not having health insurance, and I figured I could come up with money to pay installments on Obamacare. I wasn't looking for a handout, but, I thought Obamacare would be a solution. I'd pay the fee, which is much lower than the cost of health insurance from an insurance company, and I'd get healthcare coverage.

Oh silly, silly, silly me.

The hospital social worker actually laughed when I said the word Obamacare. "Uh, they won't even tell us when were going to get information on the program, much less how to enroll patients. People think it's out there, that it's a live program. It's not. As far as we're concerned, it doesn't exist. We have our own special needs programs and of course there's Medicaid."

And so it was that I found myself in an office with a social worker and a couple folders of forms and the grim news that I was denied all health services. Why? Because 1) I declined COBRA when I was laid off - I had the option to continue health insurance and I waived the option. (Never mind that my COBRA would have cost me $723/month.) I had the option and I refused to accept it. I signed a form stating that I declined it. And because 2) I have income. The income from my freelance/consulting projects is below poverty level, but, I have income. Not steady income, but I have income.

The social worker said, "We'll appeal. But. As of now, you're not qualified and you are responsible for the cost of all your medical fees."

Obviously I don't have the money for the healthcare expenses and I'm sure the social worker could see the worry in my face.

She said, "There is something you can do to speed up the process and get immediate coverage."

My eyes widened at the prospect. Why didn't she tell me about this when I first met with her and filled out all the forms?

The social worker continued, "Understand that I can't advise you to do this, but, you're an educated woman, you seem intelligent and nice, we can just have a conversation, casually. If you were to ask me if having a child would make a difference in your eligibility for healthcare and a lot of other programs, I would say, 'absolutely.'"

I'll let that sink in for a minute.



Yes. She was suggesting that I get pregnant so that I could get healthcare.  I didn't want to believe that's what she was implying, though, so I blinked away what I thought I heard her imply. I must have misunderstood. She must have me confused with another patient. I've had some gynecology tests lately, she must have thought I was someone else, someone pregnant.

I said, "Oh, I don't have children, I'm not pregnant."

She looked over her glasses at me and said, "I know. But if you were to ask me if being pregnant would make a difference in your eligibility for healthcare and many other programs, I would say yes. Sometimes the solution to a problem becomes obvious when you look at it as an opportunity instead of a problem." Her tone and look in her eyes said, "I'm sure we understand each other. I know you know what I'm saying."

I've been given a lot of advice during my unemployment. A lot of advice. Some it valuable, some it not so helpful, and I've heard all of it many times over, from many different people. But, I can honestly say, this is the first time anyone has suggested that I get pregnant as a solution to my unemployment and poverty issues.

Poverty is a series of compromises. But. What am I willing to compromise?

I love kids, wanted to have a couple, and before the lay off threw a wrench in my plans I was in the midst of a five year prep plan to adopt. Why adopt instead of just going out and getting knocked up? Because there are already too many children, already born, who need loving, supportive, safe homes. And getting knocked up requires either a willing participant or an anonymous donor. The former is a non-option for me, the latter is expensive and a little weird for me. Not judging anyone who goes that route, but having given it serious thought I decided it's not for me. And I know women who intentionally had a couple anonymous hookups with the purpose of getting pregnant. They had zero intention of telling the father that he sired a child but both women I know who did this ended up regretting the decision - not the child, the decision to not tell the father (or even know how to get in touch with the father). Again, clearly and for the record, I'm not judging anyone who goes that route. But. My moral compass is set at a different point than that. Even if they truly never tell the guy they fathered a child, duping some drunk dude into sperm donorship gets the whole "blessed event" off to a dishonest start. To say nothing of the rights of the child. Which is why adoption was the best option for me. The child is already born and unwanted by both parents. Obviously the best solution is a two parent home, and that would be my first choice. Believe me, I'd give anything to have a husband in this endeavor with me. But. I don't. And until I was laid off, I was working with single-minded focus on a plan to get to a financial place where I could afford a nice home and could provide a child, fingers crossed, maybe two, with a worry-free, safe, home with love and support. The goal was to help children whose parents didn't want them or couldn't provide them with what a child needs.

So, until I was laid off, my eyes were very focused on the prize of motherhood. There were other factors, but the underlying reason for buying my condo was to start the real estate chain of events that had to happen before I could adopt. There are housing parameters spelled out for prospective adoptive parents. I couldn't quite afford a place that fit the bill, but the plan was to start somewhere, buy a small place, fix it up a little, let it appreciate in value for a few years, get some equity and move up to a bigger, social worker approved home. Man. That sounds so 2006, doesn't it? That's a laughable plan, now. Especially for me.

But.

There I was, in 2013, sitting across from a social worker suggesting that I get pregnant, rendering me eligible for myriad government assistance programs.

In what world is getting pregnant a viable solution to unemployment, homelessness and poverty? Ours, apparently.

I have no doubt the social worker sees countless cases of impoverished, single, pregnant women every day. It's the nature of her job, and her job is to help them. So her outlook is probably a bit, um, skewed. A17 year old high school dropout who's never held a full time job, pregnant with her second child and unable to even remember how many guys she had sex with, let alone the name of the father, can walk into her office and emerge an hour later with healthcare, food assistance, housing assistance and a monthly stipend. So why shouldn't I, a professional with college degrees, plural, who toiled relentlessly at a career only to be downsized and outsourced with 100 of her coworkers, someone who paid copious taxes (income, sales, and property, among others), enjoy the same government benefits? All it takes is a sperm hitting an egg. In that social worker's eyes, the solution to most of my problems is obvious. Get pregnant.

I should have gotten mad or indignant or something. But I could see it from her perspective. She was just offering realistic advice from the perspective of her side of the social worker desk. And after all, prior to the layoff I was working tirelessly on a plan to adopt, so the idea of a child is not crazy. But the idea of knowingly bringing a child into a world that relies on government assistance is crazy, at least for me. I should also say that I believe children are a privilege, not a right. (I feel the same way about pets, too.) So obviously my resistance and balking at the idea of getting pregnant at a time in my life when I can't even afford both toothpaste and shampoo goes without saying. Not. Going. To. Happen.

I thanked the social worker for her time and left.

But, the Universe just loves to mock me with ironies even Shakespeare would consider overkill.

Yesterday my gynecologist emailed me the results of one of the tests. All good news, mostly, and, further, she noted that thanks to the uptick in my ovulation I should be extra cautious with birth control. Unless of course I want to get pregnant, in which case this would be a great time to conceive.

Poverty is a series of compromises. But this is one I'm not willing to make.

Sometimes I feel defeated. I try not to let that happen because it's a slippery slope. I've learned that forcing myself to stay positive is better, in the long run, that giving into defeat.  Yes, I'm desperate, on many (many) levels I am in desperate circumstances. And desperation forces you to make choices you wouldn't normally make. But. The repercussions of washing my hair with hand soap are minimal and personal. The repercussions of getting pregnant while unemployed and in foreclosure are far reaching, long term, and affect an innocent child. There's no way I'm going to get pregnant (presuming I can find a willing, or too drunk to care, sperm donor) so that I can get a government allowance that will provide me with enough money to buy shampoo and toothpaste.


The bottom line, for me, is that I don't want any assistance. From anyone. I want a job that pays me enough to support myself, and, maybe, if I can ever get back on my financial feet, support an adopted child, too.

And then I picked up my mail. One of my (pretty much former) friends sent me an invitation to a charity dinner. The charity provides healthcare to low income parents who can't afford IVF treatments.

I'll let you think about that for a minute.



This friend had difficulty conceiving their second child so they went through five rounds of IVF treatments. Usually doctors only give it three rounds, but because they had one successful conception and child under their belts, and because my friends had the money to throw at the problem, the doctors agreed to two more rounds of treatments. Fifth time was the charm and the result was twins. IVF treatments are not usually covered by health insurance and they cost a lot of money. When they finally got pregnant they referred to their twins as the Six Million Dollar Babies. They were only half joking. A second mortgage on their very expensive suburban home was required. During this process, my friend often commented that they were lucky they could afford IVF and she felt bad for couples who couldn't afford the treatments. A sweet sentiment that speaks to her compassionate nature and love of children. (I told you my friends aren't as horrible as I sometimes make them sound.) But. The cynical but realistic other side of that sentiment is that if you can't afford IVF treatments, you might not be able to afford to raise children. Octomom comes to everyone's mind.

This friend and I went to lunch after they found out the third IVF attempt failed. Holding her then three-and-a-half year old son on her lap, she looked me with tear laden eyes and said, "You have no idea what it's like to desperately want a child and not have one." I chose to presume she was too mired in her own quest to a) recognize that she has a child, sitting on her lap and old enough to get the gist of what she was saying and wondering, "what am I, chopped liver?" and b) realize who she was talking to and the sting of irony her words left on me. I was compassionate, I understood. But clearly she had no clue that, in fact, I do know what it feels like to want a child and not have one, even better than she does because she already had a child.

I was vaguely aware that my friend, so concerned about low income couples who can't afford IVF, found a charity that provides assistance to said couples. But I haven't heard from her in a while, and certainly haven't heard about her new charity project. Until now. A $400/plate donation is required to attend the event. There's a silent auction featuring items like expensive paintings, a few celebrity signed items and a trip to some fancy pants resort island. The invitation was one of those super expensive swilly boxes-instead-of-envelope things containing a pamphlet on IVF, a fancy embossed invitation and response card, little silver charm of a lotus blossom. My friend scrawled note on a Post-it note stuck to the lid of the box, "I know it's a lot of money but it's for such a great cause. You know what we went through with the twins. Hoping you can join us, it'll be a fun night!"

I went to the charity's website, and sure enough, in the sidebar testimonials there was a photo of my friend and her twins with a heartfelt statement about her IVF saga. "...we cannot imagine the pain of broken dreams couples who can't afford IVF treatment have to live with. IVF fulfilled our dream of having a family. When it comes to the gift of precious children, money should not be an issue. Help us ease the burden and pain of infertility by creating a financial bridge to parenthood."

I'm pretty sure you can feel my eyes rolling.

Even if this hadn't arrived on the heels of my health issues/visit with the social worker about healthcare/email from my gynecologist, my reaction would have been one of, "Are you kidding me? What about easing the burden of pain unemployment is causing one of your oldest friends?! How about a bridge to understanding that $400 is a lot of money? How about imagining that IVF isn't exactly a high priority in terms of social problems that need attention?" I walked around ranting, thrusting the fancy invitation Heavenward. "There are thousands of children waiting to be adopted into loving homes...There are people who don't have safe drinking water, children dying because of contaminated water... There are people in her own community who can't afford food...They're dropping toxic mice on Guam for crying out loud...And yet she expects people to pony up $400/plate to help low income couples get IVF treatments, treatments that have a failure rate of something like 75 - 85%?" Yeah, it was quite the rant. I dunno. Maybe I do have compassion fatigue. Maybe unemployment has made me cynical. It's not that I want her, or anyone else, to give me money. I don't want to be anyone's charity.

But.

Oh never mind.

I suppose it was just the timing that got to me. And because she's been so out of touch she doesn't have a clue what I've been going through. It's not her fault. She's a good person. She loves her children. She's trying to help other people have children. No harm in that. Accept. Forgive. Heal. Peace. Love. Duh.

I did get a laugh imagining the scenario wherein I decide to get pregnant and meet with her over lunch to tell her the news. "You know, it was so easy! My gynecologist said my ovaries were overactive and it would be an good time to get pregnant and the social worker said I'd get lots of government aid if I had a child, so, I just went for it! Found the first drunk guy coherent enough to get it up and, poof! bun in the oven!"

Imaging that scenario was funny, but it also made me realize the full absurdity of the idea of me getting pregnant, now, while I'm unemployed, squatting in my tiny foreclosed condo, and haven't even had a date in years. What must seem so simple in that social worker's eyes is as difficult and absurd as me endeavoring to climb Mount Everest in four inch heels. Sure, it's just a matter of perspective, but poverty hasn't compromised my integrity to the point of stupidity.








*I actually really love this phrase because it speaks to a very bygone era of catchy euphemisms, an era when there was an open awareness about the grittier, more tawdry aspects of society, but you still didn't come out and say certain words. When I was a kid and overheard the term "turning tricks" on the cop shows my brother watched, I thought it meant that the woman in question was doing magic shows. My brother happened to be going through a phase of mastering magic tricks, so when he practiced his tricks I'd say, "he's turning tricks." My family used to laugh when I said it, but when I told someone at church that my brother was turning tricks after church my parents put an end to my "cute misunderstanding." But, the use of that phrase also speaks to how out of touch my friend is with reality outside her gated community. I guarantee that she would never take up prostitution, for any reason, even to save her home. And to her, the idea that she would ever have to work any job again is so preposterous that the exaggeration of what she'd do if she had to save her home is on par with her lifestyle. Both ideas are so far out of the realm of her daily existence that of course all she can do is exaggerate to an extreme and silly degree.

Well, here we go again. Another Valentine's Day in Singleton. Meh. Whatever. Doesn't bother me.

I'm indulging myself in a little dating musing. I'm in an okay place with my Mayor of Singleton status so it seems harmless to reflect on how awful those last few years of dating were for me. I have so much other stuff to deal with in my life that my singleness isn't something I think about very often. And even if everything else in my life was on an even keel, lamenting about being single doesn't solve anything. It sucks, but that's life, deal with it. That's what I tell myself, anyway.

But still, every now and then a little self-pity on a dark night isn't the worst thing a person can do. Sometimes it even leads to new insight. I am kind of surprised how long it's been since I had a date, and how much longer it's been since I went on more than three dates with the same guy. The time hasn't flown by - there are days minutes feel like treacherous death marches - but it has gone by and I have endured it and generally I'm okay with it. This is why I'm the Mayor of Singleton. Next stop, Spinsterville with a detour through Crazy Cat Lady Town.

I was recently asked why I don't date. I was a little stymied by the question. I didn't want to explain why, to this casual acquaintance, it's been years since I've even attempted to find a date. Further, I thought it was obvious why I don't date. I wanted to say, "Look at me. Men are not attracted to women who look like me." But instead I just said, "Oh, you know, unemployment has really taken a toll on me, I'm not in a good emotional place for dating."

I'm pretty sure people don't want to hear the truth, that I quit dating because the rampant judgement on appearance was killing me. No one wants to know that every man I met had a list of attributes they wanted in a date and the first 15 were all appearance based. And that the older I got, the more critical and vocal the men got about their reasons for rejecting me. That I was rejected for many reasons. My eyes weren't the right color, my eyes are too big, I'm too tall, my boobs are too big (yes, really, there are men who don't like big boobs), my fingers were deemed "freakishly long," my nose is "bad," my skin too fair, my hips too curvy, my hair was too short, my hair was too long, my hair was the "wrong" color, my hair wasn't straight enough, (I have been asked to change my hair color and/or style by three different boyfriends and by more first dates than I can recall), even the fact that I have ear lobes disgusted two would-be suitors. And the unanimous catchall: "I'm not attracted to you."  Yes, these men are shallow, nitpicking men with questionable priorities.

Or maybe not. Their priority is sex, they know what turns them on, and what turns them off. Why bother wasting any time on a woman who doesn't arouse them? Who cares if she's intelligent, kind, insightful, supportive, loyal, compassionate, creative and has a fantastic sense of humor? If she doesn't get the penis' attention what's the point of spending any time with her? Maybe as a friend, but certainly not as a date or potential romantic partner or spouse. Sheesh, can you imagine spending your life with a woman who has ear lobes?! Shudder. That's just gross.

Do people really want to know all that when they ask why you don't date? Maybe they do. Maybe they want the unvarnished truth about how callous and shallow people can be and how dismissive and cruel people are when it comes to dating. But I kinda doubt people want to know that. I think most people desperately want to believe there's someone for everyone and somehow, someway, love will find a way and everyone gets a happily ever after and the only people who die lonely and unloved are people who deserve it because they're horrible human beings. I'm pretty sure most people want to believe that and they cling to that ideal.

I don't. I have lived the harsh reality of the ugly underbelly of dating. I tried, I got "out there," I didn't let myself get daunted. Determined to find someone, anyone, really, I soldiered on through the mire of dating until finally, after a blind date that ended with a man with Dwarfism humping my knee at a bus stop and then told our mutual friends that I wasn't his cup of tea, that he preferred blondes with blue eyes, instead of saying, "The guy is an arrogant, misogynistic cad who flirts with young bartendresses and humps women's knees at bus stops, and oh yeah, he's a dwarf, and not really in any position to judge anyone on appearance," I said, "No more. This is damaging my self-esteem in ways I can never repair. I'm done."

One battle against anorexia was more than enough in one lifetime for me. When I saw myself slipping into some dangerous and self-destructive behaviors, including anorexia, again, and the other tolls trying to date was taking on my self-esteem and confidence, I got out, I quit trying. The critical judgement and review on my appearance with every man I attempted to date was turning me into a psychological, emotional wreck. After each rejection I consoled myself with, "Who cares what he thinks?" "He's a jerk anyway, you don't want to date him." "As if he's a fine physical specimen...pfft!" "If all he cares about is looks, he's not worth your time." "Don't let him get to you, keep trying, maybe the next guy will be the guy who has your features on his list." I even joined a dating site for handicapped people in hopes of meeting a blind man. After one particularly harsh rejection from a man I dated a few weeks who said he liked me enough to continue dating me if I was willing to only have sex from behind because he didn't find me attractive, I got home and looked in the mirror saw the Elephant Man. Of course I imagined it, I blinked it away, but that's when I knew it was time to stop dating. That's when I knew men, and their very specific physical desires, were killing me.

Yes, I wanted a relationship. No, I didn't want to be alone or lonely. But the man who finds me attractive enough to look at me during sex, the man who accepts me - my pale skin that burns even on cloudy days, my dark auburn errant curls that can be a little unruly, my large green eyes, my "bad" nose, my 5'11" frame that solidly supports natural DD boobs and curvy hips, my freakishly long fingers (and toes), and yes, even my ear lobes - the man willing overlook or even embrace all that, remained elusive. And I wasn't getting any younger.

And that's another issue that made me realize it was time to opt out of the dating pool: I reached the age where men my age who aren't married are looking for much younger women. They're not quite old enough to be the young girls' father, but old enough to seem "mature" to the young girls, especially the young girls who yearn for expensive gifts that older, professionally stable men can provide.

Funny how women are willing to overlook receding hairlines (or worse: guylights), oversize noses, stupid facial hair "statements," brutish manpaws (or oddly dainty mantalons), back hair, all manner of fashion choices gone horribly wrong, manboobs, and sagging, wrinkled, dangling gonads that can't fuel an erection without the aid of a prescription drug, but men won't date a woman if her eye color isn't his preference.

I blame the 3:1 ratio of women to men. Us women know there aren't enough of them for all of us, so we know that even though we're expected to be perfect specimens of female beauty we cannot expect men to be camera ready GQ models. Studies and copious books on this topic say that while men are visual thinkers (translation: penis thinkers), women are more feeling, more emotional in their choices than men. So if we like a man's personality traits we "don't even notice" his physical imperfections and, in fact, find his imperfections attractive. That may be true for some women (like me, for instance), but that's not the full report. The fact that women outnumber men* was made obvious to us from the time we started school, and we know if we want to date and mate we'll have to a) claw our way over the competition (other women), and b) make a few compromises in our physical desires.

Yeah, I know how that sounds. I know I sound bitter, resentful and jaded. But honestly, I am none of those things. Well, okay, maybe I'm a little jaded. Okay a lot jaded. But I didn't want to become any of those things. I like men. I don't want to dismiss the entire gender based on the jerks I've met and tried to date.

And I didn't want to lose any more self-esteem because of some criticism some guy I barely knew dismissively hurled at me. The men, and their opinions of my looks or anything else, were inconsequential to me. So why would I let them chip away at my confidence and self-esteem? Why would I let them push me back down a slippery slope I already overcame years ago?

If it had been just an occasional guy with the occasional "I'm just not attracted to you" every now and then, I would have kept at it, and probably still would be "at it." But the last five years I was "out there," it was almost every guy with very specific criticisms (and occasional insults). So. I quit dating. I realized I had to accept my Singleton spinster fate. I haven't looked back.

Yes. I get lonely. Very lonely. Yes, I'm pretty sure that given a legit opportunity I'd do anything (legal) to spend a few nights with male arms holding me just one more time before I die. And yes, more than that, especially with what I've had to deal with in the rest of my life in the past few years, the emotional support of a partner would make an incredible difference in my life and mental health. And I like to think that I could make a positive difference in the life of a man willing to overlook my flaws and accept me.

But. There isn't someone for everyone. It's statistically impossible. Some of us are going to be alone. Period. I accept that I am one of them.

Ultimately the reasons don't matter. And, from experience, I know that trying to figure out the reasons is the fastest way to lose confidence in yourself and to escalate all the fallout that low self-esteem brings to the party.

And let's face it: No one likes a Debbie Downer. Here's what I finally learned: Smile like you mean it and eventually you will. Yep. Fake it 'til you make it.

Once you realize and accept that you're going to be single, forever, there's a period of depression, followed by anger, followed by anxiety and then more depression. You might even be tempted to get back "out there" and try again. And who knows, maybe that'll be the time you find the right one. Rock on. But. For the rest of us, at some point you have to face reality: You're single, every relationship you've had has ended in tears, and if you can get someone to go on a first date with you, they leave without even lying about calling you, and make it very clear that they are not attracted to you. It's time to stop the emotional abuse you're giving yourself over dating.

And you're making yourself a wreck. Your friends and family are worried about you, you're not yourself. You're an insecure, frightened, depressed, angry shell of the person you used to be before the constant cycle of dating and rejection took a toll on you.

Broken dreams don't mend, but eventually the edges get worn down and aren't as jagged and sharp. And I also know this: No matter how much it hurts to think of a future very different, very much more alone than you imagined for yourself, facing that future doesn't hurt as much as the constant rejection and criticism from potential suitors. And it certainly doesn't hurt as much as being in a relationship with someone who doesn't accept you as you are. Regardless of what the clinical studies du jour say about married people/couples living longer and being happier, if the alternative is living with someone who doesn't accept you as you are, you really are better off alone.

That's not to say that once you accept your singleness that everyday is cotton candy clouds and soft pink unicorns. (Unless you've opted to medicate your way through Singleton.) Certain times of the year bombard you with reminders that you are very much alone. Valentine's Day is one of the worst. There is a growing anti-Valentine's Day movement, but I find that to be bitter and cynical. You don't have to hate it, you just have to have a coping strategy.

I'm a fortunate Singletonian because I've never been a fan of Valentine's Day. The commercial pressure factors are a huge part of my disregard for the "holiday." But the bigger problems I have with it are the competition and the whole, "If you need a date on a calendar to inspire you to do something romantic or special for your special someone, then you might want to reevaluate how special that someone is and if you're really putting forth the emotional depth and effort relationships require" aspect. So. Valentine's Day isn't a huge hurdle for me, especially since I was laid off.

I used to hate Valentine's Day in the office. Huge bouquets of roses, enormous teddy bears, stupid balloons, messengers dressed up like Cupid delivering chocolates and other gifts...the office smelled like a hothouse and the passive aggression between coworkers was unbearable. "That's a cute bouquet. Small and sweet. That's nice." The competition for "Most Gross Display of Commercialization, Affection Category" in the office is sickening. We spend the year going to great lengths to keep the office desexualized, and then blam! February 14 it's all about romance and sex. Maybe it's just me, maybe I'm more bitter than I realize. But. I really do not want to know that my boss also goes by the name Fuzzylumps or Pookeylips, or that a pair of edible undies was delivered to the woman who handles expense reports.

Coping strategy. Devise a plan and stick to it. 

Several years ago I accidentally stumbled upon a little known fact that has changed my life for the better. This is especially helpful for the ladies of Singleton, but guys you can modify it to fit your needs. Gynecologists, even very busy ones, usually have plenty of open appointments on February 14. Apparently there aren't many women who want to saddle up in the stirrups and get it on with a speculum on Valentine's Day. So, for the past eleven years I've had my yearly gynecologist appointment on Valentine's Day. No one else loves my body, but I do, and I try to do everything I can to take care of me. Which means: Annual checkups.

I'm especially pro-pap since Frankie's ovarian cancer. I've never slacked on my appointments, but Frankie is proof positive that it's crucial to get an annual pelvic exam. I'm on a mission to remind women to take care of their uteruses (uteri?). Do it. Woman up and get yourself in the stirrups every year. And what better day to take care of your lady parts than Valentine's Day?

I'm pretty sure my gynecologist is a lesbian, so the Valentine's Day element in my appointments is a little weird, but, hey, my vagina is getting some action on Valentine's Day. And I'm doing something healthy for my uterus, so, you know, win-win. There's something about enduring a pelvic exam that makes me feel very virtuous and self-righteous. I always feel like we should get a sticker, like an "I Voted!" sticker, after an annual checkup. "I Papped!" or "I got in the stirrups and scootched down!" Okay, maybe the world doesn't need to know what just went on in my vagina, but, I always feel "good" about having done it. I was a big girl, I made the appointment, I went, I put on the scratchy paper gown, I got in the stirrups, I scootched down to the point where my butt cheeks were dangling over the edge of the table and I was afraid of falling of the table, I stared at the ceiling and made pleasant small talk with my doctor while she probed me deeper and harder than any man ever has, all willingly and because it's the healthy thing to do. It's what grown up women do. We handle it. We deal with it. We take care of ourselves. Rock on, sister! And that's a good feeling to have, so, why not have it on Valentine's Day? Seems absolutely perfect to me. (I've also heard there aren't many women want their boobs smooshed and radiated on Valentine's Day, either, so February 14 is a good day for a mammogram.)

Okay, so maybe a trip to the gynecologist isn't your idea of a Valentine's Day coping strategy. But you get my point. Go to the dentist. Take an extra difficult spinning class at the gym. Eat organic produce all day. Give money to a water or environmental charity. Go play with animals at a shelter. Do something for yourself that's healthy and makes you feel good and proud of yourself. Love yourself. Plan it in advance, make a big deal of it.

I don't recommend "being your own Valentine," as in taking yourself to dinner or buying yourself a present or sending yourself flowers. I know people, women especially, who do this and ultimately they end up more depressed and feeling more lonely. And. They tend to overindulge in sweets, booze, food or "presents" they can't really afford. Which is why I advocate something like a gynecologist appointment. It's something you need to do anyway, it's not something a romantic partner would do for or with you (at least not usually), so there's no compensation factor. You're not giving yourself a consolation prize for coming in last in the game of love, which is how taking yourself to dinner or having a candlelit romantic bubble bath by yourself or buying yourself diamond earrings can feel. The last thing you want on Valentine's Day (or any day for that matter) is to end up singing, or worse, feeling like Eleanor Rigby.

Way back when I had boyfriends and reasonably healthy relationships, the guys weren't that different from the men I attempted to date most recently. The long-ago boyfriends were willing to compromise their lists because they thought I had enough other traits to compensate for my shortcomings. Yay them. But that's not to say they entirely forgot about their list of desires.
Valentine's gifts I have received:

• A membership at a tanning salon (from the boyfriend who liked Baywatch and very tanned women)
• Perfume that made me asthmatic - and also happened to be the scent his mother and sister wore
• A 2-for-1 coupon for contact lenses (even though I only wear reading glasses) (from the boyfriend who preferred blue eyed women)
• A consultation with a plastic surgeon (from the boyfriend who complained about my nose...nonstop)
• A "role playing game" that included a blonde wig for me and...nothing for him. Or, well, "his" role was ogler of the blonde chick (from the boyfriend who liked blondes and asked me, weekly, to "try" going blonde, "just for fun.") 

And those were the good guys, the men who (at least said they) loved me and tried to make relationships work with me. The problem was, of course, they never fully accepted me, at least not physically, and they went on to date and marry women who were more to their physical liking. 

(And yet people wonder why women develop issues like anorexia, body dysmorphia, anxiety disorders, obsessive-compulsive disorders, social anxiety including agoraphobia, stress-related heart disease and run of the mill insecurity and lack of self esteem and confidence issues at staggeringly higher rates than men.)

Guys, please, I'm begging you, if you're going to give your special woman something for Valentine's Day, make sure it's a gift for her, and not really for you. (This includes most lingerie.)  If your gal has never gone to tanning salon nor expressed any desire to do so, Valentine's Day is not the day to suggest that you find her lily white skin a little too pale. Maybe you have a weakness for blue eyes and your gal has green eyes. Valentine's Day is not the day to spring the idea of colored contact lenses on her. Nor is it the day to suggest to her that, you know what, her nose could use some refinement or her butt does look big in those jeans or you don't like her ear lobes so here ya go baby, go talk to a plastic surgeon. If she's never so much as tried a few lighter colored highlights, she's probably not interested in becoming a blonde, and if she dons the wig for you, and you ogle her more than you usually do, she will ultimately feel like you want her to be a blonde and will question how much you really enjoyed every sexual encounter you had with her before the blonde wig came into the picture.

So. Tread carefully and think about her. What does she like? If you're the attentive partner you think you are, you've noticed her lingering over a particular catalog or website. Buy her something from one of those places. Perfume is nice, but make sure it's something she likes, and never, ever, under any circumstances, give her the same perfume your mother or sister wears. Just don't. If you have to ask why there's really nothing more I can do to help you.

Okay. Now I'm going to take a moment to do a public service to my sisters who do have men in their lives. See? I don't hate love, I don't begrudge other people who have love in their lives!

If you are a guy who has no intention of buying jewelery, skip ahead. 

Jewelry is a typical Valentine's gift. Many women like, and even expect jewelery on Valentine's Day. I'm sorry about that, guys, I don't agree with that either, and please know that some of us women don't expect anything, nor do we buy into the Valentine's Day marketing pressure put on men to buy us something "nice" for Valentine's Day. But if your girl likes, or expects jewelry you probably want to make some sort of jewelry gesture. Word to the wise, though, unless she enjoys reruns of Dr. Quinn: Medicine Woman or '70s made for television mini-series, avoid anything you see advertised on television between Christmas and Valentine's Day. Actually, avoid any jewelry you see advertised on television period. If you do decide to go the jewelry route here are a few cautionary words of wisdom.

1) Type. If you've been dating more than a year, and it's Valentine's Day and you have zero intention of asking her to marry you within the next two weeks, do not, I repeat do not give her any type of jewelry. Why? Because if you've been dating more than a year and you show up on Valentine's Day with a box from a jewelry store, in her mind she's already booking the reception site and band. When she opens the box and finds a solitary teddy bear charm for a Pandora bracelet (that she doesn't own), there is no way to recover the evening. She may be polite and say she loves it and loves you, but don't expect the extra special stuff in the bedroom later. This whole thing could have been avoided if you hadn't given her any jewelry. Why? Because giving her jewelery means you went to a jewelry store, before Valentine's Day, where there were undoubtedly dozens of guys looking at engagement rings, and loads of in-store ads featuring engagement rings, but what did you buy her? A teddy bear charm for a Pandora bracelet (that she doesn't own). The mere fact that you went to a jewelry store is a potential emotional volcano for her, she's just waiting to blow and spew the red hot lava of engagement excitement, and then she opens the box and it's...a teddy bear charm for a Pandora bracelet (that she doesn't own). See what I mean? If you gave her a year of NetFlix she wouldn't be in the bathroom crying and thinking she's wasted more than a year of her life dating you. She wouldn't envision you walking into the jewelry store, choosing just the right gift for her...which turned out to be a teddy bear charm. If you still don't get it, there's nothing more I can do to help you.

If you're already engaged or married, my coupled up friends seem to like/expect diamond earrings, diamond bracelets, or pretty much anything from Cartier or Tiffany & Co. There seems to be some contract between married men and women regarding Valentine's Day and jewelery. Since I'm not married I don't know anything about this other than my married friends typically sprout some lavish new piece of jewelry after February 14.

If you've been dating less than six months and you show up with jewelry, any type of jewelry, she'll be surprised and happy. Unless of course you've been dating less than six months, you haven't met each others' family, you're not even sure what type of wine she likes, and you show up with an engagement ring. She'll be surprised, but maybe not in a good way. Brace yourself for some awkward pauses and throat clearing over dessert.

If you want to buy (or have been instructed to buy) jewelry, but you're not sure what to get, earrings are usually a safe bet. Err on the side of tasteful, birthstones are a nice alternative to diamonds, just make sure you know if she likes yellow or white metals. If you're married, look at her wedding ring. What color is it? Take a snapshot of that in your mind and remember it when you're at the jewelry store.

2) Style. If the woman in your life doesn't wear ruffles, lace and/or ethereal, filmy slip dresses, the odds are high that she probably doesn't like, or want, dainty pieces of jewelry that the salesperson describes as "romantic" or "delicate" or "sweet." Stick with clean lined basics or classics.

On the other hand, if she watches a lot of Hallmark Channel movies and her clothing style is often described as "darling" and she collects Victorian dolls, anything delicate with a lot of detail will probably make her very happy. If your great aunt Polly would like it, you've found the right gift.

Beware of anything shaped like a heart. Hearts are a minefield of opinions among women. Presuming your girl is over the age of 12, she has a personal line in the sand regarding hearts. Some of us hate anything shaped like a heart. Anything. Other women, often women who had (or want) a Disney princess or Hello Kitty themed wedding, love heart shaped everything.  So, know your woman and which category she falls into before entering the heart shaped jewelry zone.  If in doubt, stay away from the hearts. And it will be difficult. Jewelry stores and the salespeople who work at them are big on pushing heart shaped everything for Valentine's Day. Be strong, do not succumb to the visual overload of hearts in the store.

And. Just because she loves cats or dogs or horses doesn't mean she wants to adorn herself with cute representations of said animals. The same rules about hearts apply here, too. Know your girlfriend and her style. Animal themed pieces are tricky. For instance, even though I love cats, I generally do not like cat themed jewelry. It's a little too crazy spinster cat lady for me. Plus cat themed jewelry is often super cutesy. I am not a super cutesy kinda girl. However, I do have a few pieces of cat inspired jewelry that I really like. Confusing? Yes. So. Unless you have a high degree of confidence in your woman's style, do not presume that because she loves her Bichon Frise more than life itself that she will want to wear Bichon Frise themed earrings. I'm telling you this because animal themed pieces are another type of jewelry that stores and salespeople just love to pawn off on unsuspecting men who think it makes sense that their woman will love anything that represents her favorite animal.

3) Price. This is a touchy topic. If you haven't been behaving like the greatest boyfriend on the planet, this might not be the time to spend a year's salary on jewelry for your girlfriend. Why? Because if she has a functioning brain she's going to presume that you think this lavish gift erases all your boyfriend infractions. And buddy, lemme tell you, nothing is going to eradicate the memory she has of you groping and making out with a bridesmaid at her sister's wedding. Yes, you were drunk, yes, she was wearing the same dress as your girlfriend and you got confused, no "nothing" happened. But. You're on thin ice, mister, and an expensive piece of jewelry is tantamount to an admission of guilt for that indiscretion and many more that she now suspects may have occurred.

If you are Mr. Wonderful and you want to buy her something extra special nice, and you are on solid ground with her taste and style preferences, go for it. Just don't turn into a jerk and lord it over her for the next 10 years. It's not her fault you spent a year's salary on a piece of jewelry, so don't carry it like a cross. Ditto bragging about it to her friends. Trust me, her friends saw it and know how much it cost. The piece brags for itself. Your chiming in and calling attention to the great gift you got her only serves to make you look like a self-serving, ego driven, affected jerk.

4) Diamonds and Rubies and Pearls, oh my. Conventional wisdom is that every woman loves diamonds, that you can't go wrong with diamonds. Conventional wisdom is wrong, and you can go very, very wrong with diamonds, to the point of looking like an insensitive lout. Socially conscious women do not like diamonds, or even if they do, they won't be caught dead wearing them in public. Women who are not ostentatious also don't care for diamonds. And, some women think they're overhyped, overpriced, overused talismans of success in romance and wealth. If you're with a woman who I just described, you probably already know to steer clear of diamonds. If you're not sure, casually mention you saw an interesting documentary on the De Beers family and wait for her response. If this comment turns into a two hour discussion about monopolies and human rights issues then you have your answer. If, on the other hand, she thinks you meant to say, "Da Bears" because she doesn't know who the De Beers family is, you have a very different answer.

Rubies, sapphires and emeralds are diamond alternatives, but these, too, are mined and have human rights issues attached to them. Ask where the stone was mined. The jeweler may lie, but at least you tried to do due diligence. If human rights issues are not an issue for your woman or you, make sure you know what color she likes. She may hate rubies. Just because it's Valentine's Day now doesn't mean she'll want to wear a heart shaped ruby necklace the rest of the year. She may associate sapphires with her grandmother (which could be a good or bad thing). Think about her wardrobe. What colors does she frequently wear? It's a safe bet that she'd like a stone of that color.

Conventional wisdom also indicates that every woman likes pearls. Also false. Most vegans and many vegetarians will not wear pearls. And many women feel that no woman under the age of 60 should wear pearls. Other women feel that pearls should be inherited, not bought.

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It's Sunday so let's talk about God and church!

I haven't blogged about either for a while. Since I'm apparently on a current events bent, the topic of The Applebee's Receipt is the perfect shining example of why I, and I suspect a lot of other people, don't get on board with organized religion of any genre, but especially the Christian religions. For reasons that elude me, it seems to be the Christians who suffer from mind blowing hypocrisy more frequently or at least more obviously than other religions. I've encountered some very self righteous Buddhist wannabes, and the occasional Hindu enthusiast who just...gets it wrong...but in my experience Christians reign supreme in their high and mighty hypocrisy.

Regardless of your religious beliefs, it is always a sad thing when the deplorable behaviors of a few taint an entire group. To wit, Muslims have taken a beating over the actions of a few less than ideal followers of their faith. And Catholics have taken a beating over the actions of a few (okay, quite a few) pedophile priests. And non-Catholic Christians have to endure the fallout from the Jim Bakkers and Jimmy Swaggarts. The "do as I preach, not as I do" undercurrent that seems rampant among religious leaders raises eyebrows and raises questions about organized religion.

I am compelled to present the other side of the ugly underbelly of organized religion. I was fortunate to be raised in a church with leaders who were Bible-abiding, giving, insightful, intelligent, sincere people who were tireless in their role as spiritual leaders - not just for our congregation but in the local community. They led by example and quietly followed their chosen lifepath of doing God and Jesus' work. Because my hometown is so small, the Methodists and Presbyterians shared resources including buildings, choir directors and yes, even ministers. The Methodist and Presbyterian churches were/are Wesleyan based, which means, among other things, that humility is a core value. You don't go around bragging. About anything, especially religion. Putting on any kind of air, being holier than anyone, is a horrible thing because, we're all God's children and love and the Holy Spirit is about including, not excluding, our brothers and sisters, no matter who they are or what they do or do not believe. Regardless of your religious beliefs, that's a good way to view life and the people who share the planet. My church always had to have fundraisers for things like a new furnace or a new roof because most of the church's money went to community projects that helped and enriched lives other than those who belonged to our church, and not to things like a church gymnasium or a new car for the minister.

Around the time I was 8 I discovered not all churches were like mine, and not all religious leaders were kind, thoughtful, insightful and trustworthy. I learned that some churches were  money-making businesses that earned profits that they didn't roll back into the church and community. And thus began my dissent from organized religion. My church experience was good, very good, but my wide-eyed innocence was shattered with one visit to a church of another religion where I saw some of the most opulent displays of wealth I'd ever witnessed. My parents were out of town for a few days and I stayed with an elderly neighbor. She took me to her church for Sunday service.

The only place I'd seen huge, lush tapestries and beautiful paintings and gilded statues and intricate stained glass was in museums and at some of the historic houses my parents took me to visit on vacation. I had no idea that just down the road from my own church was a place that housed such opulent splendor. Even their pews were ornately carved and gilded. And their pews had comfy velvet cushions with gold braid trim! They had gold embossed leather bound hymnals held in fancily carved racks, and there were enough to go around for everyone, so you didn't have to share your hymnal. Their collection plates were shiny gold, ornately carved and so heavy I thought they were made of real gold. I noticed no one put cash in the collection plates, everyone had fancy envelopes with their names spelled out in embossed letter with gold ink next to a fancy illustration of Jesus. My parents gave me a dollar to put in the collection plate, so I did as they instructed me and placed it in the collection plate amidst all the fancy envelopes. I also had my first encounter with religious bigotry during that visit.

I was told, in no uncertain terms by our elderly neighbor, that I was not allowed anywhere near the altar, and I would not be allowed to take communion. I was told to sit quietly in the pew while everyone else went to the altar for communion. I'd taken communion at my church plenty of times, I didn't understand why I wasn't allowed to do so at that church. Jesus was depicted all over the place in that church, he presided over the congregation from all vantage points in the church. I knew what Jesus was about, I was fast-tracking my way through Sunday school and loved the concept of communion. At first I thought maybe I wasn't allowed to take communion because I was a kid, but, nope, other kids were going up to the altar. So I sat there, confused and alone in a pew while everyone else was up partaking of the blood and flesh of Christ. I'd never felt embarrassed in church. Church was one place I always felt safe and confident and accepted. So this was a whole new level of emotion for me and I was not prepared for it.

The other kids of this church saw me sitting alone in the pew and pointed and snickered at me. After the service our neighbor stayed to chat with other elderly people. She plunked me down in a chair with a cookie and a napkin and went on her way to socialize. The kids who pointed and laughed at me during the service at me came over and teased me because I had to sit by myself during communion and now I had to sit by myself after church. They told me I wasn't good enough for their church and that Jesus wasn't in me because I didn't take communion. From there they started calling me a sinner and from there I was told I was going to go to Hell. Yeah. These were some really nice kids.

I didn't know them because their church had a school, and they attended that school. They had their own sports teams and Scout troops, so those kids never intermingled with the rest of the kids in the community. I knew they existed, they lived in the same neighborhoods, shopped at the same grocery store and pharmacy, but, they only played with kids from their church and church school. Until that day I never understood why. Reality came crashing down on me: I wasn't good enough for them, and they thought I wasn't good enough for Jesus.

I made my way to a bathroom, which was also fancy and ornate and smelled like the expensive perfume my mother only wore on very special occasions - mainly fancy dates with my dad. It dawned on me that most of the women in that church smelled like that perfume. They wore their most special perfume to church! My mother and the other women in my church rarely wore perfume to church. Some of the older women smelled like dusty lilacs, but the prevailing sent in our church was an aromatic mix of musty paper, Pine Sol, furniture polish and Ben Gay. My church's bathroom was on par with the bathrooms at school - clean, efficient, utilitarian - two stalls and two sinks with small mirrors over them, two bars of soap and a paper towel dispenser. This bathroom had a large antechamber with fancy divans and two huge mirrors framed in carved wood. There were beautiful paintings of the most gorgeous angels I'd ever seen. There were two vanities with tufted chairs, and the vanities held all sorts of lady items like lotion and bobby pins and hair spray and nail polish. The bathroom part of the bathroom had at least six stalls that were like mini rooms, they were enclosed from floor to ceiling and had heavy wood doors. Their sinks were pink with gold flecks (I presumed it was real gold) and they had liquid soap dispensers and real cloth hand towels. There was a hamper discreetly tucked under the counter where I ascertained the used hand towel was to be placed. I was still upset about being called a sinner and not good enough for Jesus, and fighting back tears when I entered this lavatorial splendor. I made my way to one of the stalls and cried. I was a stranger in a strange land, my parents were out of town, and even Jesus didn't want me.

It's the first time I remember feeling depressed. At the time I didn't know that's what it was, but that church, and being excluded - made to sit alone during communion - and then being teased to the point of being called a sinner and not good enough for Jesus remains one of the low points in my life.

I pulled myself together, I had to be brave like my parents told me to be. I went back out to the social area and found our neighbor. On the way to the parking lot she showed me the church's gymnasium and indoor pool. I assumed it was filled with holy water. They got to swim in holy water. That was the last straw for me. Some of the kids who teased me were entering the pool area. They got to go swimming after church...at church, in holy water. They made faces at me and yelled out, "Bet your church doesn't have a pool!" Our neighbor just told me to come along and I dutifully followed her to the parking lot. I knew my parents were going to be home in a few hours and I could not wait.

After my parents got home I raced to my room where I cried for days. I was inconsolable. My parents tried to explain it all to me but I couldn't wrap my head around anything that they told me. Jesus was everywhere in that church, I loved Jesus, I was a star pupil in Sunday school, I knew a lot about Him, I'd never committed any sin in my life, that I knew of, anyway, why wasn't I welcome there? And that was when I started questioning myself and my religion. That church was a big Jesus church, I loved Jesus, I thought I should have been welcomed with the open and loving embrace my church gave to visitors. But instead I was excluded and teased and accused of being a sinner by kids who didn't even know me.

The following week I returned to my church. How had I not ever noticed how Spartan and cold it was? Why were our hymnals so old with pages falling out of the bindings, and why did I have to share a hymnal with my brother or whomever was seated in the pew next to me? Why were our pews so uncomfortable and would it kill us to have a statue of Jesus somewhere? Our collection plates were light and lackluster and often coins, not fancy embossed envelopes, were placed in them. I didn't really know about rich and poor, I'd never really thought about it, especially in the context of church. But after spending a week crying about being a sinner and Jesus not being a part of me and assessing every aspect of my life trying to figure it out and make sense of what happened, I was suddenly acutely aware of everything. Maybe we were poor. Maybe our church was a church for poor people. Compared to that other church it certainly seemed that way. Jesus was supposed to love everyone, but of course He'd like the people who had more money to spend on decorating their church with all sorts of depictions of Him, surely He'd prefer those people over people who went to a church that didn't even have one statue of Him. All we had was a large wood cross over the altar.

Obviously I eventually sorted out the differences between the churches and realized that we spent our money to help the community rather than buying artifacts to adorn our building. I realized those kids were mean, misguided bullies who hadn't learned that Jesus is about including, not excluding. But it took a while for the sting of that experience to subside. My parents always told me bragging wasn't nice and that it hurt other peoples' feelings, so I'd stayed away from it, but now I had a real-life lesson. I decided boastful pride, especially in Jesus' name, was the most hurtful thing a person could do. To this day my spine stiffens and nostrils flare when someone brags about their religion or church, especially when money enters the conversation.

So, a pastor and 19 of her friends walk into an Applebee's...

Like most dining establishments, Applebee's has a policy of charging an automatic gratuity for parties with more than 8 guests. There are several reasons restaurants do this, primary among them is that parties of 8 or more generally monopolize at least two tables and the server for those table for the duration of their visit. A server is forced to focus their attention on what is effectively two (or more) tables whereas if the tables were the usual separate guest parties two (or more) servers may divide the workload. In the case of the pastor's group of 20, the presumption is that they used five tables. That may have constituted the server's entire section. So instead of the usual five tables with four guests each, dining at staggered arrivals and departures, the server had to take 20 orders at the same time, bring 20 meals to the table at the same time, and remove 20 dishes at the same time. More work, more effort, more juggling of time and tasks to ensure good customer service for the server. Oh. And. While those five tables were being used for the party of 20, the restaurant may have incurred a back-up in available seating, causing other patrons to wait longer than usual for a table (see above, non-staggered arrival and departure). Oh. And. It also slams the kitchen (see above, non-staggered arrival and departure). So. Those are the main and usual reasons restaurants charge an automatic gratuity for parties of 8 or more. Regardless of the reasons, this is such a standard restaurant policy that claiming ignorance of this practice is to claim either a) you've never actually dined in a restaurant, or b) you're a liar.

I'm going to say this to educate the people who may have never worked in the service industry. It's very common for servers and bartenders to work for tips. Restaurants are exempt from minimum wage laws regarding any staff who earn tips from patrons. So servers and bartenders (and valets and bus staff) are often paid $3 - $4/hour, and sometimes nothing at all. Think of it as working on commission. So if someone doesn't leave a tip, in many cases the server has worked for free. I didn't realize how few people didn't know this until I mentioned it to a couple friends a few years ago. They presumed that everyone, no matter what their job, earns at least minimum wage, and the tip is just a "bonus" that a patron can choose to bestow. Since I enlightened my friends one has been more generous with her tips, the other remains steadfast in her borderline degrading amount of tipping.

That's a little restaurant 101. Consider yourself educated and enlightened. Go forth and drink and dine.

I'm not fond of the trend of wait staff publicly slating patrons who leave insults on their checks. That's not to say I agree with patrons insulting wait staff - I do not. But. Tit for tat is petty and only serves to lower the integrity of two people instead of just one. Basically, two wrongs don't make a right. I cannot tell you how many insulting comments clients have written on proofs of marketing pieces I've worked on. It's kind of shocking what otherwise professional, articulate people will write on a sticky note adhered to an ad proof. Often the comments show the ignorance of the client - they're too stupid to realize the reason their logo isn't 38% larger is because the ad space they purchased is too small to accommodate a logo even 2% larger. (There are marketing people who post stupid client comments in public forums. I don't agree with that practice.) The customer or the client are not always right, but, as an employee your job is to remain professional and hold your behavior to the integrity of your employer. Part of your job is to smile like you mean it and behave as if the customer is, in fact, right. (Unless we're talking about sexual/racial/gender/threatening harassment, in which case nothing less than a public flogging is appropriate.)

But.

Then someone went and brought God into it.

The comment written on the receipt is, "I give God 10%, why do you get 18?"

And this is where I raise an imploring hand to the Heavens and say, "See? See? This is a symptom of organized religion. This is a symptom of the self-righteous hypocrisy that runs rampant amongst people claiming to be Christian! This is the behavior that give you a bad name! This is why people don't want anything to do with church!"

Obviously I have deeply rooted issues regarding money, God and church. There's a part of me that will always be that little girl who was made to sit alone during communion. The lavish, showy adornments in a church that excludes non-members will always be symbolic of the perils of mingling money with religion. The money is channeled into procuring fancy items that are supposed to prove how much they love God and Jesus. Tapestries are lovely, and if someone donates one to a church, rock on, but, instead of using church funds to procure tapestries, why not donate that money to those less fortunate? WWJD? I can't speak for Him, but I want to believe He'd prefer to have the money spent on an after school program for kids whose parents can't afford babysitters, or helping someone in the community who's fallen on hard times, or on cancer research or...you get the point.

I don't know what type of church Pastor Bell leads, but I have to presume it's not Jewish or Christian. Because unless something's changed since I went to church, the Judeo-Christian God doesn't accept cash. His currency is souls.

But let's run a few hypotheticals on giving God money. Why? Because I'm dying to know how the cash is exchanged. Is there a secret vacuum tube delivery system like at bank drive-ups? Do you have to put a deposit slip with your name so God knows it's from you, maybe one of those fancy embossed envelopes like I saw in that church when I was a kid? Or is there some clandestine drop-off arrangement, like drug dealers and spies use? Small, unmarked bills wrapped in tin foil and placed in a paper bag inside a hollowed out fallen tree branch under a bridge...or in a Cool-Whip container inside a plastic grocery bag left in a trash bin in a WalMart parking lot. Does God Himself pick up the cash or does he send Jesus or an angel to do the pick up?

What I presume Pastor Bell actually means is that she gives a church (presumably hers) 10% of her income. Remember: Churches are non-profit charities and exempt from taxes, so that 10% is free and clear money for the church. And yes, churches have maintenance and upkeep and utilities and that all costs money and so, yes, the profit margin on those 10% tithes is diminished. And there are mission and outreach programs, you know, the programs and people who are doing God's work, and those programs need funding.

But what she gives her church is her choice and is completely irrelevant to the person who waits on her and her 19 friends at Applebee's.

She's implying that in charging an automatic 18% gratuity the server and Applebee's are saying they're worth more than the 10% she gives to her church.

The reality is that the only person who's holier-than-thou is the pastor.

People who have no right stand at a pulpit and lead a congregation in God's (any god's) name for $500 please, Alex.

As this story unfolds all I can think is WWJD? And I only mean that half-sarcastically. Because really, what would Jesus do?

First of all, he wouldn't have entered a dining establishment with 19 of His flock if they couldn't pay the gratuity. Jesus was handy with water, wine, fishes and bread, so this sort of thing wasn't much of an issue for Him. But let's just say He took the disciples out to supper, and the bill arrived and He realized He didn't factor in the automatic 18% gratuity. The group all checks the pockets of their cloaks. Judas (who has horrible table manners - he puts his elbows on the table and spilled salt all over the place) takes up a collection but then bolts with the money. So now there they are with a messy table and not enough money to cover the 18% gratuity. WWJD? I'm not sure what He would do, but I know he would not do. He would not get all high and mighty with the pen and leave a self-righteous comment for the innocent server. Why do I know Jesus would not do this? Because Jesus was pretty clever with the PR. He was all about spreading the word of God in order to convert and save souls, and bringing God into a tip for a meal is not going to endear anyone to the cause.

I respect other peoples' spiritual and religious beliefs, I truly do. But. Bringing God into a financial transaction at a restaurant is not behavior that I can respect. Jesus is about acceptance and forgiveness and all the way around those are the best solutions for everyone involved in this.

I don't agree with posting the receipt online, the server was obviously scorning and humiliating the pastor and that's not helpful. It's also unprofessional. And, yes, the pastor did a very unchurchlike thing (again, presuming hers is a Judeo-Christian God). Like those kids who teased me at that showy church, this pastor is a God bully. High and mighty and holier than thou, presuming she has God on her side because she spends money (10%!) on church. And exposing the pastor's sentiments, offering insight into this religious leader's soul, is leading to conversations that may ultimately prove helpful for those who feel a need to brag about their religion and the money they give to church.

But. There is no positive outcome for anyone involved. And the biggest loser is God, because pastor Bell is an appointed leader in one of His churches. Is her behavior on par with Jim Bakker or Jimmy Swaggart? No. But. For those of us who've parted ways with organized religion, she's just more proof that the most unholy people you'll ever meet are members and leaders of churches who exclude rather than include, and confuse money with piety.