The story I’m about to tell you may or may not be true. And if it is true, I may have embellished. As they say in the movies, “Any similarity to actual people and events is purely coincidental.”
Life is funny and sometimes the absurdity of it seeps through the church doors, waltz’s down the aisle and takes a front row seat.
Joanie is a soprano in the choir. She has taken vocal lessons, honed her craft, and she takes her job seriously, performing with somber dignity, Sunday after Sunday. Occasionally, her position is elevated with a small solo bit. Her highest honor, and our blessing, is when she performs an entire number alone.
One particular Sunday Joanie graced the congregation with a number during the collection of the offering. She had worn her best that day, a smooth, body-hugging sweater in dusty purple and a floral skirt of dusty purple cabbage roses against a creamy background. Her platinum hair was swept up into a high, severe bun, like an angelic halo. Within that dusty purple sweater proudly rested larger than life breasts, improperly supported for the occasion.
Approaching the piano on the main floor of the sanctuary, she struck a pose, with her posture erect, shoulders back, chin up and eyes lifted heavenward.
Directly in front of Joanie, were the objects of the special occasion, retiring missionary husband and wife, fresh off the boat from the Philippines. Their status honored them with the entire front pew, along with their grown children with spouses, and an aging mother-in-law.
As luck would have it, Missionary Hubby sat directly in front of the Prima Dona of Church Solos as she began to perform. I happened to be sitting in the pew behind the entourage, off to the side.
The piano began the introduction to the performance. On her cue, Joanie took a deep, cleansing breath and began to sing in her high, trilling voice.
As she filled her lungs with air, her breasts seem to swell, also. Have you ever noticed that opera singers always seem to have large bosoms? Do they hold extra reserves of oxygen, like floaties in the pool?
I don’t know if there was a draft, mysteriously drifting past Joanie, or if the thrill of the moment elevated her spirits, but as if taking their own cue, the girls pointedly stood at attention. The poorly constructed bra, ill- equipped for its assigned task, failed to lift and separate, to offer any noticeable assistance.
My eyes widened in abject horror and disbelief; I felt my own face flush.
With each note, each refilling breath, Joanie’s chest heaved and hoed in rapturous splendor. Her voice soared and her spirit leapt to the rafters, the twins in unison.
My eyes shot to the royal delegation ahead of me to register if I am the only one who noticed. Missionary Hubby was at once transfixed and stunned. A flush began to creep up from his shirt collar, casting his ears in a rosy hue, making its way to the top of his bald head where a glistening sheen was beginning to form. He can’t look, but he can’t look away. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he forced down a swallow. He squirmed in his seat, his eyes darting nervously. He looked in his lap, looked up to the ceiling and away into the choir loft. His brow was furrowed, worried, even panicked, as his breathing turned shallow and rapid.
O, God, make it stop. Please, make it stop.
By this time, I am choking on strangled giggles, struggling to keep a straight face. My eyes watered and a hot flash raced through me from my head to my toes.
Joanie’s song seemed interminable; how many verses are there? I wanted to slip up front and discretely offer her my coat but there was nothing discrete to be done. All we could do is sit with folded hands and pray for the grace to get through this with as much dignity and decorum as humanly possible.
Poor Missionary Hubby will just have to arouse as much composure as his elderly heart can muster.
Finally, blessedly, the performance ended. We clapped furiously in relief, hoping to speed things along, get Joanie out of the limelight and the draft.
Missionary Hubby mopped his brow and sagged weakly in his seat, and I am exhausted from my efforts. Were we the only ones privy to the spectacle?
When the service ended I rushed to ask my friend Hope who was sitting further back. “Did you see it? Could you see what I saw from where you were?”
Perhaps taller heads prevailed; perhaps God blinded their eyes. In any case, I am grateful on Joanie’s behalf that only we chosen few were entrusted with the view.
For myself, I can’t help but see the bawdy humor in the ordinary things of life, even if it happens to be in church. God forgive me, I am an irreverent churchlady.
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I decided at the last minute that there’s not much more damage I can do here, so I’m slipping this little story in under the radar to complete the train wreck.
Turtle Viagra
Lest you think the vet clinic is a vale of tears, inhabited by humorless souls…
Exotics are animals apart from the usual dogs, cats, rabbits, and guinea pigs. Exotics include birds and reptiles and we don’t usually see them in the clinic. Someone walked in off the street once with a monkey. We promptly sent them on their way to the exotic animal clinic in the city. Maybe we should have sent them to the Woodland Park Zoo.
Jamie, one of our receptionists, has threatened to quit if a bird is even mentioned, so terrified she is of the feathered beasties. Ginny is a relief tech that helps us out from time to time. We love her enough to make sure there are no pet rats on the premises when she is coming in. Most of us hate reptiles and run the other way when one shows up.
Dr. Fraser used to work in our clinic and would occasionally see exotics.
Buckie was a turtle Dr. Fraser treated that will forever stand out or up in my mind. Buckie had a most unusual problem…his package. Did you know a turtle tool is equal to the length of his entire body? Put into human perspective and this guy was one impressive hunk o’ burning love. However, this member of envy became Buckie’s downfall.
His owner brought him in because his landing gear got stuck in the down position. He couldn’t retract it, resulting in it becoming dry and swollen, like some obscene geoduck.
We all crowded around in the back treatment room, leaning in, awestruck to behold the spectacle, as Dr. Fraser managed to lube up the braggart and coerce it back into decency. Problem solved.
But, a few days later Buckie was back again with the same problem, this time even more pronounced. A simple jock strap was not going to handle the junk in this trunk.
I am reminded of the Viagra commercials, “If you have an erection lasting more than four hours, seek immediate medical attention.”
To save Buckie’s life, his manhood had to be surgically sacrificed.
Buckie never returned to the clinic after his sexual reassignment.
Belonging 