traditional churchI want to say the Apostle’s Creed regularly in church.

It starts like this:  “I believe in God the Father Almighty, Maker of Heaven and Earth…”  I know the whole thing, but it’s not that brief and I’m trying to make a point here.  I want to sing the “Gloria Patri,” a little song that goes, “Glory be to the Father, and to the Son and to the Holy Ghost.  As it was in the beginning, is now and ever shall be, world without end, Amen, Amen.” 

I want to say the Nicene Creed.  I like saying the Lord’s Prayer.   I want to sing the Doxology, the traditional melody.

In short, I miss the ritual at church, the kind of ritual I grew up with.  I find it really, really comforting to say words that were woven into the fabric of my life as a kid.  My own kids, in contrast, don’t know these creeds, because they aren’t said regularly in our church.  I’m not sure why, but I suspect it is because somebody, somewhere, decided they might scare people away.

A lot of churches are not doing well, and as they try to fix what they perceive to be the problem, they may actually be making it worse.  They try hard to be relevant, to reach out to millennials with “contemporary” worship.

As Gimli said in the Fellowship of the Ring, “If anyone was to ask for my opinion, which I note they’re not, I’d say we were taking the long way round.” 

There’s big money in consulting, and churches have paid many thousands of dollars to experts who told them how to make the service more hip, accessible, and cool.  Coolness hasn’t really brought in millennials, or anyone, in the hoped-for numbers.  

You know what’s catchy?  Hymns.  You know where they have a lot of great hymns?  The hymnal.   Already printed up and everything.  You know what’s great?  Beautiful liturgical language, like the Episcopalians have in the Book of Common Prayer, and Methodists have in the hymnal.

I’m not alone.  Do a Google search on “millennials looking for traditional church,” and prepare to be amazed.  I got “about 536,000 results in 0.61 seconds.”  A lot of people have written about this, and some of what they have to say is pretty painful.

Rachel Held Evans, in a much-cited opinion piece in the Washington Post, said:  “Bass reverberates through the auditorium floor as a heavily bearded worship leader pauses to invite the congregation, bathed in the light of two giant screens, to tweet using #JesusLives. … At the end of the service, someone will win an iPad.  This, in the view of many churches, is what millennials like me want.” She goes on to say, “You’re just as likely to hear the words ‘market share’ and branding’ in church staff meetings these days as you are in any corporate office. … Increasingly, churches offer sermon series on iTunes and concert-style worship services with names like ‘Vine’ or ‘Gather.’ … Still, attendance among young people remains flat.”

A lot of people say they have left the church because they didn’t feel welcome there, and there’s no excuse for that. 

Everybody should feel welcome in a church because although Jesus had some wealthy and high-ranking followers, he had many more followers who were nobodies, outcasts, sinners.  We’re all sinners, but some people don’t know it and make a big show of their piety when really all they are is judgmental.  It didn’t impress Jesus.   Instead, he told some of those people to stop looking at the splinter in someone else’s eye and to worry about the big old plank of wood in their own.   

So, nonnegotiable, a church should be welcoming to everyone.   But we don’t need to throw out the proverbial (or any) baby with the baptismal water just to make a church a friendly place to worship. 

private worshipResearch by the Pew Foundation and other groups has helped shed some light on why people, especially in that coveted 18-35-year-old bracket, have left the church.  One report by the Barna Group determined that more than 40 percent of young people in one study “have a desire for a more traditional faith, rather than a hip version of Christianity.”  They don’t want to be pandered to. 

Evans left the church but came back when she found one that met her needs,  “where every week I find myself, at age 33, kneeling next to a gray-haired lady to my left and a gay couple to my right as I confess my sins and recite the Lord’s Prayer…  No one’s desperately trying to make the Gospel hip or relevant or cool. They’re just joining me in proclaiming the great mystery of the faith — that Christ has died, Christ has risen, and Christ will come again — which, in spite of my persistent doubts and knee-jerk cynicism, I still believe most days.”

The internet has a lot of pretty interesting stuff, including an open letter to the church from Jonathan Aigner, who describes himself as “one of those millennials you can’t figure out.”  Aigner puts it right out there:  “Don’t expect a ‘worship style’ to do your dirty work,” he says.  “Contemporary worship hasn’t worked.  The longer we extend the life of this failed experiment, the more we see the results. In my experience, contemporary worship brings in three groups. Baby boomers who are still stuck in their rebellion against the establishment, parents who mistakenly think that contemporary worship is the only way for their kids to connect to the church, and a small percentage of young adults who’ve never left and who never knew anything other than contemporary worship… 

“Don’t give us entertainment, give us liturgy.  We don’t want to be entertained in church, and frankly, the church’s attempt at entertainment is pathetic.  Enough with the theatrics. … Follow that simple yet profound formula that’s worked for the entire history of the church.  Entrance, proclamation, thanksgiving, sending out.  Gathering, preaching, breaking bread, going forth in service.  Give us a script to follow, give us songs to sing, give us the tradition of the church, give us Holy Scripture to read.  Give us sacraments, not life groups, to grow and strengthen us.”

And one more thing, Aigner says:  “Don’t target us.  In doing so, you’ve marketed and advertised yourself into oblivion. …  No wonder we’ve left.  Just be the church. Be yourself.  Use your regular old liturgy.  Offer your regular old sacraments. Sing your regular old songs.  Cast a wide net, and let whosoever will come. Trust me, we’re more likely to show up when we don’t feel like fish snapping up the bait.

“…We need to look into the faces of old and young, rich and poor, of different colors, races, and ethnic backgrounds, so we can learn to see Jesus in faces that don’t look like us.  So we can remember that the kingdom is bigger than our safe, suburban bubble.  That’s right, we need community, not bound together by age or economic status or skin color, but wrought with the hammering of nails on a wooden cross.  Our internet connectivity is just fine. The rest of our lives is a different story. We are hopelessly disconnected.  Church, you can be a powerful remedy if you stop posing as a Fortune 500 company scheming to sell a product.”

janet worship

That’s me at worship rehearsal

I wonder what would happen if churches would try both – a contemporary service, and then one that’s more back-to-the-basics traditional? Maybe they’ll both be successful.

I love the people who go to my church.  I really do.  Our church is healthy and vital.  It is growing.  One of the most wonderful things about our church is that the people truly welcome everyone.  They don’t care who you are, they are just happy you’re there.  Still, I’m just saying, a little more ritual would not be unwelcome. 

I really like saying the old creeds every week, not just once or twice a year.  Singing the time-tested responses, saying the same beautiful prayers, like this one from St. Francis (below), which our minister used to say as a benediction at my church when I was a kid.  Having two Scriptural readings, one from the Old Testament and one from the New Testament.  Instead of modern creeds for social justice that seem lawyer-mandated, couldn’t we say something like this often enough that my kids would memorize it, and bank it for when they really need it, the way I did?

“Lord, make me an instrument of Your peace. Where there is hatred, let me sow love; where there is injury, pardon; where there is doubt, faith; where there is despair, hope; where there is darkness, light; where there is sadness, joy.

“O, Divine Master, grant that I may not so much seek to be consoled as to console; to be understood as to understand; to be loved as to love; For it is in giving that we receive; it is in pardoning that we are pardoned; it is in dying that we are born again to eternal life.”

Now that’s beautiful.

P.S.  This is just my opinion.  I mean no offense to anyone.

©Janet Farrar Worthington

I am not in compliance.  Yes, I admit it freely, I am a scofflaw, a reckless disregarder of arbitrary, mandatory, policy.

My crime?  I have not completed mandatory training.

For the PTA.  And, because I’m an officer of the PTA, the secretary, I need to complete not only the “Basic” PTA course, but the Local Secretary course, too.  I have tried; my computer won’t play the course.  I installed Silverlight, whatever that is.  I have disabled my ad blocker.  Still, the mandatory video has only sound and no picture.  There is a test at the end, and I won’t be able to see the questions to answer them.  I spent the better part of an hour trying to get this thing to work, downloading it repeatedly.  What a waste of time.

Let’s just think about this for a minute: Our PTA is lucky to reach double digits when we have our meetings, which are the first Wednesday of the month.  It’s just a few moms.  We’re all busy, but we show up because we care about the school. 

In return, the Arizona PTA has told us that we must complete mandatory training, or we will not be in compliance, and somehow this means they can take our money. 

Lawyers and insurance companies rule the word.

Think of “Jurassic Park,” at the end, when the T-Rex has just kicked serious velociraptor butt, howling or screeching – or whatever it is that genetically engineered Tyrannosaurus Rexes hatched in an incubator with amphibian DNA added to whatever was trapped in the mosquito embedded in the amber do – in triumph, as the tattered banner falls from the ceiling like giant confetti.  The banner reads:  “When Dinosaurs Ruled the Earth.” 

Now, picture some room full of pasty lawyers. They have just decided that a bunch of mom volunteers need to complete video training courses and take a test.


It doesn’t matter, we said so. 

What if they don’t do it? 

lawyers and moneyWe’ll punish them.  We’ll say they’re not in compliance, and then we’ll seize their treasury. 

Won’t that hurt the schools – aren’t they just trying to raise money for the school to buy things for the students, like that locking skateboard rack?  (This is true; we the PTA at Prescott Mile High Middle School just purchased a locking skateboard rack so kids who skateboard to school will have a safe place to stow their boards.)

They’re the ones who are hurting the school!  By not being in compliance!

Guess what?  These mandatory videos are the new big thing.  All the insurance companies must have gotten together and decided that this is the key to not getting sued.  My husband is a doctor.  He had to watch a series of mandatory videos about safety rules and regulations.  Again, there was the threat:  The hospital would hound doctors until they did it, and punish them if they didn’t. 

My mother-in-law is a hospital chaplain.  She is nearly 80.  She is very part-time, makes hardly any money doing the job, but does it because she wants to help people and serve the Lord.  Guess what she had to do?  Watch mandatory safety videos.  Otherwise, she wouldn’t be in compliance.

These videos are a joke.  They are timed, so you can’t speed through them.  All you do is stare at them and then click the “Next” button – when you’re allowed to.

I am tired of bullying. 

I’m tired of my phone and computer forcing me to install things and update things, or else.  My son, Andy, is in college.  He paid his tuition, then signed up for a meal plan.  The meal plan appeared in his shopping cart.  He came home to get a check and found that he had been bumped from all his classes because the computer decided he had not paid his tuition.  This is not new; years ago, I received a notice from Vanderbilt University that I would not be allowed to graduate if I did not pay my library fine, which I didn’t realize I had.  I raced down to the library and paid it.  How much was it, you may be wondering?  Hundreds?  Thousands?  It was forty cents.  Pay up or else.

I’m tired of “or else.”

Somewhere out there, some lawyers are standing on a table and howling in victory.  The complacency and arrogance – that by forcing other people to do what they decide needs to happen, and punishing them if they don’t, they are actually doing something virtuous – is so thick, you could cut it with a knife. 

lawyers and t-rexI sigh and think instead of what the T-Rex did to the weaselly lawyer in Jurassic Park.

It’s not mandatory videos.  It’s this feeling that we are supposed to be sheep, herded along for our own good by those who know better.

Blair, my daughter, just got married, and then had to go to the courthouse to register the marriage license and the Social Security office to change her last name.  I think you may see where this is going.  She is her mother’s daughter.

I received this text from the courthouse:

“I don’t understand why the government needs to track me like cattle.  We are like one step away from an ear tag with a number on it.”

And this one:

“Why does the government need to give me approval and take my money in order for me to get married?  Why do I have to report a change of address within 10 days?  Why do their long, creepy fingers have to be involved in every step I take?”

She was not in the best frame of mind, then, to move on to the Social Security office.

This one is my personal favorite:  “Why do government offices always smell like cat pee and disappointment?”

And then: 

jurassic-world-14-xlarge“I had to enter my SSN when I came in here, and yet they are calling people by numbers and not their names.  What kind of bland, Orwellian BS is that???”

“I’m A52.”

I texted back: “No, you are not.  You are Blair.”

“Am I?!?!?!”

“Yes, and you are an artist and wonderful, funny person who will not be defined by a number.”

“Thank you, Mom.”

“Off with their heads!” I texted back.  “Vive la revolution!”

There was no revolution, but we felt better.

And I can think fondly of the T-Rex. 

That is, if that kind of thinking is still allowed.

©Janet Farrar Worthington

Topic of a recent sermon at our church:  Who’s welcome here?  Answer:  Everyone.  There should be no litmus test – skin color, sexual preference, etc. – because we all belong to God.

I wish it were that easy out in the rest of the world. 

I used to be a news junkie: I read newspapers, watched pundits arguing on TV, really got into it.  I don’t now; it’s too stressful.  I liked it a lot better when all the newspapers I read were actually on paper, and anyone who wanted to make a comment to a story had to write a letter and own up to it by putting his or her name and address.  For most people, this had something of a civilizing effect; it also offered that moment of restraint, of reflection – was that too much? Should I have said that?  Will this hurt anyone? – that has been sucked down the black hole of our think-and-click lives today. 

You think it, you click it.  And then it’s out there and you usually can’t get it back.  You don’t have to use your real name, and unfortunately, a lot of people don’t handle this anonymity very well.  It lets their bad selves out, the id-troll selves they probably make at least some effort to hold in check out in the real world. 

I have seen some very good discussions in the comments sections on the health pages of the New York Times.  I pretty much can’t read the comments after any political story in the Washington Post, because within a very few posts, they turn to personal insults, as people take offense at what somebody else said and decide to just vilify that person. 

It’s nasty, people.  Very unpleasant.  Even in my sweet little town, the comments on stories in our local newspaper tend to be equally polarizing.  Whatever happened to moderation?  Where did all this hate come from?  These probably know each other, but they don’t recognize the fake names.  I like the policy of one news website – it leans conservative, so go ahead and hate me for it if that’s all it takes to set you off – which is,  “It’s a salon, not a saloon.” If someone makes a comment that’s vulgar, demeaning, or otherwise inappropriate, that person can be banned from the site.   

Closer to home, it’s happening with some of my friends on Facebook.  Recently, I was very disturbed to find that I apparently can’t even “like” anything if it is too controversial. 

FB hand likeA friend I’ve known for a long time has taken offense at two things I have “liked.”  (If by some lucky happenstance you’re not familiar with Facebook, you can “post” things that you write, or stories or pictures that you find interesting, and you can “like” things that other people put up that show up in your News Feed.)

My friend sent me a FB message that just flabbergasted me. It said, “I know your politics, but please don’t just repost blindly.”  He mentioned a story that he thought I had posted – I actually had not, but I had liked it – and sent along a Snopes link to discredit it.  I wrote back: “I try never to post political things. I saw it in the News Feed of a guy from my former church,” and apparently clicked “like.”  I added:  “It seems to me I ought to be able to like something if I want to. I just can’t imagine telling someone else what to like.” 

He then went on to insult the guy, a good man I’ll call X, who had posted the offending thing – a meme, I think it was; I honestly don’t even remember now.  I wrote back: “You’re right, X is probably the operational definition of curmudgeon.  But he also spends many hours a week doing volunteer work with his wife,” and I talked briefly about that.  “So he’s a mixture of opinions you probably don’t like and acts of kindness that you most likely do like.  Honestly, though, I try not to post anything political.  You may know my politics, you may not.”

I went on:  “I remember back in the 70s and 80s, especially around the journalism schools where my dad taught, seeing bumper stickers that said something like, ‘I may not agree with what you say, but I will fight to the death for your right to say it.’  I don’t see those anymore. 

“I don’t agree with all the stuff you put up, but you are my friend and I love you for many reasons, including your compassion, your wit, because you are a genuinely nice guy and so darn smart, much smarter than I am.  That’s good enough for me, and I’d rather have the things we share in common than worry about the things we don’t.” 

He agreed, and I thought everything was okay.  Then a couple of weeks ago, it happened again; he wrote a whole post about how one of his friends had posted something and it “made his blood boil.”  Again, it was not a post, but something a family member had put up and I had just liked it. 

pulling backI have begun to censor myself.  I went back and unliked it.  Then I did something I hardly ever do; put my friend on the “restricted” list, so he can’t see most of what I do on Facebook.  Which is not much these days.  Personally, I think it is kind of odd to see and get worked up over what other people like; I can barely keep up with what they post.  A lot of my friends like stuff that I don’t particularly care for; so what?      

So I have pulled back.  I’m barely on FB anymore, and when I do post something I try to be innocuous.  Fortunately, I have an endless stockpile of puns and I like to put up a daily joke.  Here’s one of them:  What would happen if Satan lost his hair? There would be hell toupée.  Here’s another:  I went to a restaurant and had the Wookie steak.  It was pretty Chewy.

Also, I’m the secretary of the middle school PTA and I put up stuff about that.  Pretty tame.  Who says we all have to agree on everything? That’s what makes the world an interesting place.

Back to the idea of a litmus test:  I truly don’t care about your sexual orientation.  I just don’t.  I’ve got enough problems without having to worry about judging you.  And I wish I had as much money as I don’t care about your politics.  I do not want to know what they are.

My only litmus test is, are you unable to lighten up?  That’s it.  Because anyone else, I’m pretty sure I can work with you.

© Janet Farrar Worthington

I went to bed happy last night and woke up to more senseless killing.  This one was a little different.  It was Orlando; I don’t think they’ve had a mass killing there for a while, so that was new.  Then, of course, the large scale – 50 people dead so far as I write this.  And, it was not just a terrorist attack; it was a hate crime. 

So, yeah.

In “Sky High,” one of my kids’ favorite movies, these high school bullies keep giving this poor guy swirlies in the toilet.  Finally, someone says, “The dunking must end.”  Things had to change. 

hands heart loveWell, it seems pretty clear to me that the hatred must end.  It’s like an infection, and it seems like our whole country’s got it – the hatred part, not the mass murder part, thank God.  Don’t believe me?  Just get on Facebook.  Or read the comments after just about any news story online.  Extra points: start counting up the personal insults from people who disagree with previous posters.  I disagree with you, so it’s okay to impugn your character and call you all kinds of names.  When did this kind of nastiness become okay?

Look at your friends who are Democrats; most of their posts can be summed up, “Republicans are stupid, evil, and we hate them.”   Now, look at your friends who are Republicans.  Most of their posts can be summed up, “Democrats are stupid, evil, and we hate them.”

No, they’re not, and no, we don’t.  Not really.  At least, I hope we don’t.

When I was a kid, I remember seeing lots of bumper stickers that said something like, “I may not agree with what you say, but I will defend your right to say it to my death.”  That’s about freedom of speech, and in this context, it means, “We don’t agree, but that’s okay.” 

Not:  “We don’t agree, thus you are stupid, and you must be controlled and mocked and maybe even put on an island and exterminated.”

Or, “I am offended by what you say, so I will conduct a hate campaign on social media and make your life a living hell.”  Does that really need to happen to prove a point?

Or, “You offend me and undoubtedly my God, therefore, I will kill you and get a cosmic reward.”

megaphoneTwo things have happened to us as a nation:  One, we get offended at the drop of a hat.  Then, we demand apologies, groveling, restitution, suffering, etc.  And two, instead of disagreeing with what people say or do, we decide we don’t like them, or worse, that we hate them.

What offends you?  What makes you look at someone and decide that person is unworthy of your time, attention, goodwill, or even basic common courtesy?  Is it tattoos?  Piercings?  Politics?  Sexual orientation?  Religion?  Weight?  Skin color?  Mom jeans? 

Okay, here’s a confession: I don’t much like tattoos.  So you know what I do?  I don’t get one.  But that doesn’t mean I have the right to make other people not get tattoos.  If tats make them happy, and it’s not hurting me, what right would I possibly have to tell people they shouldn’t have them?  It’s their skin.  And besides, that’s not who they are, it’s just what’s on the outside. 

You might look at me and say, “Good Lord, look at those mom jeans.”  (I hope not; I try to be hip, and usually have my kids help me with my fashion choices, but sometimes mom jeans happen.)  But I hope you wouldn’t hate me for wearing them.

I made some terrible hair decisions in my youth – shag cut in the 70s, perm in the 80s.  But that wasn’t who I was, it was just what was happening to my head.  I hope people didn’t judge me for them – or even if they did, I hope nobody hated me for having bad hair days.  Months.  Years.

It seems that our default now is not to give people the benefit of the doubt. 

hands togetherEven if we see someone who appears to be completely different from us, maybe who does things we don’t like, there must be – at least, I really hope there is – at least one thing we have in common.  Maybe we both go cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs, I don’t know. 

It really troubles me to think that someone could see me as the enemy without even knowing anything about me.   It troubles me to think that I might see some people as the enemy without knowing anything about them.

The hatred that has infected this country has got to stop. 

The dunking must end.

The darkest nights I’ve ever spent have been in a car, late at night, on a cold, lonely stretch of deserted highway.  Years ago, when my husband, Mark, was a resident at Johns Hopkins, we always spent Christmas with my family in South Carolina.  Mark didn’t get much time off, so we usually left at rush hour on December 23.  We spent almost all of the trip on roads that ended in “95” – first, the Baltimore Beltway, I-695, then I-95, then the D.C. Beltway, I-495, then back on I-95 all the way down to Florence, S.C., where we cut over onto a smaller highway to get to Columbia.

I-95 runs from Maine to Florida, and it’s one of those intense, stressful interstates.  If you’ve ever been on it, you know it can be a hellish racetrack, where you have to speed for your life just to avoid being flattened by an insane truck driver, where tailgating cars (oddly, almost always from New Jersey; no offense to New Jersey) flash their brights at you, and cars with Miami plates zip by at 90 mph, darting in and out of lanes in spaces you didn’t think a car could fit. 

And then, quicker than you can say, “Where’s my Zantac?” it can turn into a parking lot, where there are so many stopped cars ahead that by the time you start moving again, you don’t see any sign of a wreck.  From Baltimore heading south, the traffic doesn’t clear out until you get past Richmond, Virginia. 

But after that, on those long pre-Christmas drives, it wasn’t too bad, and as the evening grew later, we would start hitting some stretches of road where it was just us.  No other lights but our car.  Temperature in the 20s.  Dark, cold, and lonely out there on the highway. 

But every so often, we would see houses in the distance all decorated for Christmas.  Mostly little houses, with just a string of lights, or a homemade star with a flood light aimed at it, or a solitary decorated tree.  No fancy light shows, no inflatable snowmen or Grinches, no generators keeping snow falling in plastic snow globes.  We’re talking pretty humble stuff here. 

lights tree stringIt made me so happy to see those lights.  They were isolated bright spots, beacons guiding us down the road toward my family, who always waited up.  My mom would have a pot of soup and some warm bread ready for us, and those good smells filled up the house.  The house would be decorated, all the lights on, and my dad and/or my brother might even be standing out on the front porch in their pajamas, watching for lights, too — our headlights.

I started thinking about those long, cold, mostly dark journeys when I was writing an Advent devotional for my church, and this is what I have figured out: 

holiday lightsBasically, every time you hang a Christmas light outside or even turn on a porch light, you are taking a stand to the outside world against the darkness.  You are sending out a little dot of cheer, spreading a little hope, maybe boosting someone’s courage just a little bit, too. 

Why do we light candles and sing “Silent Night” on Christmas Eve?  Why not just sing?  It’s a perfectly good song all by itself.  Christians around the world do it because it’s a visual – an “optic,” as the politicians might say:  To us, the lights are visible manifestations of our hope and faith that God can change a dark and cold world.  Has changed it.  Light means hope.   In the Bible, the book of John starts off by saying of Jesus: His life is the light that shines through the darkness—and the darkness can never extinguish it. 

I don’t know what you believe, but I hope you believe – because I do –that even in the darkest places, there is a glimmer of hope that can’t be killed.  That where there is evil, there is still good, and you can draw strength from it.  That even if love may not conquer all, it endures, long after hate does whatever it does – turns into a hard nugget and implodes, or disintegrates, or fades away. 

So – if you want to, that is, no pressure here — light up.  Send out a little dot of cheer, and take a stand against the darkness.

© Janet Farrar Worthington


I’m a mature adult, with important responsibilities and a certain amount of dignity… until Andy Gibb comes on my 70s lite rock Pandora station singing “Everlasting Love.” All of a sudden, I’m back in junior high, when he was a huge heartthrob. OMG! “We killed the pain, we blew away the memories of
the tears we cried, and an everlasting love will never die!” No, it will never die, Andy Gibb. I would have been so much better for you than Victoria
Principal – oh, hi, kids, Mommy’s just doing some improv, nothing to see here.

It is hard to carry on a conversation, or even remember your train of thought when a dog sits in the middle of the room and goes to town licking his or
her private parts, or has other issues, for example, digestive trouble.

I would love to go back in time and live in a mediaeval village, where the church tower is the highest point in the town and the bells of the church toll
the times of the day. If I could have hair dye, hygienic products and a lifetime supply of Charmin Sensitive toilet paper with aloe. And sunscreen, and
some type of moisturizer.

pumpkinPumpkins make me happy, but they also make me sad, because the minute you cut them to make a Jack-o-Lantern, they start to rot. I like fake pumpkins, because they don’t rot, and you don’t have to throw them away and feel guilty that you took a pumpkin’s life. But they’re fake, and fake pumpkins don’t support farmers, and they don’t have seeds that you can roast. They also don’t have guts that you can take out and get all over your hands and then pretend
to sneeze and gross out your kids. But fake pumpkins don’t die, and you can put them away in a cabinet until next year, a little orange friend just waiting for fall to roll around again.

The Human (body) Condition

If men are outside in nature and need to urinate, they just do it. Who can blame them? If I could, I would, too. There, I said it. Not on a building or car or anything gross, but behind a tree or large bush. However, I would bring hand sanitizer.

Why, when I use the brush to darken my eyebrows, can I achieve absolute perfection with one eyebrow – a glorious arch, worthy of Ava Gardner – and the
other one looks like it belongs on someone else’s face? It’s as if I have asked that one eyebrow very nicely to do something, and it says, “Oh, hell no!”  Why is this happening?  That would be a good title for my memoir.

When we were kids and one of us would yawn and not cover our mouth, my mom would say, “Cover your mouth! You can see Gibraltar in there!” It is so
ingrained that I have to stop myself from saying it to strangers.


I am really getting sick of the zombie brain-eating thing. Also, do zombies poop? Because if they eat, they must poop. They probably don’t wipe.

Similarly, and I do have experience as a medical writer working in the field of urology, so maybe I have extra insight here, but I’m pretty sure that if
they have no heartbeat and no blood or body fluids, Edward and other vampires in the “Twilight” world wouldn’t have the hydraulic, mechanical or genetic
capability to sire a child.

©Janet Farrar Worthington

I made a Pandora station called Skyrim Soundtrack. It’s all music from video games, and I love it.  I made another Pandora station called John Williams film scores.  It’s got other stuff I love, especially Howard Shore’s music from all of the Lord of the Rings and Hobbit movies, and tunes by Erich Wolfgang Korngold, who wrote the scores for movies like “The Adventures of Robin Hood,” — the good one, starring Errol Flynn — and “The Mark of Zorro” — the good one, starring Tyrone Power.

I vacuum my shower.  This may or may not be as gross as you think; one of our dogs likes to walk around in there, and always leaves a hair or two as a calling card.

When I was three, I kissed my parents’ little black and white TV screen because I thought Bob Barker was so handsome.  This was way before “The Price is Right” — we’re talking “Truth or Consequences” here.  I don’t know why I did this.

I love kids’ books.  I used to read them with my kids, and now that they’re older, I get them, read them, then try to get my kids to read them, too.  Ranger’s Apprentice, the Brotherband Chronicles, Percy Jackson, the Nicholas Flamel series, and for young adults, the Heir Chronicles.  I also scour used book stores for Nancy Drew books (nothing past 1980) to complete my collection.  My daughter, Blair, and I love reading Meg Cabot books, too.  She reads them first these days; she’s faster (see below).

I love Pop Tarts.  Frosted Brown Sugar Cinnamon first, cherry second.  I grew up in the South, where we err on the side of sweet.  I have learned that this is a regional thing; not everybody does this.  Living in the Southwest now, I have figured out that people here err on the side of spicy.  Chiles in everything.  It’s a lot healthier.  I try to stay away from stuff like chocolate chip cookies, coconut cake, custard pie, banana pudding, chocolate cake, frosted sugar cookies… you see a theme here?  I love them too much.  I’m weak.  And I have learned to love unsweet tea with lemon, something I thought I would never do,  Great sweet tea is the house wine of all respectable Southern establishments.  By itself, it’s kind of like syrup, but when you cut it with lemon — dang, it’s good!  And yet, I’ve managed to wean myself from it.  But by golly, I’m not giving up Pop Tarts.  In fact, a couple of days ago, we ran out, and I scoured the house, looking for that beautiful silver wrapper like a desperate nicotine addict rummages through ashtrays looking for cigarette butts to smoke. I started in my son Andy’s room.  The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.  He loves them, too.

I do most of my reading in the bathroom.  This started when the kids were little, and it was the only place I could get any peaceful reading time.  Now, I have so many other things to do, I feel somehow less guilty if I just read when I’m in there.  It’s not just on the toilet, thank you for your interest; I just stand by the sink and read a few pages when I’m in there.  You know, when the shower’s all vacuumed, it’s otherwise pretty clean and kind of a nice place to be.  But what about the bedside table, you may ask?  Well, at night I pretty much just read the Bible and then do cryptograms.  Helps me clear my brain and get to sleep.  It works out pretty well for me, but it does take me longer to get through books (because I’m reading them in the bathroom a few pages at a time) than it should.

I love mysteries.  Books and TV series.  I just love the genre.  Favorites include, but are by no means limited to, Helen Macinnes, John Marquand, Agatha Christie, Dick Francis, Ngaio Marsh, Marjorie Allingham, Tom Clancy, Ellis Peters.  And binge-watching entire series on Netflix is the greatest thing ever.  For example, “24.”  The only way that’s even bearable is to binge-watch it.  Who could stand that kind of suspense over a period of weeks?  I come by this love of mysteries honestly; I got it from my dad.  When I was a kid, we’d all watch them on TV together; in fact, I’ve got the great TV mystery theme songs of the 1970s branded on my brain: Mannix, that lovely jazz waltz.  Barnaby Jones.  Hart to Hart.  Switch, with Eddie Albert.  Kojak.  Rockford Files.  Hawaii 5-O, from back when McGarrett was a Lord (Jack Lord, to be precise).

I don’t really like broccoli as much as I say I do.  I love roasted cauliflower, and cabbage, and turnips, and kohlrabi, and all kinds of vegetables.  But broccoli… I’ll eat it, God knows I’ll eat it.  But meh.

I just can’t stand cats.  I’ll eat ‘em, God knows I’ll eat ‘em — oh wait, that’s broccoli.  Just kidding!  When Denzel Washington bow-shot that cat for his supper in the awesome post-Apocalyptic movie, “The Book of Eli,” I thought I was going to hurl.  I don’t have anything against cats; I love watching funny cat videos as much as anybody.  But I’m allergic.  Even if it’s just cat residue on the clothes or furniture of a cat person: my eyes start to sting, my nose gets stuffy, my throat gets scratchy.  Cats know this, too, and in a room full of people who would love some quality cat time, choose me to rub against and purr.  Ugh.

I don’t know most of the films at the Oscars or on the New York Times bestseller list.  If it’s some tormented downer, no matter how deep it may or may not be, I’m just not interested.  Sue me.  That’s why this is called “True Confessions” instead of “Things I Pretend to Like Because They’re Supposed to be Culturally Relevant or Really Important.”  Life is too short, and there are so many sad things in it already, for me to want to put more dismal, creepy, or disturbing stuff in my brain.  The Greeks liked that sort of thing; they enjoyed the catharsis, and if Oedipus falling for a stranger who turns out to be his mother, causing him to put out his own eyes and walk around town blind, worked for them, I say, “Good for you, Ancient Greeks.”  Similarly, if Shakespearean audiences like seeing King Lear ruin his life and go mad, or watch Othello blow it with Desdemona because he is stupid enough to believe Iago, I say, “You do you, Theater-goers.”  Give me “Much Ado About Nothing,” or “A Midsummer Night’s Dream” any day.  Or the Minions from “Despicable Me.”  Or a good vintage Nancy Drew book.  Or a dog.  Especially a dog.