Squeezing Out A Tear

By Kathleen Hoy Foley

Cue the tear. Drum roll, please. I think I can do it. I think I can squeeze out a tear, a big, fat, fake tear. Yes! Success! I haven't lost my touch after all. I'd add an eye roll, but that looks pretty ugly on anyone over twelve. Now if only I had a violin...

I guess she expected a gush of gratitude for the sentiment she left on voice mail; the message announcing her wonderfulness. Well, she didn't exactly use the word wonderful; she declared herself compassionate and concerned, which is the same as bragging about your wonderful self, only with inspiring words. Squeeze out a tear; that's about as gushy as I can get.

Now, I'm a big fan of compassion and concern; together they're a formidable team. When compassion and concern are on their A game? Well, let's just say...hello miracles! But, calling and making the compassion and concern announcement? I just don't see the connection to the real deal. Maybe I suffer from a permanent chocolate-induced coma; or strange, time-consuming forms of mental amusements have eaten up valuable brain cells, because I can't see the difference between her compassion and concern and the contents of an empty box.

I haven't talked to her in, oh gosh, must be over a year now. Maybe longer. Not since a bomb exploded into the middle of her family; the kind of bomb Phil and I are on a first name basis with. And Phil and I, in what I now see as blinding spiritual conceit, believed we should circle our wagon and what...? Aid? Comfort? Dare reveal my dark secret, the likes of what was rearing its sinister head in her own family? Well...yes. I don't claim genius here, we're just dumb because we believed that hacking off my limbs and offering them to her might lend something useful. This we thought could be best accomplished by a cozy brother-sister lunch. Chinese, to be exact. I stayed home. Because I prefer pacing and worrying to watching a meat cleaver work its way through my flesh. Let me tender a warning here. When a woman loves and trusts you enough to allow her shame of rape and forced breeding to be revealed to you, turning your back and disappearing isn't the way to go. But that's what happened. Except for the ten-foot pole. And now her important announcement.

Okay, she's a devoutly religious person, maybe she spent the last three hundred and sixty-five days in seclusion, possibly roaming the desert praying and contemplating. No, that couldn't be right. This is New Jersey, we don't do deserts. Oh, but we do have the shore. Walking along the ocean inhaling all that salt air, listening to the gulls, a martyr could immerse herself in prayers of compassion and concern and beg mercy for souls in her midst lost to the abomination of Pro-Choice; pray for someone she thought she knew, someone who refutes rape as a blessing and would have, shockingly, aborted if only Roe had met Wade in time.

Yes, I'm a callous bitch with little use for remote controlled prayers when clearly what's needed is a pair of warm, working hands brave enough to tolerate a little mud. All that solitary, scripted praying for the sake of my redemption? Please, spare me. Beam it all to the starving kids in Russia.

What really melts my heart, though, are those surgically enhanced TV preachers bearing astounding messages just for me...straight from God. Those guys are genuine. They feel my pain. I see it in every close-up. Their unsightly blubbering. The gnashing of teeth worn down to nubs. The sweat. The wailing. Sitting on my fluffy sofa, mesmerized, soaking up the love, it's like I'm being consoled by Jesus himself. What beautiful moments, curled up there in my afghan, sipping hot cocoa and stuffing myself with sugar cookies, nodding and mumbling, Praise Jesus, squeezing out the tears. It's a real blessing having the affection and understanding of those bible thumping fellows.

So what was I supposed to do with her dry announcement of compassion and concern? Add for dummies and write a book? Concoct a sermon and spout it from a soapbox? Pound out a mean and nasty rant for a website? I was so confused.

But here's the good thing: I finally came to realize that her neat and tidy, phone-in style of compassion and concern has more merit than I ever imagined. I never knew just how easy it is to extend a sincere hand to a dearly beloved, all the while avoiding the messiness of actual personal contact. This has opened up a whole new world for me, inspiring me to new heights of appreciation and creative thinking for the impressive dance of sidestepping while coming across as benevolent. And it should inspire you too. You're invited to steal any of these suggestions and expand on them in any way you see fit. All those who need you will be grateful.

First, the phone-in announcement is too clichéd; too unsophisticated. To appear truly convincing when expressing compassion and concern, what's needed is a little ingenuity. This could involve old pants. Compassion and concern are easily expressed by donating your old pants to charity in the name of your loved one. Caution here though: if you expect a decent tax deduction, do make sure that the pants still have stretchy elastic and a minimal amount of stains. Oops, let me retract the bit about the stains. Most ladies probably won't worry about them, especially if they're old like me and spill stuff anyway. Unfortunately, the elastic still needs to function; even old ladies want pants to stay up without a rope.

Next, if you're very lucky, you can persuade the charity to send a personal note to your beloved informing her of your donation and assuring her that their thrift shop is always the first place ladies look when they need saggy pants for special occasions; and doesn't she feel blessed by the thought of someone walking around in used pants just because of her. And there's more. Don't quote me on this, but I believe lots of charitable organizations arrange pick-ups. See how easy it is to demonstrate sincere compassion and concern without leaving home? With only the tiniest imposition? It's a wonderful world.

While the old pants thing is fine for common folks, what about individuals who are so precious that they don't have old pants? Well, don 't fret; I have advice for those well-to-do pious, along with the ultra generous who staunchly adhere to profound convictions of compassion and concern, yet need a slightly more impressive, but still tidy, way to practice their goodwill.

All this can be easily accomplished with goats. The added bonus here is that, unlike the old pants, you never have to touch or smell the goat. Of course, somebody will, but at least it's not you. All you have to do to comfort the ailing heart of your loved one is...well, I'm not exactly sure since I've only been on the receiving end of those mysterious goats, but I think it involves the internet and a covert band of roaming herders. My best guess is that you fill out a form, send a check and somehow, someway your beloved's name gets attached to the goat which gets dispatched to...ah...truthfully, I don't know where those goats end up. Africa? New Zealand? Wherever. But it's a worthy land, that's for sure. As for your beloved? Believe me, she will find the notion of a goat munching straw and chewing up tin cans somewhere out there just on account of her and her problems so darn heartwarming.

I'm sorry...give me a moment...I feel a tear. Deep breath. One more. Alrighty then, I'm feeling better.

Okay, look, you need to understand something right now. I am totally reluctant to reveal this next alternative to the tidy, phone-it-in brand of compassion and concern. Frankly, I feel like a corrupt magician about to blab the tawdry secrets of the trade. This is only for the exceptionally religious and those who want to appear so. It is the holy grail, the mother lode of all compassion and concern. Yet it is expedient, effortless. Clean and orderly. A fill-it-out-at-home, one-size-fits-all compassion and concern remedy for everything from bad hair to sudden death. Please...please, use this cautiously, lest you weaken its profound significance and damage your reputation as a saint.

What I'm talking about is the Mass card. The Mass card. The Catholic equivalent of a ten-foot pole. And you don't even have to be Catholic to give one. All it requires is a hefty, or at least a respectable contribution to the church, and there you have it, the never fail, absolutely perfect expression of caring that instantly elevates you to the status of sainthood. Who'd dare complain about getting the gift of Jesus himself?

Don't look at me, I like Jesus. Okay, so I complained. But not because of Jesus. It was her hurling-it-at-me-from-the-end-of-a-long-pole stunt that I objected to.

But, please, don't let my bad attitude discourage you from utilizing this brilliant, painless expression of compassion and concern. Unlike every person you know, I am petty and ungrateful. Trust me, even if you caught me wearing your old pants and leading a goat, I'd never thank you. In fact, I'd gripe about the damn aggravations your generosity's caused me.

Fortunately, I have seen the light and truly, I blame myself for failing to notice her heartfelt message of caring in that Mass Card. I don't want to make excuses for myself, but things would've been different if only I hadn't been so distracted with pacing the floor all those days after the Chinese lunch, waiting for her phone call, worrying so damn much about what I was going to say to her, about what she was going to say to me. If I didn't get sidetracked with obsessing over the number of calories I was burning by the endless pacing and gotten wrapped up in fantasizing about how my butt might shrink if only I hit a certain magic number, I'm sure I would have felt her compassion and concern the minute I found the Mass Card stuck between the Wal-Mart ads and the tractor parts catalog. I now see the blunder of favoring my butt over her demonstration of kindness. So chastised was I, that I sat down and wrote a thank you note.

Hey, thanks for that Mass card. It was so much more welcome than a visit from you. There's a lot of comfort in paper. I think reaching out and actually touching someone is so overrated. There's that awkward tendency toward the sloppy stuff that we all hate. Honestly, I appreciate you shielding me from that. I also want you to know how warmed I was by the computer aided calligraphy. The golden script intertwined with hearts and angels felt like a genuine embrace, only without having to suffer the stinky perfume! My allergies are really bad this year...ha! ha! It is beyond amazing what miracles a stamp and an envelope can deliver. I am healed.

Only I never sent it. But I will. After I write that dummies book. And find a soapbox. Then there's the goats to worry about. Not to mention the stubborn stains on those pants. And, I want to perfect squeezing out the tears because at any moment I could be called upon to dredge up more gratefulness.

Hate to do this, but I've got to run. A dear friend is in the midst of a terrible crisis and we have a rusted clunker out back that we're going to donate on her behalf. Whew...you know what a hassle it is to fill out paperwork. It'll be worth it, though. I know she'll be delighted.