In my tirade about the crappy state of organized religion, I left a major end dangling and I feel the need to tie it off. Remember several posts ago when I mentioned that the hub would be performing a wedding? You know for the couple who have the world's cutest baby girl? The daddy is my friend's son who was huge at birth and went to Iraq the same time my daughter had her heart transplant. Remember? No? Well, you must be new to my blog. Or you've been in a coma. I hope you're feeling better - now get caught up!
Anyway, on August 20th, the hub, the daughter unit and I went down to Carmel and checked into our hotel. Well, first we stopped at the pub across the street for some refreshment. This would be a recurring theme over the weekend. When we got into our room, we discovered it had a kitchen with a full sized refrigerator! I thought this was standard for all the rooms, but after giving the rest of the wedding group tours of the room, I realized our was the only room with cooling capacity. The fridge rapidly filled with wine, beer, and a couple of bottles of hard liquor which I know don't need refrigeration but seemed happy to be among friends.
The hub wanted to take a walk to bank a few calories because we knew that there was eating on the horizon. And all that booze...We got into our sneakers and opened the door to find one of the other wedding guests about to knock on our door seeking access to the fridge. More people started gathering and bottles started being opened, glasses passed, cigars smoked. It got fun fast. We forgot about the walk and decided to socialize instead. These are nice people and they buy good wine. We made a good choice.
Later that night, after the wine-a-thon, we proceeded to the hotel's conference room where my buddy had arranged the mother of all rehearsal dinners (Oh, yeah, the wedding party had a rehearsal, but the rest of us stayed at the hotel "waiting for stragglers" and sucking down more wine). The dinner was a buffet, and I gotta say, the beef was so delicious it actually melted in my mouth. There was salmon and veggies and polenta, too. And wine. The dinner was fantastic, and the flowers were so pretty I wanted to eat them but there were some delphiniums and those are poisonous so I just took home a bouquet instead. Like their daughter's wedding, we laughed, toasted, cried, and ate like pigs.
The wedding day dawned foggy but not terribly cold and we had high hopes for some sunshine before the ceremony. The day was spent walking around in Carmel, which is the only thing you can do in Carmel that won't require a second mortgage.I did find a pair of earrings on sale which matched my dress so I considered that a major score. When we got back to the hotel, we discovered that there had been some family drama, lots of tears and door slamming. In other words, the usual wedding stuff.
At about 5pm we headed for a really cool little wine bar for wine and hors d'oeuvres. At 7 we all walked down to the beach, shed our shoes and crossed the sand to very near the water. We created an aisle out of seaweed and the hub got ready. As the girls arrived on a cool trolly, the guys met them and escorted them to the assembled masses. The bride's sister is 15 and possesses the voice of an angel. She also plays the guitar beautifully and serenaded us with a love song as everybody came together. I forgot to mention that as we were waiting for the couple to arrive we realized that the tide was coming in so we moved our assembly back. Twice. That water can move!
The bride was gorgeous, the ceremony lovely, and the hub did a great job. There were more tears, hugs, and crashing waves. Plus, just in time for the bride to show up - the sun came out! It was like a wedding in a romance novel! When it was time for their first married kiss the groom picked his bride up and swung her in the air! It was so romantic. Which is kind of surprising since they do have the aforementioned baby, and its not their first time at the rodeo, if you know what I mean...
We walked back to the restaurant and indulged in more delicious food, wine and conversation. when it came time for cake, there was a really pretty three tier wedding cake with flowers on it. It looked like a regular wedding cake but it was CHEESECAKE inside. There was chocolate and caramel sauce an strawberries on sticks. I want to live there and eat that food forever. Yum! More wine later, we walked back to the hotel (probably burned off a whole calorie! Maybe two...).
The next day we went out for brekkie with my buddy and her hub. Petted some dogs (Lots of Standard Poodles in Carmel), talked to some nice people, looked at some really expensive real estate, then headed home. It was a seriously fun weekend and such a beautiful and meaningful wedding.We got to hang with my bud and her hub. Plus we found out their daughter (the June bride) is pregnant!
I told my friend, though, that if her kids don't stop popping out babies and getting married, I'm going to turn into a fat alcoholic. A happy one, though...
Saturday, September 18, 2010
Saturday, September 4, 2010
Little Boy of Summer
There are only three weeks left of regular season baseball for this year. I love baseball and I especially adore this year's Giants team. They are cute as kittens and very good at the game. Every time they're down, they just claw their way back up.Yes, my Mighty Gigantes are an inspiration, and while I hope they make it into the post season, even if they don't (they will!!!) they have been amazing to watch this season. I'm really gonna miss it when they're done for the year.
I will miss the big Giants, but I will actively pine for the tiny Giant who lives next door. On the front porch of his 5th birthday, the little guy (a newly minted kindergartner)continues his never-ending baseball game which has become background for everything that has gone on in the neighborhood this summer. "Hey, did you hear, Ann has to have a double mastectomy?" ("Now batting - right fielder - Aubrey Huff!)"I'm cleaning out a bunch of crap - wanna have a garage sale?" (Andres Tortoise hits another home run!"). "How's Ann?" (Take me out to thee ball gaaaame...) "Is he going back to Arizona already? Are the dorms even open yet?" (Pablo Sandyball hits a triple!) "We got all his school supplies - I can't believe he's starting kindergarten!" (Now pitching - Tim Linsykim!)
For the record, I know Huff plays first base, but it really ticks the little guy off to see him there so he always plays right field on our street. Also, Andres Torres is a speedster on the bases - nothing tortoise-like about him. I was thinking, though, of putting a Giants hat on our pet tortoise and taking a picture. Don't want to go near Pablo's sandyball with a camera...just sayin'. Plus, Ann is doing very well after her surgery and we made some good bank at our garage sale - enough to afford a bug zapper to cut down on the mosquito population in the nabe...
Sometimes the big Giants win and sometimes they lose, but our Giants usually win. And when they get a splash hit, like Timmy does every third at bat or so, they dive into McCovey Cove and retrieve the ball! OK, I know Lincecum bats about 130 and he's never hit a home run in his life. Don't even know if he can swim, but our little Giant trusts his heroes and I bet they can fly if he wants them to.
In fact, the only aspect of this baseball fixation that could be called remotely negative is the uptick in spitting and crotch grabbing that the little guy engages in. All the neighbors crack up when he does this. His mom - not so much. In fact, during one of yesterday's fourth innings she signaled for a time out, pulled him off third and read him the riot act..."When you are being paid lots of money to play professional baseball, you can spit and grab your crotch all you want - until then - knock it off!" Chastened, he marched back to third, hung his head and waited for Pablo Sandyball to swing the bat.
Next weekend, when we celebrate his birthday at the Giants mini field in the shadow of Giants stadium (where else?) I will hoist a hot dog (We're tailgating!)to my tiny Giant and his grownup counterparts, wish them all a fantastic fall and thank them for this awesome summer.
I'm even gonna miss the spitting and crotch grabbing...
I will miss the big Giants, but I will actively pine for the tiny Giant who lives next door. On the front porch of his 5th birthday, the little guy (a newly minted kindergartner)continues his never-ending baseball game which has become background for everything that has gone on in the neighborhood this summer. "Hey, did you hear, Ann has to have a double mastectomy?" ("Now batting - right fielder - Aubrey Huff!)"I'm cleaning out a bunch of crap - wanna have a garage sale?" (Andres Tortoise hits another home run!"). "How's Ann?" (Take me out to thee ball gaaaame...) "Is he going back to Arizona already? Are the dorms even open yet?" (Pablo Sandyball hits a triple!) "We got all his school supplies - I can't believe he's starting kindergarten!" (Now pitching - Tim Linsykim!)
For the record, I know Huff plays first base, but it really ticks the little guy off to see him there so he always plays right field on our street. Also, Andres Torres is a speedster on the bases - nothing tortoise-like about him. I was thinking, though, of putting a Giants hat on our pet tortoise and taking a picture. Don't want to go near Pablo's sandyball with a camera...just sayin'. Plus, Ann is doing very well after her surgery and we made some good bank at our garage sale - enough to afford a bug zapper to cut down on the mosquito population in the nabe...
Sometimes the big Giants win and sometimes they lose, but our Giants usually win. And when they get a splash hit, like Timmy does every third at bat or so, they dive into McCovey Cove and retrieve the ball! OK, I know Lincecum bats about 130 and he's never hit a home run in his life. Don't even know if he can swim, but our little Giant trusts his heroes and I bet they can fly if he wants them to.
In fact, the only aspect of this baseball fixation that could be called remotely negative is the uptick in spitting and crotch grabbing that the little guy engages in. All the neighbors crack up when he does this. His mom - not so much. In fact, during one of yesterday's fourth innings she signaled for a time out, pulled him off third and read him the riot act..."When you are being paid lots of money to play professional baseball, you can spit and grab your crotch all you want - until then - knock it off!" Chastened, he marched back to third, hung his head and waited for Pablo Sandyball to swing the bat.
Next weekend, when we celebrate his birthday at the Giants mini field in the shadow of Giants stadium (where else?) I will hoist a hot dog (We're tailgating!)to my tiny Giant and his grownup counterparts, wish them all a fantastic fall and thank them for this awesome summer.
I'm even gonna miss the spitting and crotch grabbing...
Thursday, August 26, 2010
Old, Not Old...
Yesterday I heard a snatch of conversation that got me thinking. A couple of young voices were talking about an upcoming birthday. "I'm gonna be 25!" One of them moaned "I feel so I old..." I remember being young and feeling old. I also remember Watergate, the Beatles coming to America, and the signing of the Declaration of Independence. OK, not the last one but I have been around awhile.
I'm still not old, though, but gosh, if you're 25 and don't know if you're old, you've got a long, old life ahead of you! I remember when I was a kid; anytime I asked my mom how old she was she'd just say "I'm old" and the look on her face said she really thought she was! I did some figuring and realized that she was in her 30's when I started wondering about her age. Of course that was in the 60's when the worst thing a woman could do was grow older. The horror!
I think what we need are some benchmarks. That way there will be no question about when you become old, you'll just be there. If people can't do anything about it the debate will end. Problem is, what do you use for a benchmark? What are some commonalities we can use to determine geezerdome? Grey hair? That wouldn't work. We all go grey at different times. Plus, its easy to hide...
Bill Cosby once said your first grey pube makes you feel old but that's a lousy benchmark. Who would want to check? I have a personal set of aging benchmarks that serve me well and I think we should apply them universally. They are universal and unavoidable. Here they are: you are young until you're 30, then you're middle aged til you're 60, then you're old. If you live past 90, you're really old and for every 5 years after that you add another "really". Until you reach 100, and then you add a "freakin'" I think this will simplify our discourse.
You could argue that the weak link of my system is middle age because technically "middle" means that there is the same amount on either side and a 59 year old probably won't live to 118 years old. Possibly not, but who knows, modern science could help us all live to be really, really, freakin' really, really, really, old.
Of course, then I'll have to re-calibrate my benchmarks.
I'm still not old, though, but gosh, if you're 25 and don't know if you're old, you've got a long, old life ahead of you! I remember when I was a kid; anytime I asked my mom how old she was she'd just say "I'm old" and the look on her face said she really thought she was! I did some figuring and realized that she was in her 30's when I started wondering about her age. Of course that was in the 60's when the worst thing a woman could do was grow older. The horror!
I think what we need are some benchmarks. That way there will be no question about when you become old, you'll just be there. If people can't do anything about it the debate will end. Problem is, what do you use for a benchmark? What are some commonalities we can use to determine geezerdome? Grey hair? That wouldn't work. We all go grey at different times. Plus, its easy to hide...
Bill Cosby once said your first grey pube makes you feel old but that's a lousy benchmark. Who would want to check? I have a personal set of aging benchmarks that serve me well and I think we should apply them universally. They are universal and unavoidable. Here they are: you are young until you're 30, then you're middle aged til you're 60, then you're old. If you live past 90, you're really old and for every 5 years after that you add another "really". Until you reach 100, and then you add a "freakin'" I think this will simplify our discourse.
You could argue that the weak link of my system is middle age because technically "middle" means that there is the same amount on either side and a 59 year old probably won't live to 118 years old. Possibly not, but who knows, modern science could help us all live to be really, really, freakin' really, really, really, old.
Of course, then I'll have to re-calibrate my benchmarks.
Tuesday, August 10, 2010
August 10
Today is the 25th anniversary of the daughter unit's birth. Its also approaching the fourth anniversary of her heart's failure and it is because of this that she and I spent today at Kaiser in Santa Clara for her annual big heart checkup. She has checks every three months but those just involve blood tests. The annual big one, though, involves a catheter inserted in an artery and threaded down to take a bite out of her heart.
I know. Ew. I sit in the waiting room, humming Janis Joplin's "Piece of My Heart", trying not to think about what's going on in the procedure room in the back, when I notice a couple across the room looking anxious and confused. Plus the young man was wearing a respirator - the kind painters wear. I moseyed on over, introduced myself and asked if they were transplant people. They were. He'd gotten a new heart just last Thursday. His experience and my daughter's were very similar. Perfectly healthy, caught a virus that killed their hearts.
We were talking about their transplants and the little old lady sitting with a whole different group (heart attack, I think), kept exclaiming "Oh my!" "Goodness!" and "Heavens no!" at intervals through our whole conversation. She was hilarious - I almost tossed in my uterine polyps and breast lump just to give her more material...
The daughter came out after her procedure, and I was glad my new friends had gone in already because this one hurt my girl a lot. When she came out there were tears in her eyes. She popped a percocet and a short time later got very relaxed. Then she had an echocardiogram, clinic visit and an xray. After only seven hours, we were done.
We toodled along back past home and to the county offices in Hayward. The daughter had to submit some paperwork for a job she starts soon. While at the County office with most of the population of the county, I discovered several things:
1. There are lots of fat people in our county.
2. Most of these fat people wear pants that are too small.
3. Too small pants on a too large body cause the flab to ooze over the waistband.
4. This is unattractive.
5. People who work in county offices don't get paid enough.
If we thought waiting in line at Kaiser and the county offices was fun, we found true joy waiting in line to leave the parking lot with all the other people who were trying to get the hell out of there because it was 4:30 and time to go home! I sang Happy Birthday to the girl just to remind her it was her special day.
When we finally rolled up the driveway, we were overcome with exhaustion and relief. My baby headed for the door and after I finished kissing the driveway, I joined her. I was thrilled to be home but I was mostly happy to be home with her because her life is truly a miracle. Plus I'm exhausted. And my nearly perfect hub made burgers for dinner - with pepper jack cheese.
All in all, not the birthday I'd choose for anybody but we made the best if it. We laughed a lot and gave her her presents before dinner. Then she went out for ice cream with her friends. If you take away the heart biopsy - you might even call it fun! Next year, though, maybe dinner and a show...
I know. Ew. I sit in the waiting room, humming Janis Joplin's "Piece of My Heart", trying not to think about what's going on in the procedure room in the back, when I notice a couple across the room looking anxious and confused. Plus the young man was wearing a respirator - the kind painters wear. I moseyed on over, introduced myself and asked if they were transplant people. They were. He'd gotten a new heart just last Thursday. His experience and my daughter's were very similar. Perfectly healthy, caught a virus that killed their hearts.
We were talking about their transplants and the little old lady sitting with a whole different group (heart attack, I think), kept exclaiming "Oh my!" "Goodness!" and "Heavens no!" at intervals through our whole conversation. She was hilarious - I almost tossed in my uterine polyps and breast lump just to give her more material...
The daughter came out after her procedure, and I was glad my new friends had gone in already because this one hurt my girl a lot. When she came out there were tears in her eyes. She popped a percocet and a short time later got very relaxed. Then she had an echocardiogram, clinic visit and an xray. After only seven hours, we were done.
We toodled along back past home and to the county offices in Hayward. The daughter had to submit some paperwork for a job she starts soon. While at the County office with most of the population of the county, I discovered several things:
1. There are lots of fat people in our county.
2. Most of these fat people wear pants that are too small.
3. Too small pants on a too large body cause the flab to ooze over the waistband.
4. This is unattractive.
5. People who work in county offices don't get paid enough.
If we thought waiting in line at Kaiser and the county offices was fun, we found true joy waiting in line to leave the parking lot with all the other people who were trying to get the hell out of there because it was 4:30 and time to go home! I sang Happy Birthday to the girl just to remind her it was her special day.
When we finally rolled up the driveway, we were overcome with exhaustion and relief. My baby headed for the door and after I finished kissing the driveway, I joined her. I was thrilled to be home but I was mostly happy to be home with her because her life is truly a miracle. Plus I'm exhausted. And my nearly perfect hub made burgers for dinner - with pepper jack cheese.
All in all, not the birthday I'd choose for anybody but we made the best if it. We laughed a lot and gave her her presents before dinner. Then she went out for ice cream with her friends. If you take away the heart biopsy - you might even call it fun! Next year, though, maybe dinner and a show...
Sunday, August 1, 2010
In Praise of the F Bomb
When my kids were little, in order to not raise potty mouths, the hub and I decided we needed to clean up our language. Its not that we were constantly swearing, but we realized that the cussin' we did would eventually be regurgitated by our offspring which would be broadcast into the ether at inopportune moments. So we cleaned it up and started sounding like something between a Disney movie and Mother Theresa. We were boring. But very well spoken.
As the kids grew up and discovered that there were cool other words to express anger, frustration, disdain, etc, I explained that - yes, they are just words, but they show a lack of creativity and - no, its not OK to correct Grandma when she uses them. The first time I dropped an f-bomb in their presence I think I made them cry. I even apologized - but I really wasn't sorry - I was f*ckin' pissed!
I discovered along the way that other people didn't share my restraint. Well, maybe around kids but nowhere else. One Sunday, I attended a meeting in my former minister's office. After the meeting ended, I mentioned that something confused me and my minister said "Yeah, that's a real mind f*ck". As I was drinking coffee at the time, I did an actual spit take. The kind you see on TV where somebody drinks something and blows it across the room. Whiles I was cleaning the wall, I said I was sorry, but I really hadn't expected to hear that word in the minister's office on a Sunday morning.
Flash forward to last month. The hub and I were visiting our pseudo family in Las Vegas. They are some of my favorite people and its purely fate that brought us together. The hub's widowed mother married a divorced man after all their kids were grown and everybody just kind of clicked. The sort-of brother has a kinda wife, and they are very cool people. Both journalist types, they are smart, artistic, and well spoken. My nearly sister-in-law also has a mouth that would make a rapper blush. According to her, people aren't dead, they're "tits up in the ground" and f-bombs fly like mosquitoes at dusk when she's comfortable around you. Which, I am happy to say, she is around me and the hub.
In fact, Semi Sis has given me a new mantra by which I intend to structure my whole life. In addition to her other talents, she is a really wonderful and creative cook. All her food is delicious and beautifully presented. One day, she was making a pizza and she was having trouble getting it off the peel (Of course she has a peel - I use a cookie sheet) She ended up folding the pizza in half and turning it into a cobbled together calzone. Ticked off, she carried it to the table, plopped it down and said "F*ck it - its dinner."
This is my favorite new phrase. And its so versatile! Wash the laundry with a red sock?"F*ck it - its clean". Let weeds take over your garden? "F*ck it - its green". Eat a whole bag of chips" "F*ck it - they're gone". I've long thought I needed a personal philosophy and I think I've found it. Thanks to my sorta sister-in-law in Vegas.
I've been thinking a bit about the f-bomb lately. In fact, I've done some research on it. Its an old word of Germanic origin that probably always meant having sex. That's why there's not much information on the origin of the f-bomb; people are shy about stuff like that. Now, though, it means so much more. It adds extremity to things, emphasis...Its a f*cking brilliant word when you think about it!
While writing this, I've kept my friends of tender sensibilities in mind by masking the f-bomb. That's another thing I've discovered - you have your nice friends and your f*cking friends. Your nice friends are people you can have coffee or lunch with, talk about your kids, and shop sometimes. Your fucking friends, you can do all the same stuff with, but you loosen up with these people, and they tend to be a lot more fun. There is frequently chocolate involved with your f*cking friends.
So, I've decided that its OK to drop the occasional f-bomb. In fact, it adds color and depth to my vocabulary. Not in the way Mrs. Metz, my English teacher, would have wanted - but it works for me. And as for this blog entry, f*ck it - its done...
As the kids grew up and discovered that there were cool other words to express anger, frustration, disdain, etc, I explained that - yes, they are just words, but they show a lack of creativity and - no, its not OK to correct Grandma when she uses them. The first time I dropped an f-bomb in their presence I think I made them cry. I even apologized - but I really wasn't sorry - I was f*ckin' pissed!
I discovered along the way that other people didn't share my restraint. Well, maybe around kids but nowhere else. One Sunday, I attended a meeting in my former minister's office. After the meeting ended, I mentioned that something confused me and my minister said "Yeah, that's a real mind f*ck". As I was drinking coffee at the time, I did an actual spit take. The kind you see on TV where somebody drinks something and blows it across the room. Whiles I was cleaning the wall, I said I was sorry, but I really hadn't expected to hear that word in the minister's office on a Sunday morning.
Flash forward to last month. The hub and I were visiting our pseudo family in Las Vegas. They are some of my favorite people and its purely fate that brought us together. The hub's widowed mother married a divorced man after all their kids were grown and everybody just kind of clicked. The sort-of brother has a kinda wife, and they are very cool people. Both journalist types, they are smart, artistic, and well spoken. My nearly sister-in-law also has a mouth that would make a rapper blush. According to her, people aren't dead, they're "tits up in the ground" and f-bombs fly like mosquitoes at dusk when she's comfortable around you. Which, I am happy to say, she is around me and the hub.
In fact, Semi Sis has given me a new mantra by which I intend to structure my whole life. In addition to her other talents, she is a really wonderful and creative cook. All her food is delicious and beautifully presented. One day, she was making a pizza and she was having trouble getting it off the peel (Of course she has a peel - I use a cookie sheet) She ended up folding the pizza in half and turning it into a cobbled together calzone. Ticked off, she carried it to the table, plopped it down and said "F*ck it - its dinner."
This is my favorite new phrase. And its so versatile! Wash the laundry with a red sock?"F*ck it - its clean". Let weeds take over your garden? "F*ck it - its green". Eat a whole bag of chips" "F*ck it - they're gone". I've long thought I needed a personal philosophy and I think I've found it. Thanks to my sorta sister-in-law in Vegas.
I've been thinking a bit about the f-bomb lately. In fact, I've done some research on it. Its an old word of Germanic origin that probably always meant having sex. That's why there's not much information on the origin of the f-bomb; people are shy about stuff like that. Now, though, it means so much more. It adds extremity to things, emphasis...Its a f*cking brilliant word when you think about it!
While writing this, I've kept my friends of tender sensibilities in mind by masking the f-bomb. That's another thing I've discovered - you have your nice friends and your f*cking friends. Your nice friends are people you can have coffee or lunch with, talk about your kids, and shop sometimes. Your fucking friends, you can do all the same stuff with, but you loosen up with these people, and they tend to be a lot more fun. There is frequently chocolate involved with your f*cking friends.
So, I've decided that its OK to drop the occasional f-bomb. In fact, it adds color and depth to my vocabulary. Not in the way Mrs. Metz, my English teacher, would have wanted - but it works for me. And as for this blog entry, f*ck it - its done...
Monday, July 19, 2010
The Last Straw
So, many people know that its been almost a year since a board at the church I attended for more than 20 years fired me from my job in their preschool. They showed me the door without talking to me or getting my side of things. I knew there was trouble, but I had no one to help me because everybody was either sick or caring for a sick person or a nutball. In their termination letter, they said the problem started the year before but they never said anything to me, just tossed me under the bus.
This behavior seemed to be the antithesis of what I felt was the point of going to church, that is: to learn how to exist in the world in a Christ-like way. Jesus is well known to be an advocate of helping and supporting the underdog. He spent time with hookers, lepers, women, children, and nutballs (people posessed by evil). He was supportive of people who were treated unfairly. He wasn't just a really Good Guy, He was the Son of God for Pete's sake!
So when my church treated me so poorly and gave me no recourse, I quit that bitch and began looking for a new place to worship. See, I've always loved church - being in a church gave me such a deep feeling of peace, even if I was just touring a landmark like a mission here in California, or Notre Dame in Paris. When I was a kid I begged my parents to take me and I loved it when they did. Plus, the music was so pretty...
I researched various religions. Tossed out any that espoused idiocy - the earth is more than 6,000 years old, Jeez. After watching the news and reading the paper, I decided not to embrace any religion that put pedophiles in charge of children, encouraged people to kill in the name of God, or put the religion's needs over the needs of people. By this time, I'd rejected almost all of the world's faiths.
The fact is that I like being Christan. I believe in God and I love Jesus. But, to paraphrase John Fugelsang (great writer/hilarious comedian) some of His fan clubs give me pause. Like my friend who finally (after 20 years!) divorced her emotionally abusive douchebag husband and had her clergyman berated her for "not trying". Her hub was not the only douche. And the church that gave a woman in her 30s a hard time for having a baby outside of marriage. She couldn't seem to meet a good man and she heard the clock ticking in her uterus...
Which brings me to this weekend and my last straw. The hub and I were at a party, and also in attendance were my friend's son and his fiance with their new baby. They are getting married next month and they asked the hub to perform the ceremony. I wondered why not a professional? I mean, the hub has been a proud minister in the Universal Life Church since he sent in $5 in Middle School, but he's a park ranger by trade. Turns out they took their 3 1/2 month old daughter to her family's church to talk about christening and the dude with the backward collar said: "It would be a waste of water" to baptize the baby. Let me repeat that..."it would be a waste of water" to baptize that paragon if innocence.
I thought the point of baptism was to welcome a person into the family of God. So her mother wasn't confirmed and her parents rarely attend church, why won't the baby be welcome in God's family? I think Jesus would have welcomed her. I also think Jesus would have welcomed the fatherless baby and his mother. And I think Jesus would have encouraged the abused woman and (in His spare time)I think He would have talked to me about my problem and let me work in a different position at the school if I couldn't adapt.
I thank God every day for all my gifts, including, but not limited to, my awesome family, terrific friends, food, a place to live, good health and my sense of humor. All of which have gotten me through the hard times. I thought I needed church to feel close to God but maybe not. I've always thought that calling a building "God's house" was a little disingenuous since God created all outdoors and churches are built by people. Well intentioned people, but people nonetheless. I think I'll spend my time worshipping outside. Waste of water, my ass!
This behavior seemed to be the antithesis of what I felt was the point of going to church, that is: to learn how to exist in the world in a Christ-like way. Jesus is well known to be an advocate of helping and supporting the underdog. He spent time with hookers, lepers, women, children, and nutballs (people posessed by evil). He was supportive of people who were treated unfairly. He wasn't just a really Good Guy, He was the Son of God for Pete's sake!
So when my church treated me so poorly and gave me no recourse, I quit that bitch and began looking for a new place to worship. See, I've always loved church - being in a church gave me such a deep feeling of peace, even if I was just touring a landmark like a mission here in California, or Notre Dame in Paris. When I was a kid I begged my parents to take me and I loved it when they did. Plus, the music was so pretty...
I researched various religions. Tossed out any that espoused idiocy - the earth is more than 6,000 years old, Jeez. After watching the news and reading the paper, I decided not to embrace any religion that put pedophiles in charge of children, encouraged people to kill in the name of God, or put the religion's needs over the needs of people. By this time, I'd rejected almost all of the world's faiths.
The fact is that I like being Christan. I believe in God and I love Jesus. But, to paraphrase John Fugelsang (great writer/hilarious comedian) some of His fan clubs give me pause. Like my friend who finally (after 20 years!) divorced her emotionally abusive douchebag husband and had her clergyman berated her for "not trying". Her hub was not the only douche. And the church that gave a woman in her 30s a hard time for having a baby outside of marriage. She couldn't seem to meet a good man and she heard the clock ticking in her uterus...
Which brings me to this weekend and my last straw. The hub and I were at a party, and also in attendance were my friend's son and his fiance with their new baby. They are getting married next month and they asked the hub to perform the ceremony. I wondered why not a professional? I mean, the hub has been a proud minister in the Universal Life Church since he sent in $5 in Middle School, but he's a park ranger by trade. Turns out they took their 3 1/2 month old daughter to her family's church to talk about christening and the dude with the backward collar said: "It would be a waste of water" to baptize the baby. Let me repeat that..."it would be a waste of water" to baptize that paragon if innocence.
I thought the point of baptism was to welcome a person into the family of God. So her mother wasn't confirmed and her parents rarely attend church, why won't the baby be welcome in God's family? I think Jesus would have welcomed her. I also think Jesus would have welcomed the fatherless baby and his mother. And I think Jesus would have encouraged the abused woman and (in His spare time)I think He would have talked to me about my problem and let me work in a different position at the school if I couldn't adapt.
I thank God every day for all my gifts, including, but not limited to, my awesome family, terrific friends, food, a place to live, good health and my sense of humor. All of which have gotten me through the hard times. I thought I needed church to feel close to God but maybe not. I've always thought that calling a building "God's house" was a little disingenuous since God created all outdoors and churches are built by people. Well intentioned people, but people nonetheless. I think I'll spend my time worshipping outside. Waste of water, my ass!
Tuesday, July 13, 2010
Bye Bye, Baby...
This past week, the hub and I were on vacation. We spent several days with his pseudo siblings (long, not very interesting story) in Las Vegas. We had a great time, floated in a beautiful pool, ate gourmet food, and generally had a really fun time. Of course, in our typical fashion, it couldn't be a vacation without something weird happening. We were in the Hofbrauhouse in Vegas (Which is an exact replica of the one in Munich) singing, dancing (the Chicken Dance - but it counts...)eating, drinking and generally kicking up our middle aged heels when the hub's phone rang.
He went out into the foyer to answer it and when he didn't come right back I knew something was up. I went to see what was going on and when I found him he looked up and mouthed the words "Lucy died." Then we went back to the party.
Lucy was our 15 year old Border Collie mix. When the kids were 10 and 12 I decided we needed a puppy. The hub and I searched and searched until finally we stumbled upon a baby Coon Hound which I fell in love with and named Lucy. Turns out the hub had some reservations vis a vis the really loud howl Coon Hounds issue instead of a bark.
So we went elsewhere and found a baby Border Collie mix which I fell in love with and named Lucy. This time it stuck. She was 10 weeks old, really cute and shy. The whole family loved her and she was the perfect dog. Lucy was so smart that she trained herself to sit, stay, heel and throw a ball. Heck, she probably would have cleaned the house and cooked dinner if she'd had thumbs.
We weren't sure of her birthday but we decided it was June 18 which coincided with my birthday. That made us Geminis so we understood each other. We had our bitch days and our other days we were warm and fuzzy. Of course on her bitch days, she had the excuse that she was actually a bitch. The other days, well, of course she was warm and fuzzy - she was a dog, for Pete's sake.
When we heard she'd died, we didn't want her to go to the vet where they'd just toss her in the trash and then send me the Rainbow Bridge poem. They sent it to me after Ernie died and I thought "Lame. Nice, but lame". Then I got to the part about him coming to meet me as I crossed the bridge and I dissolved into a blithering puddle of weeping jelly. I did not want to go there again.
My poor, brave sister was the one who found Lucy when she came to feed the pets while we were away. She called and the hub told her to double bag the body and leave her in the garage. We were banking on the weather being cool enough to keep her relatively fresh until we got home three days later.
We reasoned that Lucy had died apparently peacefully in her sleep. She had kindly waited until we were gone so we wouldn't be upset (Yeah, it seems a tad anthropomorphic, but you didn't know Lucy). She also left a whole bunch of little hairs around the house to remember her by. Plus, she was 105 in people years!
I was cool about her death until I got home. I miss her, but there's not the sense that she was too young to die. Still, her absence leaves a hole. And there's nobody to clean the dishes before they go in the dishwasher. Our small dog has taken to giving us the stink eye and peeing in the living room. I sense the possible need for a puppy shrink.
Everybody loved Lucy. I found myself consoling many of my neighbors. We had a wake at 5 Guys burgers. I had fries in Lucy's honor. Lucy would have wanted me to. In fact Lucy would have made them for me. If she'd had thumbs. Then she'd have licked the plate clean after I finished them. I miss Lucy...
He went out into the foyer to answer it and when he didn't come right back I knew something was up. I went to see what was going on and when I found him he looked up and mouthed the words "Lucy died." Then we went back to the party.
Lucy was our 15 year old Border Collie mix. When the kids were 10 and 12 I decided we needed a puppy. The hub and I searched and searched until finally we stumbled upon a baby Coon Hound which I fell in love with and named Lucy. Turns out the hub had some reservations vis a vis the really loud howl Coon Hounds issue instead of a bark.
So we went elsewhere and found a baby Border Collie mix which I fell in love with and named Lucy. This time it stuck. She was 10 weeks old, really cute and shy. The whole family loved her and she was the perfect dog. Lucy was so smart that she trained herself to sit, stay, heel and throw a ball. Heck, she probably would have cleaned the house and cooked dinner if she'd had thumbs.
We weren't sure of her birthday but we decided it was June 18 which coincided with my birthday. That made us Geminis so we understood each other. We had our bitch days and our other days we were warm and fuzzy. Of course on her bitch days, she had the excuse that she was actually a bitch. The other days, well, of course she was warm and fuzzy - she was a dog, for Pete's sake.
When we heard she'd died, we didn't want her to go to the vet where they'd just toss her in the trash and then send me the Rainbow Bridge poem. They sent it to me after Ernie died and I thought "Lame. Nice, but lame". Then I got to the part about him coming to meet me as I crossed the bridge and I dissolved into a blithering puddle of weeping jelly. I did not want to go there again.
My poor, brave sister was the one who found Lucy when she came to feed the pets while we were away. She called and the hub told her to double bag the body and leave her in the garage. We were banking on the weather being cool enough to keep her relatively fresh until we got home three days later.
We reasoned that Lucy had died apparently peacefully in her sleep. She had kindly waited until we were gone so we wouldn't be upset (Yeah, it seems a tad anthropomorphic, but you didn't know Lucy). She also left a whole bunch of little hairs around the house to remember her by. Plus, she was 105 in people years!
I was cool about her death until I got home. I miss her, but there's not the sense that she was too young to die. Still, her absence leaves a hole. And there's nobody to clean the dishes before they go in the dishwasher. Our small dog has taken to giving us the stink eye and peeing in the living room. I sense the possible need for a puppy shrink.
Everybody loved Lucy. I found myself consoling many of my neighbors. We had a wake at 5 Guys burgers. I had fries in Lucy's honor. Lucy would have wanted me to. In fact Lucy would have made them for me. If she'd had thumbs. Then she'd have licked the plate clean after I finished them. I miss Lucy...
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