There was much Frito sweat at junior derby practice this morning. Pics can be found here. I was amazed, having not attended for a few weeks, how much all of the girls have improved! Way to go, killers! And, for the record, there is nothing quite like a derby dance party. Here is Smoo practicing that very important skill:
I just watched my greyhound, Sache, chew at her itchy spots so vigorously that, once satisfied, her head was lowered to the sofa with a “thud”: She had worn herself out scratching at what itched her. After an afternoon of hunting for answers, I get the feeling that I have done the same.
Up until a few minutes ago, this post had contained a second rant against the Washington DC Catholic Archdiocese and their decision to strike out against the helpless in order to make heard their tantrum against those pesky, evil homosexuals. It was accompanied by a graphic showing my conversation with a Tweeting nun who is vocal in her support of their bigotry. While I am leaving a link to that image, I am replacing the rant. I do so not because I think any differently, nor because I am any less desirous of a real answer to my questions, but because there was, in the first iteration of this post, far too much essence of the little girl who was ever frustrated to the point of seething over the priests’, nuns’ and CCD teachers’ inability to answer any of her more difficult — but infinitely and importantly meaningful — questions about the faith they wanted her to adopt. Her frustration had been born in large part out of fear that not believing all things Catholic would disappoint the adults who so wished her to be a good and pious girl.
I do not need that little girl to speak for me any more. I no longer look for answers to the questions she asked, as I am certain that no one has them. No priest or nun can convince me that their institutionalized bigotry and sexism can bring me to a better relationship with god. Religion, I have come to understand, is - at best - a tool used to measure, and to better, oneself. Washington DC’s Archdiocese leaders, and thru her endorsement of their actions, Sister Anne, all serve as a perfect example of how religion ought not be — but too often is — used: as a thick, barbed yardstick used first to measure and then to inflict punishment upon others. If the Catholic Archdiocese of Washington DC wants to penalize the needy in their community, as well as their own parish members, over a law made outside of their organization, then let them have their tantrum. In the end, this whole thing will empty their pews and further define their hypocrisy in the eyes of those who had perhaps wavered in their opinions. Sister Anne’s and the Archdiocese’s pathetic attempts to cite legal (read: state-granted) “religious freedom” as a reason or an excuse for their actions simply skirts the real issue here: They are beating their own family for the sins of the neighbor. Inexcusable.
Sister Anne, you are no more equipped to give me a straight answer regarding the non-legal, the ethical/moral aspect of the Archdiocese’s actions than were the nuns of my childhood. Faith is not enough. A calling and its implied special unity with the godhead is not enough. A simple, honest answer would be enough, but none of you are capable. Since I no longer desire the run-around, the excuses and vague platitudes, I beg you: don’t even try. You might strain something.
Here is the invitation: People out there who think favorably the DC Archdiocese’s decision to withdraw charity assistance from foster children and other need groups, and also to stop insuring their employees’ spouses, all because gay marriage became legal: Why do you think this is right? I *know* it is legal. Don’t give me “freedom of religion” explanations, because I am aware that the archdiocese is free to help whomever they wish. I am, instead, looking for an answer to the question posed by their choice of dogma over the core teachings of Christ. What I am asking for, here, is your explanation of why you think Jesus, a man who dined with & washed the feet of sinners, supposedly forgave all, and died for our sins would approve of the withdrawal of Church-based support of the needy over a distasteful(-to-the-church) law. Tell me why Jesus would be fine with the punishing of the members of a third party — and downtrodden ones at that — over a single, “sinful” legal decision on the part of the government. You see, I was raised Catholic, and, despite that, even read the bible, but I missed the chapter and verse where Jesus denied fish and loaves to the masses because there were money-lenders in the temple. I grew up spending Sunday mornings sitting in mass, singing Matthew 25:40 and thinking that its message was a great life rule whether one believes in god or not. Its use in masses stands today as further proof of the DC Archdiocese not practicing what they preach. At any rate, please explain. Keep in mind here, that your rebuttal should center not around the legality of the Archdiocese’s actions (as your freedom to support whom you will is just as legally supported in this country as is the separation of church and state), but around their applicability to the Archdiocese’s standing as a Christian(?) (here’s a definition) organization. As far as I can tell, the law is not forcing them to abandon Christian values. They have simply picked their bible verse, regardless of the fact that in doing so they are harming far, far more people than they might ever be helping(?), and are bound and determined to follow it straight to heaven(?). So, you with the answers: you have as long as you need. “Jesus would approve of the DC Catholic Archdiocese’s decision because… ” Go on. Discuss.
I am sure that this will pass, but I resent it in the same way I resent sleep when it catches me… I am tired. I occasionally remember that I have to bother people about finishing my incomplete course from last semester, that I have to pay for school if I am going back, that work has more hurdles lined up for me on top of the ones I tripped over last week, and the knowledge of it all ties me in a bigger bundle of the same knots I end up in when, having finally sat down at the end of my day, I find that I still have things that need doing. “Can’t leave things unfinished!” the voices say, and I believe them, and I get up again to do it all before I sleep. I always do. Damn sleep. And so I know I will get up again and keep running, but to what end? Is it only so I can get it all done before I sleep? Or is a constant, frantic doing a way to somehow stave off sleep?
Things were musically more interesting back in the day, when DJs actually spun records, when they needed to have actual skill to transition between songs and segments, when a knowledge of both music and sound equipment was required for the job. Sure, listeners would hear irritating songs as often as they’d learn about some new and exciting band or style, but that was the trade-off. I really didn’t want to rant on the death of radio, however, as I have been made happy by turning off my radio and grooving instead to Radio Paradise, SomaFM and Pandora. I really wanted to share a discovery (read: personal ability to find meaning where there is none).
On this blog, I have a list of songs that make me want to pee faster when I hear them when I am in the restroom at work. (Someone thought it a fine idea to put a radio in our bathroom, ostensibly to give us a soundtrack to do girls’ room things to.) For some reason, occasionally a song will be playing that disturbs me measurably more than simply having a soundtrack does, and I add it to the list.
Today, however, I had a different reaction to what was playing while I peed: Come Sail Away by Styx is a longer-than-average song, and I couldn’t help but think that — at least back before pre-recorded blocks of song — it would have been used to give the DJ the chance to relieve his bladder. In effect, I felt a kind of kinship at the thought of peeing while someone else, briefly escaping from their booth (which, in my head will always look like the studio at WKRP), also peed. I look forward, now, to hearing any of these or these songs and once again bonding with my (childhood memory of a) local DJ.
Today I rec’d one of the best fortunes I have ever found in a cookie. It reads like something that would be said either by someone who has been forced to say a kind word about you, or by someone who knows you better than anyone else:
I love it! Now my goal will be to be as honestly imaginative (or as imaginatively honest) as I can. Bwahahaha!
Smoo chided me the other day for putting two spaces after a period when proofing her homework. She informed me that, while that may have been the rule waaaaay back in the day, it was no longer done, and that one space now suffices. The little gremlin in my brain that is in charge of making sure that arbitrary rules are obeyed was not pleased by this news. How could periods, question marks, exclamation points and colons — far more weighty in their import — be given the same berth as commas and semicolons?! It was bad enough when comma rules became less rigid, but now this?
From a rather interesting (to me) viewpoint, this change makes sense. The bulk of a person’s portfolio is, from now on, going to be accessed via the web, and web servers do not — unless tediously instructed otherwise — print more than one space in succession. For that reason, along with the ubiquitous nature of variable-width fonts as explained by Grammar Girl, Chicago and <a href=“http://www.mla.org/style_faq3>MLA stipulate that only a single space should follow end-of-sentence punctuation, while APA went from adopting the single space rule in APA5, to allowing, with the publication of APA6, the double space in drafts but giving printers/publishers final say at the time of imprint. The punctuation/space topic is so convoluted, it seems, that WikiPedia has a whole article on end-of-sentence spacing.
As always, I am amused by the heated nature of the pro and con arguments for either side. Pedants in a huff are so cute, aren’t they? Well, they are until you are the one writing the paper, and then the instinct to strangle trumps all. Why did these standards come to mean so much? The best teachers/editors/etc. are flexible in this regard, as well as in all things format-related, as they know that content is king, and that it takes more than an extra space to detract from the substance of a work. The amount of angst caused — for students, graders, editors and publishers — by arbitrary rules is far less trivial than the rules themselves. As long as someone has the brain to write good content, they will have the brain to format it in a legible way, no? Can we not trust this?
I know. People getting huffy over things like punctuation rules are just as “cute” as frothy pedants. What can I say. Froth on!
I got home today, stood dancing as I watched the mail get sorted, and then, with no treasure from the mail fairy, ran to the bathroom. Smoo and I both do this: get home and run for the can. I want to say that I actually have to go that badly when I get home, but there may also be something suggestive about walking in the front door that makes me have to pee…
At any rate, after returning from the loo, I sat down in the living room and gathered my gadgets to me, only to notice that my right hand and forearm were tacky with some clear, viscous liquid. Where did it come from? I do not know… work? the shrink’s office? the chocolate shop? the car? the bathroom? Really, all I needed to do was wash it off and remove my pants, as it seemed to have transferred itself to the right leg of those as well. I did this and returned to my seat on the sofa, but kept dwelling about the mysterious crap on my arm. The dogs began licking my feet and face, and this did not gross me out, but the unknown substance on my arm sure did.
The problem, it occurred to me, is the same as the problem with pain. The reason labor pain was easy was because it was a known pain — the pain of cramps, albeit multiplied in magnitude. A pain that turns out to only be a bad sprain is far more worrying (if less painful) because it is unknown. Therefore: dog saliva? no problem. Smoo’s spit-up as a baby? piece of cake. Mysterious goop? nervewracking!
A dear friend is coming to town on Tuesday, and I hope to go with her to see the movie Shutter Island. I have been wanting to see the film since I saw its trailer as a preview to Avatar, a film better viewed with the sound down, headphones in, and Pink Floyd’s Dark Side on repeat. I was fascinated from the get-go by Shutter Island because:
Before seeing the movie, however, I was determined to read the book, as I had heard good things about it. Knowing that I would have little time to finish it before my friend arrived, I plowed through it today, and finished it a few hours ago. I am still recovering, emotionally. I will not say that it was beautifully written, but it is a well-crafted tale. I had a hard time putting it down, and (oddly for me) did not see coming what came. I still look forward to seeing the film, but there will have to be unicorn chasers.
