Penn State, head football coach Joe Paterno is fired because he didn’t report that he knew Sandusky was raping kids. Students riot in support of, “Joe Pa.”
Seriously?
Children – God only knows how many – were raped by a coach at one of the largest universities in the country. Paterno knew about it but didn’t call the police. He got fired. We’re done. The latter was the natural consequence of the former.
Will it tarnish Joe Pa’s legacy?
Let me make this very clear.
I DON’T CARE.
Nor should anyone else, frankly.
Let me say it again – though it makes my stomach turn violently – CHILDREN WERE RAPED.
Beyond that, beyond seeing that justice is done for those victims and their families, and making damned sure this doesn’t happen ever again, not a thing matters.
Rick Perry speaking during the GOP debate to the three offices of the federal government he’d close as president, forgets one. It was funny. It was human. He was goofy and sorta charming about it. It’s the first thing he’s done that hasn’t made me roll my eyes. I wouldn’t beat him up too badly about it because you know his wife did. Perry is only still in this mess because Mrs. Perry is at him every day.
“I want that (White)house, Rick! Get me that house!”
The GOP race. Is it as big a mess as it looks like? I don’t pay that much attention really. I read articles on line and pieces in the newspaper. Not enough to be well informed, probably, but at least I no longer totally depend exclusively on The View and Dave Letterman’s Top Ten for my politics du jour.
Though I would never underestimate a stupidity circus and the entertainment it provides, it would be so nice if the GOP was not mentioned in the same breath as the Kardashians. I'm a Democrat, so I suppose I shouldn't care. I'm also an American and these guys are starting to look like Curly, Larry and Moe.
Drinking, in any amount raises a woman’s risk of breast cancer significantly. I heard this. I also heard that it still means a woman has a 1 in 36 chance of dying from breast cancer. She has a 1 in, I believe, 3 chance of dying from heart disease, which can be positively impacted by drinking moderate amounts of red wine. Thank you Dr. Goodmorning America for relating the whole story for once. If I hadn’t been informed of the entire story I wouldn’t have stopped drinking. In fact I’d have had to drink more to forget about my increased chance of contracting cancer. Now, in light of the truth, I drink without fear and my heart is happy.
Bil Keane, creator of the Family Circus cartoon, died at 89. What a happy life he lived. What a blessing he and his work were to all of us. The cartoon will carry on through his son. Lucky us.
Thursday, November 10, 2011
Monday, November 7, 2011
Two storms collide..........
November 7, 2011
No mountain trip. A storm system moved through Arizona the day before we were supposed to go, leaving ugly white shit covering the higher elevations. Someone said, “But it’ll be so nice and cozy inside and you’ll get to see snow.”
Like I don’t still have nightmares where I’m trapped in the middle of a Buffalo blizzard.
Plus I got sick.
Well, Liv came down with an intestinal bug first – on Thursday. I got it Friday, while she was getting better, leaving me with hope that Saturday would be the day I recovered. I was wrong about that. Let me just say, it’s Monday now and my stomach – and other parts of me - are still making noises I’ve never heard before in nature. Mom got it as well and Mark is fighting it off. Only Brandon, whose immune system is fortified by Lays potato chips and Vitamin Water, has thus far escaped unscathed. We’ve laid the blame for this virus that took us down like dominoes at the feet of the shortest member of the family and, no I don’t mean Kimmy – who, by the way, was ill as well.
Kache. The little two-year-old carrier is the only common denominator. His daddy brought him over on Wednesday for me to watch and wanted to know if I thought Kache had a fever. His torso was warm, but the rest of him was fine and, though his eyes were a little droopy and glassy, he ran around like a wild man as per usual, so I really thought nothing more of it.
Livi crumpled like a cheap suit the very next day. Same feverish symptoms, plus severe aches and pains and all the stomach fun you can think of.
I didn’t put two and two together till the next day, while in the middle of a bout of, “Oh my God, whhyyyyyyy me,” Kimmy called, whining about the exact same thing. She and I put our heads together and figured out it was the kid’s fault.
When we confronted Loran, Kache’s completely healthy mother, her response was to tell us to quit belly-aching (an incredibly poor choice of words if you ask me), then wonder who was going to watch the little disease monger if both his aunts and all his grandparents were out of commission.
Now that we’re all either well or well on our way, nobody’s plotting to dress our little punkin’ up like a girl or shave his mother’s head for revenge. Liv and I are satisfied that we’ve dropped visible weight – after all, one is never more than a good stomach flu away from fitting into something or other in one’s closet that’s been out of reach since the invention of the Klondike Bar. And anyway, who could possibly stay mad at a two and a half foot being with eyes so blue they’re almost purple and whose favorite new saying is, “I not a little baby. I a little angel?”
Mark did remind me throughout all of this that, “If we’d gotten our flu shots,” like he said we should, “we’d never have gotten sick.” I’m not completely sure that’s true, however. How do we know this was the flu? It could be just some virus. I remember a couple of years ago, when Liv got sick. I took her to the doc and she was convinced – even pre-blood test – that it was swine flu. We’d held Loran’s baby shower the day she came down with it, so I had to call every person who’d attended and let them know to go get shots. Only to have Livi’s blood work come back negative for Swine Flu. I really have doubts about the validity of the effectiveness of a flu shot or the medical community’s ability to tell us what is flu and what is some other microbe they can’t quite identify.
That was Friday morning.
Today?
Here’s what I’m thinking. The mountains are still there and will remain, at least through the middle of next August, when Mark will be needing, desperately, to get me out of the desert before I spontaneously combust. Till then I’ll be here, hanging out with Kache. Over at Walgreen’s. In line for my flu shot.
No mountain trip. A storm system moved through Arizona the day before we were supposed to go, leaving ugly white shit covering the higher elevations. Someone said, “But it’ll be so nice and cozy inside and you’ll get to see snow.”
Like I don’t still have nightmares where I’m trapped in the middle of a Buffalo blizzard.
Plus I got sick.
Well, Liv came down with an intestinal bug first – on Thursday. I got it Friday, while she was getting better, leaving me with hope that Saturday would be the day I recovered. I was wrong about that. Let me just say, it’s Monday now and my stomach – and other parts of me - are still making noises I’ve never heard before in nature. Mom got it as well and Mark is fighting it off. Only Brandon, whose immune system is fortified by Lays potato chips and Vitamin Water, has thus far escaped unscathed. We’ve laid the blame for this virus that took us down like dominoes at the feet of the shortest member of the family and, no I don’t mean Kimmy – who, by the way, was ill as well.
Kache. The little two-year-old carrier is the only common denominator. His daddy brought him over on Wednesday for me to watch and wanted to know if I thought Kache had a fever. His torso was warm, but the rest of him was fine and, though his eyes were a little droopy and glassy, he ran around like a wild man as per usual, so I really thought nothing more of it.
Livi crumpled like a cheap suit the very next day. Same feverish symptoms, plus severe aches and pains and all the stomach fun you can think of.
I didn’t put two and two together till the next day, while in the middle of a bout of, “Oh my God, whhyyyyyyy me,” Kimmy called, whining about the exact same thing. She and I put our heads together and figured out it was the kid’s fault.
When we confronted Loran, Kache’s completely healthy mother, her response was to tell us to quit belly-aching (an incredibly poor choice of words if you ask me), then wonder who was going to watch the little disease monger if both his aunts and all his grandparents were out of commission.
Now that we’re all either well or well on our way, nobody’s plotting to dress our little punkin’ up like a girl or shave his mother’s head for revenge. Liv and I are satisfied that we’ve dropped visible weight – after all, one is never more than a good stomach flu away from fitting into something or other in one’s closet that’s been out of reach since the invention of the Klondike Bar. And anyway, who could possibly stay mad at a two and a half foot being with eyes so blue they’re almost purple and whose favorite new saying is, “I not a little baby. I a little angel?”
Mark did remind me throughout all of this that, “If we’d gotten our flu shots,” like he said we should, “we’d never have gotten sick.” I’m not completely sure that’s true, however. How do we know this was the flu? It could be just some virus. I remember a couple of years ago, when Liv got sick. I took her to the doc and she was convinced – even pre-blood test – that it was swine flu. We’d held Loran’s baby shower the day she came down with it, so I had to call every person who’d attended and let them know to go get shots. Only to have Livi’s blood work come back negative for Swine Flu. I really have doubts about the validity of the effectiveness of a flu shot or the medical community’s ability to tell us what is flu and what is some other microbe they can’t quite identify.
That was Friday morning.
Today?
Here’s what I’m thinking. The mountains are still there and will remain, at least through the middle of next August, when Mark will be needing, desperately, to get me out of the desert before I spontaneously combust. Till then I’ll be here, hanging out with Kache. Over at Walgreen’s. In line for my flu shot.
Tuesday, November 1, 2011
Hiking - day one......
Mark and I took our first hike in the desert yesterday. I love to hike and have been begging him to accompany me for years. It was a difficult prospect as when we were younger there were small children who either did not like to hike (Livi and Loran), were too damn wild to let loose someplace where there were no walls (Kimmy & Matthew), or would slow us down by stopping and discussing all aspects of every piece of nature he observed (Brandon).
It’s different now that we have successfully thrown nearly all of them out of the abode and are working furiously on the ones left. Those still in residence require minimal daily care, can feed themselves and dial 911. That frees Mark and me up a lot.
Getting my husband out for a hike was easier this time, as well, because we are now hiking in the desert. Mark loooooves the desert. I always have too – in a, let’s look at all the beauty from a scenic vista point we can drive to, sort of way. After surviving four Buffalo, NY winters, however, the beauty of the Arizona desert appeals to me in a manner I’d never have believed. The warmth is, of course, a plus, but it goes far beyond that. The land touches something in me that is deeper than my thoughts or anything I can describe. Heading out in the cool stillness of a morning sounded like just what we needed.
We chose Sunday for our first hike, but discounted the power packed by the Margaritas poured at Nando’s Mexican Café on Saturday night. I only had one – and maybe a couple sips of another – which meant that Mark had his plus most of my second and all of his second. He hit the snooze button on the five o’clock alarm so hard Sunday morning that it didn’t freaking dare go off a second time and I never even heard it the first. We rescheduled for Monday.
Monday morning we made it to the trailhead at 7:30. We got up at five and moved like a herd of turtles toward our destination. Once there, though we were jammin’ down that trail. I made Mark go first, of course. His vision is better than mine and I knew he’d be better at keeping an eye on the trail. He and my dad did a lot of desert camping and Javelina hunting back in the days I mentioned above, when taking our kids out into the desert would have turned into a tragedy – for the desert. Anyway, Mark had lots of experience.
After about half an hour I’d grown confident enough to take the lead. I had my hiking boots protecting my feet and my walking stick – made out of a shillelagh – to assist at the steepest points along the path. Plus, it’s a weapon and just right for killing zombies……. Yes, I watched, THE WALKING DEAD, again on Sunday night… and felt dirty afterward…… I figured the shillelagh would come in handy if I did run into a snake. Though, really, what are you supposed to do with it if you come across one? It’s just a stick. It’s not something you can hide behind. I got to thinking (nearly always a mistake) that maybe my particular stick, as it is a little thicker than your usual walking stick, and black with sharp, pointy little nubs sticking out of it, might look like one of those kinds of snakes that are good to have around to keep rattle snakes in line. As not one single rattler showed its diamond-backed head along our way, my confidence in the stick, and my trail vision increased.
We came out into a clearing that another hiker we talked to along the way called, “Garden Valley.” It’s a place that was once occupied by Native Americans. They farmed the land and grazed cattle there, from about 700 A.D. to 1300 A.D. At which point they simply disappeared.
“Nobody knows what happened to them,” our new friend told us.
After the guy left I told Mark it was probably aliens who took them. He gave me a look, just like I knew he would. But, really, there we were in this great big area, flat and sitting between a bunch of mountains in, what back then would have been the middle of absolutely nowhere and these people just disappeared. They went with aliens or…….. Or they frigging moved to Phoenix, just like everyone else……
We moved on.
About 20 minutes later, we were walking through a sandy wash.
“Woah!” Mark’s exclamation wasn’t alarmed – more amazed. I thought maybe he saw an alien. I turned around and followed his gaze to the ground, afraid I would not like what I found there.
“It’s a stick,” I said.
“It’s a snake,” he corrected. “You stepped right over it.”
I didn’t faint, because I had to squint to realize that he was right, it was, indeed, a skinny little, sand colored rat snake, frozen in place in his instinctive abject terror.
“Huh,” I said. “My stick works.”
We’re headed to the mountains for more hiking this weekend. I wonder if the shillelagh works on bears.
It’s different now that we have successfully thrown nearly all of them out of the abode and are working furiously on the ones left. Those still in residence require minimal daily care, can feed themselves and dial 911. That frees Mark and me up a lot.
Getting my husband out for a hike was easier this time, as well, because we are now hiking in the desert. Mark loooooves the desert. I always have too – in a, let’s look at all the beauty from a scenic vista point we can drive to, sort of way. After surviving four Buffalo, NY winters, however, the beauty of the Arizona desert appeals to me in a manner I’d never have believed. The warmth is, of course, a plus, but it goes far beyond that. The land touches something in me that is deeper than my thoughts or anything I can describe. Heading out in the cool stillness of a morning sounded like just what we needed.
We chose Sunday for our first hike, but discounted the power packed by the Margaritas poured at Nando’s Mexican Café on Saturday night. I only had one – and maybe a couple sips of another – which meant that Mark had his plus most of my second and all of his second. He hit the snooze button on the five o’clock alarm so hard Sunday morning that it didn’t freaking dare go off a second time and I never even heard it the first. We rescheduled for Monday.
Monday morning we made it to the trailhead at 7:30. We got up at five and moved like a herd of turtles toward our destination. Once there, though we were jammin’ down that trail. I made Mark go first, of course. His vision is better than mine and I knew he’d be better at keeping an eye on the trail. He and my dad did a lot of desert camping and Javelina hunting back in the days I mentioned above, when taking our kids out into the desert would have turned into a tragedy – for the desert. Anyway, Mark had lots of experience.
After about half an hour I’d grown confident enough to take the lead. I had my hiking boots protecting my feet and my walking stick – made out of a shillelagh – to assist at the steepest points along the path. Plus, it’s a weapon and just right for killing zombies……. Yes, I watched, THE WALKING DEAD, again on Sunday night… and felt dirty afterward…… I figured the shillelagh would come in handy if I did run into a snake. Though, really, what are you supposed to do with it if you come across one? It’s just a stick. It’s not something you can hide behind. I got to thinking (nearly always a mistake) that maybe my particular stick, as it is a little thicker than your usual walking stick, and black with sharp, pointy little nubs sticking out of it, might look like one of those kinds of snakes that are good to have around to keep rattle snakes in line. As not one single rattler showed its diamond-backed head along our way, my confidence in the stick, and my trail vision increased.
We came out into a clearing that another hiker we talked to along the way called, “Garden Valley.” It’s a place that was once occupied by Native Americans. They farmed the land and grazed cattle there, from about 700 A.D. to 1300 A.D. At which point they simply disappeared.
“Nobody knows what happened to them,” our new friend told us.
After the guy left I told Mark it was probably aliens who took them. He gave me a look, just like I knew he would. But, really, there we were in this great big area, flat and sitting between a bunch of mountains in, what back then would have been the middle of absolutely nowhere and these people just disappeared. They went with aliens or…….. Or they frigging moved to Phoenix, just like everyone else……
We moved on.
About 20 minutes later, we were walking through a sandy wash.
“Woah!” Mark’s exclamation wasn’t alarmed – more amazed. I thought maybe he saw an alien. I turned around and followed his gaze to the ground, afraid I would not like what I found there.
“It’s a stick,” I said.
“It’s a snake,” he corrected. “You stepped right over it.”
I didn’t faint, because I had to squint to realize that he was right, it was, indeed, a skinny little, sand colored rat snake, frozen in place in his instinctive abject terror.
“Huh,” I said. “My stick works.”
We’re headed to the mountains for more hiking this weekend. I wonder if the shillelagh works on bears.
Thursday, October 20, 2011
The Watching Dead
Mark and I watched four and a half hours of The Walking Dead on A&E Sunday. First, let me say that A&E? Throwing around that Arts and Entertainment title very loosely these days………
I actually watched the show a couple of times last season. I got past the first time only because Andrew Lincoln, the guy who pines for Kiera Knightley’s character in the movie, “Love Actually,” my favorite modern romantic Christmas flick, is the lead actor. He plays Rick, the deputy sheriff of some southern town. I thought, when I watched it last winter, that it was kind of a doofy show except for him. After sitting through an entire evening of last season and this season’s premier, I’m not inclined to change my mind much.
The following are my complaints – in no particular order. Rick’s accent is in a word, appalling. Couldn’t they have hired someone to teach him southern lingo or at least have him watch Gone With The Wind? Andy Griffith and Hee Haw re-runs are on all the time.
Since Andrew’s character is the sole bit of eye candy on the show, they should really pay more attention to how he looks – maybe take some pointers from the Winchester Brothers on Supernatural. Rick looks dead and I’m positive he’s supposed to be one of the live people. No budget for spray tans?
The women in the show range from mild whiner to, if you call the zombies I’ll hold her down long enough so they can catch her. Even the kids are unappealing and annoying. Would it be awful to leave them all tied to trees or at least re-cast?
There are four guys besides Rick in the main ensemble. One is Rick’s best friend, who had an affair with Rick’s wife. Rick doesn’t know and the wife (mild whiner) is full of righteous indignation toward the friend because he apparently told her Rick was dead, so why wouldn’t she fall into bed with friend. They whisper passionate/hate-filled things back and forth to each other throughout each episode and I’m convinced by now that Rick is completely deaf or stupid because he’s never more than three feet away. There is an old guy who is the mechanic for the RV they travel around in and keeper of all weapons. The other two are Asian and African American, respectively. I find it weird that neither the women nor the two minority men are armed on a regular basis. What’s that word..............?
Every annoying thing listed could be forgotten if it wasn’t for the obvious.
The zombies.
They are screamingly funny.
I’m pretty sure they’re not supposed to be funny.
It’s not just that they look like a mask I could pick up at Wal Mart, it’s that we’re supposed to buy that people in the show are worried about escaping them. Honestly, all you have to be is awake. Their brains are cheese-whiz and because there’s no blood flowing, their skin is like parchment paper. A stiff breeze won’t take them down, but a baseball bat will – or if one isn’t handy and you’re, say, laying, just out of a coma in a hospital bed, so will the jello you got with lunch. They move at the speed of turtle so you’d have plenty of time to take aim.
All in all, it’s one of those shows that, as an intelligent adult, one really doesn’t need to watch.
But I will.
It’s not that I don’t have better things to do with my Sunday nights. It is the final season of Desperate Housewives. It’s just – well, I’m hooked. Mark too. At least a little. I fully expected him to be the voice of reason after Dead was over and say something to the tune of what a waste of an evening that was, but he didn’t. We discussed the same things I’ve mentioned here, then he looked at me.
“Next Sunday at eight,” he asked.
“I’ll meet you here.”
I actually watched the show a couple of times last season. I got past the first time only because Andrew Lincoln, the guy who pines for Kiera Knightley’s character in the movie, “Love Actually,” my favorite modern romantic Christmas flick, is the lead actor. He plays Rick, the deputy sheriff of some southern town. I thought, when I watched it last winter, that it was kind of a doofy show except for him. After sitting through an entire evening of last season and this season’s premier, I’m not inclined to change my mind much.
The following are my complaints – in no particular order. Rick’s accent is in a word, appalling. Couldn’t they have hired someone to teach him southern lingo or at least have him watch Gone With The Wind? Andy Griffith and Hee Haw re-runs are on all the time.
Since Andrew’s character is the sole bit of eye candy on the show, they should really pay more attention to how he looks – maybe take some pointers from the Winchester Brothers on Supernatural. Rick looks dead and I’m positive he’s supposed to be one of the live people. No budget for spray tans?
The women in the show range from mild whiner to, if you call the zombies I’ll hold her down long enough so they can catch her. Even the kids are unappealing and annoying. Would it be awful to leave them all tied to trees or at least re-cast?
There are four guys besides Rick in the main ensemble. One is Rick’s best friend, who had an affair with Rick’s wife. Rick doesn’t know and the wife (mild whiner) is full of righteous indignation toward the friend because he apparently told her Rick was dead, so why wouldn’t she fall into bed with friend. They whisper passionate/hate-filled things back and forth to each other throughout each episode and I’m convinced by now that Rick is completely deaf or stupid because he’s never more than three feet away. There is an old guy who is the mechanic for the RV they travel around in and keeper of all weapons. The other two are Asian and African American, respectively. I find it weird that neither the women nor the two minority men are armed on a regular basis. What’s that word..............?
Every annoying thing listed could be forgotten if it wasn’t for the obvious.
The zombies.
They are screamingly funny.
I’m pretty sure they’re not supposed to be funny.
It’s not just that they look like a mask I could pick up at Wal Mart, it’s that we’re supposed to buy that people in the show are worried about escaping them. Honestly, all you have to be is awake. Their brains are cheese-whiz and because there’s no blood flowing, their skin is like parchment paper. A stiff breeze won’t take them down, but a baseball bat will – or if one isn’t handy and you’re, say, laying, just out of a coma in a hospital bed, so will the jello you got with lunch. They move at the speed of turtle so you’d have plenty of time to take aim.
All in all, it’s one of those shows that, as an intelligent adult, one really doesn’t need to watch.
But I will.
It’s not that I don’t have better things to do with my Sunday nights. It is the final season of Desperate Housewives. It’s just – well, I’m hooked. Mark too. At least a little. I fully expected him to be the voice of reason after Dead was over and say something to the tune of what a waste of an evening that was, but he didn’t. We discussed the same things I’ve mentioned here, then he looked at me.
“Next Sunday at eight,” he asked.
“I’ll meet you here.”
Sunday, October 17, 2010
Sunday Morning
I sometimes wonder if I’ll ever want to write as much as I once did. I think of stuff to write but every time I sit down here to do so, I have an overwhelming urge to sleep. I am putting forth a lot of energy these days, working on the opening of our easyhome store but this lackadaisical thing I’ve got going is starting to bug me. I’ve always had an apathetic streak, a somewhat laissez-faire approach to life. So laid-back, I’m, at times, horizontal. How do you think I got five kids? Ha! Just kidding. That’s not how I got them, and we’ll leave the subject for another day. It’s time, now, to face the truth.
I’m lazy. If lazy had a color it’d be painted down my back. I used to think I worked better under pressure, which was why I put stuff off to the last minute. The truth is, I thought if I delayed acting on something long enough it would somehow get done for me or I would have no choice but to scrunch up my face, close my eyes and do it without even realizing I’d moved off the couch.
As I grew up, and certainly in the process of raising children, overcoming my casual style of life became a necessity. They had places they had to be and it was up to me to get them there. School, doctors, practices, recitals, games – all came with time and attendance requirements. I have a fairly good track record regarding all these, though some of my children who – possibly as a result of having had to deal with my easygoing approach to getting places – are insane about being on time, might not agree. When the subject is discussed I just remind them there is more to life than being on time.
And it’s true. There is. But it’s not just the, “being on time,” thing. It’s the listless, droopy, lethargic (yes I have the thesaurus open), un-energetic feelings that have caught up with me now that there aren’t a bunch of kids to motivate my movement out from in front of the flat screen.
I can’t have that. I’m only 49 years old (it aint November 27th yet, bub) and it’s much, much too early for me to be laying around atrophying. I’m really convinced that the only thing I can do is put one foot on the floor after the other to drag my ass out of bed and accomplish each and everything I have to do on a given day. Motion breeds motion breeds motivation breeds action breeds creativity breeds accomplishment and it’s all a great big circle/cycle that feeds on itself to allow passionate, imaginative people the inspiration they need to move forward and generate that which they love to produce and share with the world!
And so I will.
Right after this episode of “Law & Order.”
I’m lazy. If lazy had a color it’d be painted down my back. I used to think I worked better under pressure, which was why I put stuff off to the last minute. The truth is, I thought if I delayed acting on something long enough it would somehow get done for me or I would have no choice but to scrunch up my face, close my eyes and do it without even realizing I’d moved off the couch.
As I grew up, and certainly in the process of raising children, overcoming my casual style of life became a necessity. They had places they had to be and it was up to me to get them there. School, doctors, practices, recitals, games – all came with time and attendance requirements. I have a fairly good track record regarding all these, though some of my children who – possibly as a result of having had to deal with my easygoing approach to getting places – are insane about being on time, might not agree. When the subject is discussed I just remind them there is more to life than being on time.
And it’s true. There is. But it’s not just the, “being on time,” thing. It’s the listless, droopy, lethargic (yes I have the thesaurus open), un-energetic feelings that have caught up with me now that there aren’t a bunch of kids to motivate my movement out from in front of the flat screen.
I can’t have that. I’m only 49 years old (it aint November 27th yet, bub) and it’s much, much too early for me to be laying around atrophying. I’m really convinced that the only thing I can do is put one foot on the floor after the other to drag my ass out of bed and accomplish each and everything I have to do on a given day. Motion breeds motion breeds motivation breeds action breeds creativity breeds accomplishment and it’s all a great big circle/cycle that feeds on itself to allow passionate, imaginative people the inspiration they need to move forward and generate that which they love to produce and share with the world!
And so I will.
Right after this episode of “Law & Order.”
Sunday, March 28, 2010
I have been amazed and appalled for years by the attitude the Catholic Church has taken regarding sexual abuse perpetrated by scores of its priests. It is not as if we're talking one or two - dozen - hundred. God only knows how many loose cannons the institution has put in parishes all over the world. The fact that the current pope will not but in general terms even acknowledge the fact that it happened anywhere, period, is personally offensive on an almost indescribable scale. Abuse, whether physical, sexual, emotional or mental is about control. The Church has been about control almost from its inception. Keep the masses in line in order to be in charge of everything from politics to money to property to what goes on in people's homes. Much of what Catholics believe has been either made up or changed over the years until the original mission of the founders has been so lost it's almost as if it never existed. I digress, I know - but I have little patience and less love for the church I grew up going to. At least as it is known today. You don't stop being Catholic when it's all you've known from the cradle. Most of the time anyway. However, they pissed me off fairly early when nobody could give me a good reason why women couldn't be priests. Then there was the speech about sex and sin (none of the Catholic boys I knew were held to this, by the way) and the oldie but goodie about purgatory. Seriously? I'm pretty sure it dawned on my fairly young that we're in purgatory here on earth - if we're lucky. It's not like I didn't try. Like many, I've longed to get past the bull shit and just look for the love. That proved difficult because the, 'unconditional love,' that they talked about came with so many......yeah, conditions. There were so many things a person couldn't do. Mass had to be attended no matter what - and let me tell you it was in our house. I didn't miss Mass the entire time I was growing up more than two, possibly three times.
I lost patience for and interest in the Church gradually over the years, waiting, longing for something to bring me back. It wasn't going to be God, that's for sure. He kept leading me away on a pretty steady basis. It wasn't just the papal eff ups or the ones on a more local level - though some of them were frigging epic. I'll never forget the time my mother and I stood with her parish priest outside my father's hospital room. Dad and Mom had no insurance at the time so when my father became ill, they took him to what could kindly be referred to as a discount health facility. In reality, I'm pretty sure most pet owners would keep their least favorite animals far, far away. The doctors at this place screwed up Dad's meds badly. In fact they overdosed him to the point where it almost killed him. Then, they had to bring him down off the meds - which could have killed him as well. He was at this point incoherant and the doctor kept saying it was either dt's or brain cancer. He wasn't sure which. Mom and I were both in tears as she talked to the priest, seeking comfort and maybe a little help. The priest shook his head and shrugged. No, he said. There's no place in the Church where you could get any financial help. We don't do that. What about Catholic Charities, I asked. Even just financial guidance or advice so they know which direction to go in. My parents have given money to the church unfailingly each and every week even when there wasn't any money to spare and my dad is Methodist. No, nope, he said. I really don't know what to tell you. You know everyone has difficulties. This sort of thing happens to everyone at one point or another. We all have troubles. We stared at the man, pretty much dumbfounded. All I could think of to say was, if we were Mormon, they'd have already written the check. Epic. Let me make clear that this was not a little parish out in the middle of Podunk, Nowhere. It was one of the largest parishes in the Phoenix, AZ area.
I won't go on and on about my grievances regarding the Church. Okay, that's a lie...... They are many and varied. I, like millions of others have been wounded by this organization. Like most of those millions, I could bitch forever. What good would that do? If I believed the dogma, I'd fight to change the Church. The thing is, I don't. Oh, I believe Jesus came and lived to teach us to love ourselves, God and one another. I'm not sure about the virgin birth and have serious doubts about the whole dying on the cross thing (there are many theorists who believe he actually faked the whole thing in order to fulfill the prophecy to the satisfaction of those who couldn't get the message without it). I sure as hell don't believe that the guys who "wrote," the gospels years and years after Christ lived conveyed accurate accounts of his life. It's well known and documented that many gospels were left out of the Bible because they did not send the message the Church officials wanted people to hear. So, all these years later, we, the parishoners are just supposed to follow what was decided for us a millenium and a half ago? If it looks like a sheep, walks like a sheep and you can get wool off its ass, it's probably a sheep. I do not baah.
But again I digress. It's my anger and frustration. It's the hurt. It's the son of a bitch who abused my friends and got away with it. All the Church ever did was make him leave the priesthood. Countless boys, now grown men, were left to fend for themselves in the wake of the wrong done to them by this "man" and the Church. For just as sure as the pope is doing wrong to the victims in Ireland, Germany and Argentina, he continues to wrong those harmed in The United States and all over the world. He represents what is still the most powerful religious organization in existence and he continues to shield those in power from those who would stand for the most vulnerable.
The ironic thing is, the more the Church hides from the reality of this latest atrocity (God, let's not even get into the Crusades), the more its credibility fades. This pope, Benedict XVI, is becoming more like a punchline in a David Letterman monologue than a true leader. If he ever wanted to know what I thought (yes, pure fantasyland, I realize) I would tell him it's simple. When in doubt, look at your bracelet. You know the one that says WWJD?
I lost patience for and interest in the Church gradually over the years, waiting, longing for something to bring me back. It wasn't going to be God, that's for sure. He kept leading me away on a pretty steady basis. It wasn't just the papal eff ups or the ones on a more local level - though some of them were frigging epic. I'll never forget the time my mother and I stood with her parish priest outside my father's hospital room. Dad and Mom had no insurance at the time so when my father became ill, they took him to what could kindly be referred to as a discount health facility. In reality, I'm pretty sure most pet owners would keep their least favorite animals far, far away. The doctors at this place screwed up Dad's meds badly. In fact they overdosed him to the point where it almost killed him. Then, they had to bring him down off the meds - which could have killed him as well. He was at this point incoherant and the doctor kept saying it was either dt's or brain cancer. He wasn't sure which. Mom and I were both in tears as she talked to the priest, seeking comfort and maybe a little help. The priest shook his head and shrugged. No, he said. There's no place in the Church where you could get any financial help. We don't do that. What about Catholic Charities, I asked. Even just financial guidance or advice so they know which direction to go in. My parents have given money to the church unfailingly each and every week even when there wasn't any money to spare and my dad is Methodist. No, nope, he said. I really don't know what to tell you. You know everyone has difficulties. This sort of thing happens to everyone at one point or another. We all have troubles. We stared at the man, pretty much dumbfounded. All I could think of to say was, if we were Mormon, they'd have already written the check. Epic. Let me make clear that this was not a little parish out in the middle of Podunk, Nowhere. It was one of the largest parishes in the Phoenix, AZ area.
I won't go on and on about my grievances regarding the Church. Okay, that's a lie...... They are many and varied. I, like millions of others have been wounded by this organization. Like most of those millions, I could bitch forever. What good would that do? If I believed the dogma, I'd fight to change the Church. The thing is, I don't. Oh, I believe Jesus came and lived to teach us to love ourselves, God and one another. I'm not sure about the virgin birth and have serious doubts about the whole dying on the cross thing (there are many theorists who believe he actually faked the whole thing in order to fulfill the prophecy to the satisfaction of those who couldn't get the message without it). I sure as hell don't believe that the guys who "wrote," the gospels years and years after Christ lived conveyed accurate accounts of his life. It's well known and documented that many gospels were left out of the Bible because they did not send the message the Church officials wanted people to hear. So, all these years later, we, the parishoners are just supposed to follow what was decided for us a millenium and a half ago? If it looks like a sheep, walks like a sheep and you can get wool off its ass, it's probably a sheep. I do not baah.
But again I digress. It's my anger and frustration. It's the hurt. It's the son of a bitch who abused my friends and got away with it. All the Church ever did was make him leave the priesthood. Countless boys, now grown men, were left to fend for themselves in the wake of the wrong done to them by this "man" and the Church. For just as sure as the pope is doing wrong to the victims in Ireland, Germany and Argentina, he continues to wrong those harmed in The United States and all over the world. He represents what is still the most powerful religious organization in existence and he continues to shield those in power from those who would stand for the most vulnerable.
The ironic thing is, the more the Church hides from the reality of this latest atrocity (God, let's not even get into the Crusades), the more its credibility fades. This pope, Benedict XVI, is becoming more like a punchline in a David Letterman monologue than a true leader. If he ever wanted to know what I thought (yes, pure fantasyland, I realize) I would tell him it's simple. When in doubt, look at your bracelet. You know the one that says WWJD?
I keep looking for a reason not to write because that's what writers do. Lucky for me I'm finding lots of them (reasons). First and foremost - rejection. Not by readers. I'd have to have some for that to happen. No, I am speaking of agents. And they're not even really rejecting my actual work. They're just completely uninspired by my query letter. The last rejection notice I got said, "I didn't find myself grabbed by your subject matter." It should have been a very large clue to what I was doing wrong. Instead it knocked me to the mat like I was throwing a prize fight. I've never been good with rejection. My first reaction to it is always, what? You don't like me? What's not to like? Explain it so I'll understand for future reference and while we're at that you can get to really know me at which point you'll LOVE me. Didn't work with dating. Don't think it'll work with getting an agent. Unlike former boyfriends, however, I won't be convinced to give up on agents no matter how many people tell me I'm an idiot and teddy bears with cute saying embroidered on them won't make anyone think of me more often and with affection. The damn agents are stuck with me until one of them finally caves and says, "Yes! I want to represent you more than ANYTHING else in the world!" I believe in my work. Plus, the only other thing I know how to do is retail and that crap will drive me (or my boss) to an early grave depending on which of us is finally driven to load the proverbial rifle.
So, away with excuses and being depressed. To hell with people who don't like my queries. It only takes one yes - a sentiment that if I've heard once I've heard 1000 times. True or not it makes me want to smack the hair right off the person saying it but as it's usually my husband or mother, I'm forced to smile and nod, proving I'm over being down on myself because I can't take hearing how much God loves me when I'm convinced at that particular moment that God could give a rat's ass about anything I do. Also, if I sulk for too long, Mark makes me do naked disco. Don't ask.......
I have to go re-work a story angle now because I saw something in a movie that gave me an answer to a question I had about something in my story that was kind of loosey goosey. Then I have to work on my query again because five of the things have to go out per week. I wonder if the agents would find it more interesting if I embroidered it on a teddy bear?
So, away with excuses and being depressed. To hell with people who don't like my queries. It only takes one yes - a sentiment that if I've heard once I've heard 1000 times. True or not it makes me want to smack the hair right off the person saying it but as it's usually my husband or mother, I'm forced to smile and nod, proving I'm over being down on myself because I can't take hearing how much God loves me when I'm convinced at that particular moment that God could give a rat's ass about anything I do. Also, if I sulk for too long, Mark makes me do naked disco. Don't ask.......
I have to go re-work a story angle now because I saw something in a movie that gave me an answer to a question I had about something in my story that was kind of loosey goosey. Then I have to work on my query again because five of the things have to go out per week. I wonder if the agents would find it more interesting if I embroidered it on a teddy bear?
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