Just the usual, run of the mill dreams (at least for me, because I’m pretty sure not everyone dreams about saving the world from alien invasions pretty much every night. Except for, you know, Steven Spielberg).
Running throughout them, however, is a common image: rosaries made of lapis lazuli.
Oh, you don’t have to tell me about the meanings behind the various symbols.
It’s dark in the mornings, and we all climb on the streetcar in silence. We recognize each other, fellow commuters traveling the same rails together day in and day out. Nothing ever changes.
We fall into our own distractions, sounds piped into our ears to drown out the world, reading homework or magazines or novels to keep from having to look at each other.
The next stop, though, something changes. People are muttering, shifting about, craning to look through the windows, past our own reflections, at something new.
The park has sprouted little white flags in the night.
“What’s going on? What are they? Is this some sort of college prank?”
Someone who just got on explains to us all. “The sign said every white flag is for 5 civilians killed, and every red flag is for 5 Americans killed in Iraq.”
We start craning our necks, looking for red flags. They should be easy to find in this sea of white. Someone thinks they spotted one, turns out it was a discarded food wrapper that got blown into the exhibit.
The man in the “God Bless the USA” hat quietly says, “That’s a lot of people.”
As the streetcar passes between buildings, my last view is of the little white flags, waving in the breeze.
They stretch for four blocks.
Iraq Body Count Exhibit
Dear Mister (yes, MISTER) Pro-Life Blogger:
Not that it’s any of your feklaptin’ business, but I take birth control pills. Yes, me, the celibate one over here. I take them to better regulate the hormones in my body, and without them I will bleed for about two weeks out of every three and have to go to the hospital for blood transfusions. Funny thing, it’s entirely possible that I have the exact same condition as the woman you’ve probably read about in Matthew 9:20-22, Mark 5:25-34, and Luke 8:43-47.
If you don’t have insurance (like I won’t after March 30th), these pills cost $145 a month. I wouldn’t even try to convince a Catholic clinic to write me a script. Planned Parenthood, the only women’s health clinic with no income restrictions? $39 a month. And the added bonus of having to look at dead babies and be called a whore by my coreligionists as I go in to pick up my script!
Would you shut your trap, please? You’re making all us Christians look like jackasses.
In Christian Love,
I got called out by a coworker for being more of a sarcastic bitch than usual.
“I’m too tired, grumpy, and hurty to care” I shot back in an email without thinking.
“Hurty? What hurty?” was the reply.
“Arthritis.” I sniped. One word email. Supposed to stop the damn questions.
“You’re not supposed to be 28 with arthritis!” the coworker replied. “What’s up there?”
Mmm, yes. Let me tell my joints that.
Interesting. Their reply was, “What’s your damn point?” And then my spine made crunchy noises and my ankle tried to give out on me when I stood up to go to the copier, but I outsmarted it.
Today is not a good day.
I’m getting bifocals and yooooou don’t!
*does the dance of “I’m So Much Cooler Than You”*
Back in good ol’ rainy, gloomy, Portland, where the only tamales to be had are at the kinda skeezy cart near the Central Library (no, I haven’t broken down yet and purchased some from them, more out of a sense of duty to my g.i. tract than anything else).
So, yeah, where to begin? The trip home had good points, sure enough, but there was also the fact my grandmother was in a coma from the 16th to the 18th, but according to her own words, she “put on a good enough show” on the 19th that they sprung her from the hospital on the 20th and she showed up at the family gathering on the 24th. And my other grandfather went seven rounds with his dementia on the 25th and wound up cussing out my shocked and appalled auntie, who’d been in rather deep denial about his worsening mental state until that point.
All that pales in comparison to C’s story, though. She’s a friend of the family, and she visited with us for a couple of hours on the 24th before leaving to pick up her son G for lunch. She called my mother half an hour after she left because G was dead. Mom dropped everything and drove down the Mountain, leaving me as de facto hostess in a house where I have trouble locating water glasses, let alone all the accoutrements for Christmas Dinner.
And once again I curse CSI and NCIS and Criminal Minds and all those shows because we have to wait six weeks for toxicology reports, to know whether or not this will be treated as a suicide or a homicide.
I’ve got nothing to end on.
I just had a conversation that might just possibly lead to a decent-paying, permanent, full time gig in the city I adore.
It’s not a teaching gig.
Ooog. I tell you this three times, and what I tell you three times is true: I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t know.
Update with more information-shaped things now that I’m not in the office: I’ve been trying to get my teaching license for THREE YEARS. Of those three years, I’ve spent 16 months at this gig. Been called back twice. And every time I’m back, a new position opens up that pays about the same as teaching, and I’m GOOD at this job and I like working here.
Butbutbut, it’s not teaching.
I wrote “Golden Compass” and now I’m getting a whole bunch of hits and a couple of annoying comments from people who stumbled here from Google.
Listen, folks, I don’t like The Golden Compass. Because I think the books state fairly clearly that childhood and innocence are stupid. Which makes me think the books are stupid and Philip is a stupidhead and he has funny hair to boot. Nyah.
What? Me? Franciscan? How could you tell?
ANYWAYS! I found a new blogger who I adore muchly. His name is Josh Indiana. Because, uh… I think he’s from Indiana?
Here’s what he say:
I am forever getting useless ideas. Yesterday I spent a couple of hours working on a business plan for a chain of coffee- and teahouses which would locate Episcopal oratories in your local strip mall. Starbucks, watch out!
I fantasized about renting a storefront here in my town and starting up a little food-and-Jesus operation. It was pure lunacy, but great fun, figuring out how to franchise Jesus Coffee. (Hey, it could work!)
[…]I wonder how many other hungry souls are out there—not just Gay or Episcopalian, but people of any denomination or simply those who yearn for God, without much “faith” at all—people who have been turned off or rejected by the institutional church but need a spiritual home. Might they find it easier to worship in a coffeehouse, or even a bar? How about a place that sells Bishops’ Blend fair-trade, shade-grown coffee, Monks’ Blend tea and Joshua’s Banana-Nut Muffins?
Here’s what I say: SIGN ME UP, PUNKIN! I would live there, I tell you what.
Considering I practically already live in a coffee shop (or three), well, it wouldn’t be that much of a lifestyle stretch. I’d change the name of this blog to the Order of Santa Pasquini.
The fact that I know Pasquini off the top of my head should say a lot about me, nu?
As you all know, I’m fat. I come from a long line of fat little Mexican and Italian and Irish women. Who are obsessed with their weight. I buck the trend, though, because while I care about what I’m eating, I don’t freak out about it.
So this post from the blog I just found called Elastic Waist. I think I’m a little bit in love with them.
Top Ten Comebacks for Well-Meaning but Obnoxious Relatives
We know that you’re cringing about the combination of food and older relatives who feel somehow invested in your size (be it a size 4 or a size 24) while you’re just trying to get your groove going with the giblet gravy. We’ve compiled a top ten list of responses in case someone dares to prod you about your weight.
- Oooh, do you really think you need another biscuit? “I don’t need it. I WANT it.”
- Do you know how many calories that has? “Yes, and I’m looking forward to every one of them.”
- I’m having a fat day. “Me too, isn’t it awesome?”
- You have such a pretty face. “You should see my pretty ass!”
- You’re too fat! “For what?”
- You look like you’ve lost weight. “I’ve actually gained 150 pounds, but I wear it really well.”
- You’ve gained weight since (whenever)? “Yes! Jealous?”
- When are you going to lose some weight? “Why do you need to know?”
- Response to someone talking about you behind your back: “I’m sorry, you might want to keep it down. I wouldn’t want anyone else to hear what an asshole you are!”
- And our all-purpose response for every rude question ever: “I beg your pardon?” (If they are dense and repeat the question, repeat yours. If they simply say it louder, ignore them for they will die clueless and unhappy and you will go on being awesome.)
I could probably just leave the post with that as a title and get y’all thinking and talking. There are few things in the world that people have well-defined, strong positions on, and makeup is certainly one of them.
Boys, don’t think you’re getting out of this one. I know some of you wear foundation. And some of the rest of you boys are cringing in horror at the suggestion that you not only could, but should wear foundation.
Here’s the thing: I’m getting older. Yay! Older! WOOHOO! But as I get older, I’d like to be taken more seriously in the workplace. I’m going to be doing beaucoup job interviews, and the first thing they look at when they look at you is your face.
(Unless you’re wearing a really low-cut top, which ain’t terribly professional in the first place.)
Makeup is considered part of a professional appearance in Western society. But here I come at it from a Christian Minimalist attitude– Okay, no, really, I’m coming at it more from a I-Love-Me-Some-Sleep-and-I-Work-Hard-For-My-Money attitude. Why should I get up 20 minutes early to paint up my face with ridiculously expensive stuff when it’s either going to sweat off in the next hour or be washed down the drain? But then again, the I-Work-Hard-For-My-Money bit goes hand-in-hand with Christian Nimimalisim, especially when you need to buy a cleanser and a scrub and a serum and a calmer and a moisturizer and a primer and a concealer and a foundation and a powder and and and OH MY GOD ALL I WANT IS TO NOT LOOK SO BLOTCY AND RED AND PASTY IN THE WINTER!
(If you don’t believe me that all this stuff is considered ‘basic’ by the cosmetics industry, you’ve never been accosted by a Mary Kay lady.)
And then we get into the drama of if’n we’re gonna wear the makeup, which makeup is more ethical and has the fewest chemicals and won’t feel like I’ve stuck my face in a bucket of mud and how exactly do I teach myself to put this stuff on about 15 years later than most women start ’cause I really, really don’t want to look like Amy Winehouse when I grow up…
Oy gevalt. I think only a blogging Christian could make this much drama out of a bit of eyeliner and concealer.