Christ the King and the Big One

Today is the feast of Christ the King. It is the celebration of the coming kingdom of Christ (you didn't see that coming, did you?). There are some great truths out there waiting to be discerned. Christ the King makes me think of The Big One.

Anyone raised Christian learned in childhood that Jesus died for our sins. It's pretty matter-of-fact that He had to come to Earth, in the form of man, to be sacrificed so God would forgive our sins and we could go to heaven. Well, not really, but when you know that almost your whole life, it seems matter-of-fact. It's actually astonishing. Think about it. You're God, you can do anything, and you're born as human. Voluntarily. The diaper stage alone is a lot to go through, when you know what's going on. The Passion, that's nothing, that's a couple of days ~ truly hellacious days, but days. Imagine going through puberty, just to be nice to us. Acne, growth spurts, hormones (Christian theology tells us He is wholly human as well as wholly divine, so He had to deal with it all) for our sins. That's a couple of years. I can think of nothing that would make me willing to go through puberty again. Menopause dancing in front of me, taunting me, is still more appealing than puberty.

But that is still not The Big Truth. I cannot imagine that the nuns didn't teach this, but I can imagine that didn't pay enough attention. I do tend to be rather easily distracted. (Oh, look at what Peanut's doing. What was I saying? Oh, yeah, sorry.) It is amazing that Jesus would go through thirty-three years as one of us, for us. It seems odd, a bit sad, and even mean-spirited that God would do this to His own Son. Why couldn't He just allow our sins to be forgiven? And this is where The Big One comes in to play. Like I said, I assume that it was taught, but I didn't learn it. Sometimes, God whispers in our ears, and we brush Him away like a fly. His messages can be hard to take, it is easier to ignore Him. Sometimes He lets it go. Other times, we will hear what He has to say no matter how afraid we are to get the real message. It's like He whomps you upside the head with a spiritual two-by-four.

We cannot feel the extent of God's love. Our little human hearts cannot bear it. We get teasers, but we won't be able to completely bask in it as long as we inhabit these bags of bones. When our souls are in Heaven, then we will revel in His love. It is because of the limits of our humanity that is easier to think God made Jesus endure more than three decades as man to earn redemption than to accept theTruth. As hard as that is to believe, it is still easier for our fragile human hearts than the Truth.

A couple of years ago, we had the old family movies copied onto DVDs. No one had watched them for about thirty years. My Grandma has been dead more than twenty-five of those years. As I sat in front of the computer, watching two-year-old me with Grandma, I found myself cheering for the toddler, "Pick her up. Oh please, pick her up." As though she'd heard my plea, long-ago Grandma bent over and picked up long-ago me. I could feel her arms around me once more. I could feel her love. (I still miss her ~ she was a great lady.) It was so wonderful to feel that again. I think she was in heaven watching me watch us. It was so overwhelming, I wept.

Once He finally made me understand The Big One, it was like that film of Grandma Johnson, to the nth degree. God didn't make Jesus do it. We did. We know we're unworthy. We offered sacrifices since the dawn of time, trying for expiation. God stopped Abraham from sacrificing his son, Isaac, to show us that we don't have to be worthy. He loves us anyway. We couldn't, or wouldn't, grasp it. Jesus came down, lived as one of us, died for us ~ not so God would forgive us, but so we would accept God's forgiveness. So we would believe that He'll forgive us even though we aren't worthy.

It is a love so powerful it is hard not to weep. It is so much bigger than any human love. We are so unworthy. And He doesn't care. Like any parent, He loves us regardless. He is waiting patiently to forgive us, we just have to ask. That is a mighty regal concept, befitting Christ the King.

Palestinians Are People, Too

Loath though I am to admit this, until quite recently, it hadn't registered that Palestinian is the name of an ethnic group, not a political/terrorist group. Deep down, I may have known better, but certainly not on a conscious level. Palestinians are people of Arab descent. Mostly, they're Muslim, there's quite a few Christians, probably a few atheists (maybe not, though, there are no atheists in foxholes). They are men & women, children & elderly. Palestinians are born, grow up, go to college, marry, have children ~ you know, just like everyone else. I'm sure that there are few black sheep in the family to go with the doctor, the deli owner, the professor. Don't they sound dull? They are. The Ailabounis are ordinary, just like the Andersons and the Schmidts.  I bring this up now because Israel's current activities are, for all intents and purposes, lauded by our president.

Barack Obama says that the US is "fully supportive of Israel's right to defend itself." That's cool. I can accept that. What I can't accept is Israel's definition of defending itself. Apparently, three Israeli civilians were killed recently by Hamas rockets, so Israel is fighting back. Israel, which borders the Gaza Strip (Palestinian territory captured by Israel in 1967) on the northwest & southwest, blockades access to the Mediterranean on the northeast, so the only "friendly" border is the southeastern border with Egypt. This is akin to the US being surrounded by hostile forces except for the California coast. Unnerving, isn't it?

Israel lets Palestinians enter Israel to work, when it feels like it. The border crossing makes a day with the TSA feel like a picnic. And, since the borders are closed capriciously, even Israelis who want to hire Palestinians often can't, due to unreliability ~ you need your employees to show up. Israel controls which people, food and supplies get into Gaza. When they want, they can completely close it off. Yes, there are smugglers' tunnels. Weapons probably get through, but so do frivolous things like food and drugs (antibiotic type stuff). No one should have smuggle food. EVER!

With this much control over Gaza, and with the size of the Israeli Army (176,000) they should easily be able enter Gaza City, find the Hamas leader and do whatever they wish. Israel has all the coolest new military toys, as well they should, considering that they spend $14,000,000,000 dollars a year on their military ($2,799,500,000 from the US). So does Israel go on a manhunt? Nope. They send rockets, and drones, and drop bombs on the suspected houses of Hamas leaders. Not smart bombs, old-school blow-up-the-block bombs. Israel loves to say that Hamas is at fault when civilians are injured because they put headquarters in civilian areas to use civilians as human shields. 

"Hamas is using the Gaza population as human shields," said Brig. Gen. Yoav Mordechai, the chief Israeli spokesman. "They are exploiting crowded residential urban areas." With a population density of 12,000 per square mile, everywhere is crowded. The reason bad guys use civilians as human shields is because it works ~ because the good guys do everything possible to avoid hurting innocent bystanders. There are terrorists in Hamas (the government of the Gaza Strip) but over 40% of the population is young children. And most adults aren't terrorists either.

In five days, 37 Gaza civilians have been killed ~ I've read the Old Testament ~ it's an eye for an eye, not 12 eyes for an eye. As many ten Israelis have been wounded, so they wounded 720 Palestinians (again with that funky math). Makes you wonder who the bad guys really are. Israel seems to want to eliminate the Palestinian people. Every year on Yom HaShoah, Israel remembers the Holocaust victims, perhaps they should reconsider their own actions. It's time they stop. Israel must stop treating the Palestinians the way the Nazis treated their families. Shouldn't God's Chosen People be better than this?

Happy Halfiversary!

My son Joe got married six-months ago today to Lynn, a wonderful woman who has the energy and patience for him (and that's saying a lot). They are one of those couples who are so obviously perfect for each other that you end up saying, "Awwww" or "Ewww" depending on how romantically inclined you are.

Lynn hates to be the center of attention in a large group, so it's no surprise that they didn't have a huge "traditional" wedding. Instead, they were wed on a lakeshore with six guests. After the wedding, we changed out of our dress-up clothes into hiking clothes. They chose to celebrate the formal beginning of their life together by casually hiking up a mountain.

Those puppies, Gelato & Pizzelle

It was appropriate. They've known each other three years this week. In that time they've moved four times, including a move from Minnesota to Colorado with no jobs lined up (I don't think I've ever been that brave). They've dealt with Joe falling through the ice on the Mississippi River ~ honestly, I don't know who that stressed more. They had jobs with shifts misaligned enough that they rarely saw one another. They have puppies whose primary functions in life are chewing up everything, and piddling everywhere (they are getting better ~ but beagles never get mellow). Joe started college. Joe dropped out after a year. Joe takes after his parents. The first job Lynn found after they moved was so bad, she left during orientation, another relationship strain. The job Joe found wasn't bad, but it was another of those "we never see each other" schedules. Yet, they grew stronger.

They didn't want us to have to make a special trip just for their wedding (sometimes, I think they're both a little nuts) so they decided that when we said we were coming to Denver, they'd get married. Lynn & I used to work together (you know what a supportive place that is). So, they knew vacation requests are made months in advance. Unless, of course, Dad turns 50 in Minneapolis four days before Grandpa turns 70 in Phoenix, and a spur-of-the-moment trip to the halfway point (Denver) comes up. We gave them two weeks warning. And they still managed to plan the wedding, on Grandpa's birthday, no less.

They keep jumping these hurdles and climbing these hills and growing ever closer. I've seen Joe mature under Lynn's influence. I've watched Lynn, who had to grow up way too soon, learn to play. They don't just bring out the best in each other, they shore up one another's weak spots. And, together, they climb mountains.

Dream Lake ~ the destination of the wedding day hike ~ is just ahead. This is the
closest picture I have without people, and since I haven't asked for anyone's
 permission to publish their picture, you'll have to make due with this.
And how perfect, to start a marriage with a dream in the heavens
(okay, only 10,000 ft, but who's counting?)

Happy Halfiversary Joe & Lynn. You are a fabulous couple!

I didn't spot this sign at the trailhead
until we got back. Once again, the
fates got to laugh at me.

By the way, Dream Lake is absolutely worth the effort. For a Flatlander, going from 9400 feet elevation to 9900 is a huge an horrible thing. There is no oxygen. None. People say there's less than at sea level but I couldn't find any at all. Halfway up, my lungs jumped out of my chest and rolled done the path looking for oxygen. But, eventually, I made it to the top, preceded by everyone in the group, including my 70-year-old father-in-law.

It was worth it. Dream Lake is breathtaking (in more ways than one). Also, the return trip is exciting. On the way down, I slipped in the snow and landed on my ass. Three. Separate. Times. Because even when you've found the right person and been together twenty-six years, life still has its ups-and-downs.

Happy 91st Birthday!

Chief Petty Officer Yaeger in his brand new uniform.

It is my father's ninety-first birthday. About a month ago he decided it might be time to give up bike-riding, Seriously. A couple of weeks before his ninetieth birthday, he was hospitalized with sepsis. Lots of people were planning to come to his birthday party ~ and we had every reason to worry they'd instead be coming for his funeral. But Dad is tough. He is an ex-marine after all. And that is part of what makes him fascinating. A year-and-a-half ago, eating in a restaurant with Dad, I learned he liked pickled beets. Hmm, mildly surprising. A year ago, he announced he "might not dislike onions after all." Uh-huh. Maybe the Mayans were off by a year? Dad doesn't dislike onions, he hates them with a fiery passion. In their nearly 57 years of marriage, Mom has never been allowed to put a chunk of onions in anything. She can grate in a teaspoon of onion juice, if he doesn't see it (kind of "don't ask, don't tell" onion policy). Within weeks of turning 90, he changed his mind.

Told you they square-danced ~ now it seems cute.

That openness to new things may have something to do with why he's still going strong. He took up skiing in his fifties. Downhill skiing. He bowled & biked until this year. He comes from a generation that expected to slow down at fifty. Dad was just getting started. In the past forty years, in addition to skiing, and going to casinos (he is old, after all) he took ballroom dance lessons with Mom. They took up square-dancing, much to my horror ~ no teenager wants her parents doing that in public. They joined a hiking club. They joined an RV club. They moved into a two-story house that had Dad on a twenty-five foot ladder cleaning out the gutters until he was 86. Mom finally decided they had to move into an apartment because it was the only way to keep him off that damn ladder.

He always been a go-getter. In the summer of 1941, he decided to join the Coast Guard, but he couldn't find the Coast Guard recruiting office, so he joined the Marines. He finished boot camp just in time for Pearl Harbor. He never saw combat, so he insists he's not a hero. It's not that he tried to avoid it, in fact, he tried to be a pilot. But the Marines put him to work maintaining the runways on the base in Samoa. He left the service after The War. Tried civilian life for eight years and went, again, in search of the Coast guard recruiting office. Found the Navy that time. The Navy put him in charge of big guns. And they sent him around the world. Before he left, he met a girl at party back home in Minneapolis. She told him to look her up if ever got to San Francisco. Months later, he got to Frisco, and she had a boyfriend. She convinced her roommate, Ruth, to go out with him. Dad was so nervous (33, ex-Marine, literal world-traveller) that he showed up with friends. He must have said something right, eight months later she married him. At the end of his Naval enlistment, Dad finally found the Coast Guard office. He loved the Coast Guard, stayed there until he had enough years in to retire. He got so good at what he did that the Coast Guard had him teach at the Academy for two years. After retiring from the military, he drove bus around Minneapolis for sixteen years. Then he learned to play.

Dad ~ on his 90th birthday. The W279 is the Eastwind,
the ship that had him spend a summer in Antarctica
(hence, the penguins).

They retired almost twenty-seven years ago. They've travelled all over the country, to Mexico & Canada. Took a Hawaiian cruise. Spent twenty-six winters in Arizona exploring the Southwest. And now, finally, Dad is starting to slow down. Just a little past fifty. Now that he's in his nineties, he wants to learn to use a computer. Oh yeah, he took up Wii bowling, too.



Happy Birthday, Dad! We'll throw you an even bigger party for your hundredth birthday!

Take Back the Holiday!

ENOUGH ALREADY! No more of this nonsense! Black Friday starts earlier each year. Walmart and Toys R Us are opening at 8:00 Thanksgiving evening, Target at 9:00, etc. This is insanity. Half my family works in healthcare, the other half in a combination of retail & hospitality. Obviously, healthcare workers, police & fire people need to work holidays. I understand restaurants and hotels being open on holidays. But who needs to go to Michael's on Thanksgiving? Seriously? You can't wait until tomorrow to get that latch-hook tree-skirt kit? Come Christmas morning, Sophia is not going to know when you bought her VTech Tablet. Aiden will not care that you left Thanksgiving dinner to go buy him a Dreamlight Pillow Pet. He might, however, remember that you weren't there to read a bedtime story.

Have I mentioned Holidays are at my house? We actually like that, it's our choice. The restaurant my husband works at is open most of Thanksgiving for people too lazy to make their own meal. For years now, we've dealt with him not being home until evening. Holiday dinners are already tricky. Now that my parents stopped doing the snowbird thing, they're here for the holidays, and they're old. Really old. "I don't understand why they call it an 'Early Bird Special'. It's served at dinnertime" old. Now the store my niece works at is open Thanksgiving and she may have to be late. My son's store starts Black Friday Thursday evening. A couple more years and it will be impossible to find a time when everyone can be here for dinner.

Peanut prepares for a holiday dinner.
My family may prep differently than yours.

I'm planning for eight to ten people. What on Earth do people with big families do? It is time we Take Back the Holiday! Refuse to shop those Doorbuster Specials. Resist the urge ~ you can do it. Do not shop until normal store hours on Friday. It may take a couple of years ~ but we can win this. We can get our families home for Thanksgiving. Don't shop on Thanksgiving at all. So you forgot the mini-marshmallows, be creative, make a streusel topping instead, or put sugar on it, pull out your blowtorch and have Yam Brulée. Actually, I'm kind of intrigued by yam brulée. Forgot the wine ~ have bourbon instead, it's more American. Forgot the dinner rolls? Tell everyone you've reduced carbs in the meal so we can all have a bigger piece of pie! Who'll argue that?

Can't wait to save thirteen cents on stocking stuffers? Get over it. Buy one less present to make up the difference, we have too much crap anyway. Take Back the Holiday! Don't just not shop. E-mail those corporations and let them know that you have a life and therefore will not be spending money in their stores between 12:01 Thursday and 9:00 Friday so they needn't be open. As sales go down, they'll catch on. Don't you miss holidays where everyone hung out for hours, eating, watching the game, talking about whoever didn't show up? I know I do. Refuse to cooperate with mass-merchandisers (by the way ~ small businesses can't afford to hire the people necessary to be open for twenty-four hours straight, if this becomes the norm, what do they do?). Live your life on your terms. When the L-tryptophan from that turkey dinner kicks in, you should be safely on someone's sofa with your pants unbuttoned, snoring. Do not encourage people to drive to mall while groggy ~ that's dangerous. Take Back the Holiday! It's a matter of public safety.

COOKIE!

I even make cakes that like cookies!
BTW ~ I'm posting this on Joey's
26th birthday.
Happy Birthday, Sweetie!

As Thanksgiving rolls around and the furnace (despite its amazing skin-drying abilities) becomes one of my nearest & dearest, I start thinking about cookies. I like to have at least ten kinds of cookies by Christmas, and at least two candies. I love cookies. I love baking cookies. I love eating cookies (one doesn't become "The Spherical" by shunning sweets). I love experimenting with cookies ~ one of last year's experiments, a cookie that was supposed to be green and red, turned out so ugly it was dubbed "reindeer turds". At least it tasted good. One year, again trying to get red & green, I created a cookie that looked like  moldy, raw hamburger. Even the reindeer turds were more appetizing. One creation, the stained glass cookie, was beautiful. It really was. It tasted like food coloring. Blech.

Oh no! The aliens have arrived!

This year, I've already tried two experiments, in my first batch no less. Candy corn and salted peanuts make a tasty combination, so I thought candy corn in peanut butter cookies, sprinkled with salt instead of sugar, would be wonderful, plus, the cheery fall colors would make a terrific Thanksgiving cookie. I was wrong. Candy corn melts. I knew it would, just not quite so much. Instead of a cheery fall cookie, we were invaded by aliens. Really nasty tasting aliens.

The second experiment worked much better, except I forgot to take a picture. Peanut butter and bacon cookies! Since it was an Elvis inspiration, I think I'll call them King's Cookies. They were nummilicious. I still need to work on the proportions, but it's definitely a keeper. As I progress through my Christmas baking, I'll keep you apprised of the successes and disasters. Especially the disasters, they're usually much more entertaining. Seriously, I wish I had a picture of the moldy-raw-hamburger cookies, you'd be amazed that a cookie could look that bad.

Happy Veteran's Day!

August Johnson ~
my Grandpa & favorite doughboy

Did you ever wonder why Veteran's Day is November 11? Well, before World War II, it was called Armistice Day and celebrated in the signing of the armistice that ended the war-to-end-all-wars. The treaty ending World War I was signed November 11, 1918 at 11:11am. When, less then twenty-five years later, we were enmeshed in another world war, the name was changed. So that's why Veteran's Day is not on a glorious summer day when we could have a picnic ~ no one wanted to stretch that war out eight more months. Deal with it.

Grandma & Grandpa really believed that was THE war-to-end-all-wars. Imagine how horrible for them when they sent their sons off to fight in yet another global battle? Actually, because the two were only 23 years apart (for Americans, for Europeans it was 21) some men got to fight in both, heck, WWI infantry who stayed in and became officers could still have been active duty for Korea. Yegads!

Back to Veteran's Day ~ it was changed to honor all vets. Some folks (who hate having their mail disrupted) think it should be merged with Memorial Day, but Memorial Day honors the fallen, those men & women who died in service to our country. What about those who served, who did their duty, and had to spend (hopefully) decades dealing with what they saw? That is what today is for. This is not the day to get on a high-horse about everything that is wrong with the military. Most everyone who served did so because they love their country, because they love freedom, because they want those freedoms to be available to their children.

Francis Yaeger ~
my father & favorite jarhead

To everyone who has ever served, I offer a heartfelt "Thank you" because, overall, America is a great country. It is fabulous to live in a country where I can publicly say, "I think the president is a short-sighted dipshit" and I only have to worry about offending people. I do not have to worry about being "disappeared" or "re-educated" as folks in some countries. This is a pretty terrific concept. If you don't like America, you can say so. You can run for office to try to change what you don't like. You can campaign for someone you believe will fix things. You can do all of these things because someone was willing to put on a uniform and defend with his life, your right to disagree. For a lot of reasons, not the least of which is my fondness for debate, I really appreciate our vets. Thanks ~ all of you. Happy Veteran's Day!

Shasta Embarrassed Herself

Peanut, the early days

I have a cat in my face. It's easier to type without one, but Peanut absolutely, positively must sit on the mousepad. He's always loved to do that. When he was a baby it was gosh-darned adorable. But now that he is a fully-grown ten-pound cat, he's in the way. He doesn't care. He just gives me that patented, "If you really loved me, you'd let me sit on the keyboard" and rubs my face. Every movement sends a cloud of soft fur into the air. He is adorable, in an annoying way. Peanut is part kitten, part puppy, part little brother. Kittens are playful; puppies are cuddly; little brothers are (I hear) a pain in the neck. In no way at all is he part cat. Cats are cool, sophisticated and more than a little condescending.

Shasta is all cat. Any love she gives is strictly on her own terms. And you'd better be appropriately appreciative or you won't get any for weeks. She shuns better than the Amish. Humans have their uses, she'll acknowledge, for instance, we're much better than she at opening Fancy Feast. That is our primary function, cleaning litter boxes is second. As long as we remember our place, we get to live. Peanut doesn't care, he just wants his belly rubbed. In other words, just like my children, my cats have very distinct personalities. Despite (or maybe because of) this, they are super close. Peanut seems to think Shasta is Mom. Shasta thinks Peanut is her pet, although he does embarrass her, after a particularly clumsy move, she looks away as though to say, "I don't know you." It is very important to Shasta that she always be elegant & dignified.

Shasta, the way she prefers we think of her.

One thing cats really like to do is hunt. Peanut hunts Shasta ~ if she's in the mood to play, they chase each other around the house, then wrestle until Shasta has a couple of paws-ful of Peanut fur, then she's ready to quit. Peanut is rowdier and therefore, usually, the instigator. But this morning, Shasta started the fight. She was atop the china hutch (the tallest piece of furniture, natch). She saw Peanut on the floor and hopped to the bookcase, the entertainment center then, thud, skid, crash ~ she landed most clumsily behind a chair. When she reappeared, her tail was huge. I commented on its size, and Dave replied, "What do you expect, the floor just kicked her ass."

Voting: Privilege and Responsibility

Great Hall Ellis Island

As Americans, we have a moral responsibility occasioned upon us by the privilege of voting. We are the first country in modern times to put running the country entirely in the hands of its people. That is an awesome (as in jaw-dropping) power. Many of the people who came here willingly, came because their homelands gave no power at all to the people. There was a time when anyone could come to America (more on that in a future post) the trouble was getting permission to leave the old country. People came because they wanted to choose their future. The American Dream for nearly every previous generation, was the possibility that, with hard work and careful saving, one could own a home ~ not a McMansion on five acres, a house on a standard city lot ~ and the amazing opportunity to have a say in who made the laws.

Part of that dream included responsibility. No one expected a free ride. No one really wanted a free ride, there is dignity in providing for oneself. There is dignity in meeting one's responsibility. Voting is one of those responsibilities. We cannot sit idly by and complain about the country going to Hell in a Handbasket (as a child I wondered about this Helena Hanbiscuit and why people always seemed mad when they talked about her) if we won't even vote.

Tuesday, I worked as an Election Judge. I sat in one spot from 7:00 AM until 8:00 PM, taking one quick break at the end to cast my own ballot. I spent the entire day registering voters. Thirteen hours registering voters. One-third of the votes cast in that precinct were by people who registered on Election Day. Many states don't have that option because they are afraid of voter fraud. Minnesota routinely has one of the highest voter turn-outs in the country and the Same Day Registration is a significant factor inthat. As the forms are inspected after the fact, when it is too late to undo the fraudulent vote ~ they discover almost no bad applications. In other words, the fears of those who would forbid Same Day Registration are unfounded.

What I noticed among those people registering was that nearly all of them fell into one of three groups:

A) Somehow, inadvertently dropped from the roster. People who had lived and voted here for years, lost into computer oblivion. Would you deny them the right to vote because they were screwed over by a computer?
B) Poor people ~ like the homeless guy who didn't know upon whose couch he'd spend the winter so he couldn't pre-register. His kindhearted friend vouched that yes, for the time being, homeless guy lives here. (N.B. in Minnesota, you must vote at a specific polling place based on your residence) Poor people whose rental was condemned after the cut-off for pre-registration and may have found a new place mere days before the election. Poor people like the grandma who moved in days ago to avoid a state-run nursing home. Poor people like a pregnant girl whose boyfriend ran when the stick turned blue and grandpa just took her in. Fate just kicked them around and now the state should do it again?
C) Educated, entitled, middle-class folks too lazy to register in advance (Doesn't it happen when I move? Not if you don't tell us, dumbass.) Or who can't grasp the whole voting where they live concept (Well, I work over here, this is easier)

Guess which group is least likely to have the right paperwork? You guessed "C"? Why, you're brilliant! Don't feel bad when I can't help them. A & B on the other hand. . . I had a mother come in with her son and his birth certificate, because his ID had just been stolen ~ actually, she just had to vouch for him. I had dozens of people come in with state issued ID's with a correct address and an armload of back-up proof, just in case. Getting a new ID costs money, we had families come in with one person who had changed the ID, vouching for the six who hadn't yet. I had more than one adolescent Hmong come in with Mom, Dad, Grandma & and Auntie to fill out all their forms and act as translator. I had a couple of newly Naturalized Citizens and a lot of newly minted adults casting their first vote.

Statue of Liberty

I felt privileged to assist them. They were so eager to vote that I found myself trying desperately to get them registered. We almost always found a way. The vouching option is a Godsend ~ a registered voter in your precinct can sign your application and vouch that they know you and you do live nearby. People came back with boyfriends, wives, grandpas, cousins, even a landlord was willing to come in. And then the vouchers may as well vote, since they're already at the poll; some of them I'm sure wouldn't have otherwise. All those folks so eager to vote reminded me of how great America is. Thank you, voters.

The Time Has Come: the Electoral College Must Die

I'm sure the Founding Fathers thought it was a great idea ~ create an "electoral college" so that Americans could indirectly elect their president. Having a group of specially chosen Electors would ensure that poor, uneducated Americans wouldn't make a bad choice for president. They also thought slavery wasn't so bad. They were smart men, bold men, brave men ~ they weren't infallible.

So, now, in order to become president, one needs 270 electoral votes. The eleven states with the highest populations (California, Texas, Florida, New York, Illinois, Pennsylvania, Ohio, Georgia, Michigan, North Carolina and New Jersey) have exactly 270 electoral votes, and whoever gets the majority of each of those states gets all their votes.  Majority in this case is 50% plus one, not 2/3 or more. Based on the votes cast in those eleven states ~ we could have elected Mickey Mouse for president with less than thirty-three million votes.

I am a firm believer in the concept of one man ~ one vote. So where's my presidential vote? Living in Minnesota, every presidential vote I have ever cast has gone to the Democrat, regardless of which oval I colored. Even then, it hasn't counted, no one has needed Minnesota's Electoral votes in my day. Nearly three million people in Minnesota voted for president on Tuesday, none of them mattered. We could have all voted the Dylan/Prince ticket, and maybe we should have. We consistently have 70% voter turnout, we never get a real vote. This year, 55% of all Minnesotans voted, for state offices, for amendments, but not for president. Roughly one in four Californians went to the polls, but four of four Californians counts when the Electoral votes are being dispersed so that 25% packs a mighty wallop.

That is so not right. We should all get a vote. Barack Obama won the election with 51% of the popular vote and 61% of the Electoral vote. If you don't think that disparity is a big deal, look up the 2000 election results.  I mentioned that you only need to sweep the top eleven states to win ~ the scarier fact is that the other thirty-nine do not have enough votes (only 268 combined). Thirty-nine states! It's time to get rid of the more-than-outmoded Electoral College ~ write your Representative and Senators.


(NB: The figures are based on data from Election Results and 2010 Census)

Joy in Faith ~ Delighting in God

St Patrick's Cathedral, Manhattan

I've spewed a lot of words against our current Archbishop and realize this could mislead people. I love my religion. The opening hymn at Mass this morning was "Here I Am" and as I sang (probably off-key, but God doesn't care, He gave me this voice) the chorus, "Here I am, Lord. Is it I, Lord? I have heard You calling in the night. I will go, Lord, if You lead me. I will hold Your people in my heart." I was overjoyed. If I could maintain that love for all His people that I feel in Mass, I might not have to worry when the boss calls me into a private meeting.

The Catholic religion is filled with beauty, glory, God's love. But, while the Truth is His, the organization is peopled with, well, people. The Pope is infallible on doctrinal matters, the Archbishop is not the Pope ~ nor is a state amendment Catholic doctrine.

When in doubt, I ask God for an answer, well sometimes He whomps me upside o' the head with a spiritual 2x4 ~ I can't see it but I sure can feel it. For instance, sitting in Mass, distracted by the caliber of the lector, I actually heard, out loud, "I don't see you offering to do it."and the voice was so powerful I felt the vibration. No one else around me did. I took the hint and lectored for six years. Sometimes, though, sometimes He's subtle and I can't figure out what He's saying.  I suspect that sometimes we just don't want to hear the answer, and I pray His patience holds out. We're a stubborn species.

Anyway, just because I don't always agree with the people in charge over what is God's and what is Caesar's, I'm not about to walk away from my Church. I know Christ is present in the Eucharist, I can't walk away from that. In fact, I pray that everyone will find their way back to the One True Faith. Actually, I pray that God will bring everyone home. Andrew Greeley gives a nice explanation about why Catholics stay Catholic even when disagreeing.

Chapel of the Holy Cross
Sedona, Arizona

For years, Catholics evangelized differently, some folks went around telling everyone how evil they were, "Join us or go to hell!" they said. We were odd, unique even, we evangelized by throwing a big party, with food, raffles, bingo & beer and said, "Come join us! God is loving!" We need to go back to that old school Catholic evangelism.

Catholicism has inspired so many through the centuries. Detractors complain of the time & money put into beautiful buildings not understanding why we can't pray in something utilitarian. We can, of course. God hears our prayers in cathedrals, traffic jams, schools, in cities, on mountaintops. The churches are beautiful because the God's love is beautiful. They are humble mankind's attempt to give glory to God. Also, pretty pictures in stained glass are useful for children and those with ADD, while their thoughts will hop to 34 topics in an hour, at least some of them will land on the windows & the statuary and therefore stay kinda sorta on topic.

The prayers are beautiful, too. St Thomas Aquinas wrote Tantum ergo Sacramentum, the most popular English name would be Down in Adoration Falling.  There's also the Memorare:

Remember, O most gracious Virgin Mary, that never was it known that anyone who fled to thy protection, implored thy help, or sought thine intercession was left unaided.
Inspired by this confidence, I fly unto thee, O Virgin of virgins, my mother; to thee do I come, before thee I stand, sinful and sorrowful. O Mother of the Word Incarnate, despise not my petitions, but in thy mercy hear and answer me.

She always answers. Sometimes you feel a little strength from her, sometimes a lot. Like any good mother, Mary only gives you as much help as you really need. There's an old joke about her that says quite a bit about how much joy there is to be found in the Catholic faith. 

One day, St. Peter approached Jesus and handed him the keys to heaven, saying, "I quit, Lord." 

Stunned, Jesus asks, "Why? You do a great job and have all the power to decide who gets in. It's up to you to keep the sinners out." 

"I know, Lord. But it's your mother, every time I turn someone away, she lets them in the back door!"

Sacre Coeur, Paris

That's what the Catholic Church is, you see.  We aren't just a religion, we are family, God's huge sprawling, brawling, loving family. That's why we want everyone to join us, we are all God's children, thus, we are all part of this loud, bossy, devout, warm family. Come to the next reunion, there's a big one every Sunday, close by and the food can't be beat.

It Doesn't Matter If You Pick the Right Candidate When You Can't Find the Poll

The election is a week away. Are you registered to vote at your current address? Are you sure? Do you know where you're voting? Years ending in two (like 2012) involve Congressional Redistricting. This is a snooty government term which means, "We've had time to go throw the census results and fight over new boundary lines. You lose." Okay, that's pretty cynical, sometimes the government does make decisions that don't screw over the average person, I just don't have any recent examples.

Anyway, back to where to vote, when they change district lines you might end up in a new district. Minneapolis actually closed several polling places this year, too, because things weren't confusing enough. Well, that, and staffing a polling site for sixteen hours for less than a thousand voters is not fiscally sound. Yup, they are actually trying to save our money. Oooo! A recent example! That was too easy.

When you get to the polls, you will be helped by Election Judges. These are people who make roughly minimum wage (some actually do it for free) arrive at six in the morning to set up, stay until every voter who was at the polls before eight p.m. has voted, clean up the place and finally get to leave. I was usually done by 9:30, but my old site closed for being too small, I have no idea how late the new one will be. Please be patient with us. We are not regular, full-time employees of the elections departments. We are ordinary people, retired folks, workers who took a vacation day, college students cutting class ~ we do this because without us, you might have to vote by appointment and still stand in line for hours. Imagine if half the election judges quit, there would be half as many polling places ~ and you think the lines are long now.

The Election Judges will sign you in (if you're pre-registered) sign you up (if your state allows same day registration) give you your ballot, answer any questions about how it works, help ensure your ballot is counted, all while remaining impartial. Think about that. If you've been reading this blog, you know I'm opinionated, yet I absolutely cannot share that opinion on election day. It's so very, very hard. But more important than difficult, so I shut the heck up.

Your Election Judges will try very hard to serve you. Please try to be patient if it takes us a minute to find your new polling place ~ we cannot possibly memorize every address in town. We'll try to patient even if you're the 102nd person to insist, wrongly, that this is your spot.

Go to Can I Vote to find out where to go and what you need to bring. This is a nationwide website set up by Elections Officials to help everyone find what they need. Every link on this post takes you there. Please vote. Even if we disagree on every single candidate and issue, please vote. Democracy works best when everyone is involved.

In 2008, in Minneapolis, two election judges helped a woman with curbside voting (for those who can't make it all the way to the poll) because she was in labor and refused to go to the hospital until she voted. That, by the way, is why do it, cause democracy rocks!

It's a Good Life

When I was written up for complaining & being negative, my boss mentioned that she had complaints from more than one person and that is why she had to act on them. I don't know who complained. I don't know who has decided that my complaints are more destructive to the corporate morale than other people's. Note to management: if you really want to eff with morale, plant the bug in someone's brain that someone they work worth is a traitor.

These people have become a major topic of conversation 'round the old water cooler (figuratively, of course, the real cooler was removed because it was too expensive). Many people have asked who I think complained. I find myself afraid to answer. What if the asker is the tattler? Will there be another complaint? Another report? Will I be fired if I complain that someone doesn't like me? Am I the closing announcer for As the Stomach Turns?

My boss's boss's boss
(a.k.a. The Head Cheese)

I strongly suspect my boss's boss's boss (yep, I'm that low on the ladder) partly because he has no sense of humor & is terrible at reading people and mostly because he's a jerk. One needn't being a jerk to manage in my little niche of the Fourth Circle of Hell. In fact, all the previous regimes have been nice people who thought their staff members made valuable contributions to the company and might even have a good idea or two. But the current Head Cheese is about as appealing as head cheese. I try to avoid talking to him anyway, so I don't really have to watch my mouth.

Trouble is, who else? There are so many people we interact with every day at work. You think it's just the guy at the next desk. Then you realize, the girl from the next department, with whom you never deal, does have a cube wall in common . . . and she could be overhearing just enough to completely misinterpret what you said. Or it could be someone visiting her. Maybe it's someone behind you in the breakroom. It could be a friend who meant to be helpful ~ thinking the boss would guide you away from the land of whiny bitches without putting anything in writing (Whoops!). Maybe it's someone you thought was your friend and you thought wrong. The last option is by far the worst.

Several people have asked me why I'm so perky ~ apparently, it's not quite believable. So, my paranoia rages. I'm afraid to talk to anyone, which is so antithetical to my nature that I've spent most of the week with a migraine. Woo frigging hoo. I feel like I'm living in The Twilight Zone episode "It's a Good Life". It was set in a small town with an omnipotent little boy ~ if someone said, or thought, anything unpleasant, he could punish them and would banish them to the cornfield. (The short story upon which it was based is creepier.) So, I trudge through my days, wondering who I can trust, and reminding myself, "It's a Good Life."

Vote Your Moral Conscience

Priests bring up the marriage amendment with varying approaches. Some are frighteningly heavy-handed, last spring, Father Izen of St. Raphael's gave me my first dose of this bitter brew. He threw oh-so-casually into his homily the "fact" the children must be raised by their biological parents,  that adoption means one or both biological parents doesn't love them enough to stick around. After Mass, I sat in the car for a good ten minutes sobbing ~ not a discrete little sniffle, we're talking full bawling with fluids pouring out of every facial orifice. Never, ever, was I made to feel like a second-class citizen until that sermon. And Father Izen, I sincerely hope that on your first day of purgatory you can feel the pain you caused adoptees & their families and gays & those who love them, during that sermon, because Jesus talked a lot about love, and he seemed pretty darned fond of children, and I cannot believe that he'd like hatred spewing from the altar in his name.

Today, Father Don (St. Hedwig Church's greatest asset) brought up the election. He doesn't do well with the mean approach. At the Prayers of the Faithful, he reminded us of the upcoming election and prayed that everyone would pray and, "Vote your moral conscience." What a beautiful way to put it. Isn't that what priests should tell their parishioners, "Vote your moral conscience"? I seem to recall my seventh grade religion teacher telling us we shouldn't follow anyone, even bishops, blindly, lest we be led astray by false prophets.

If you pray on the subject, and open your heart, and listen for God's answer, won't you vote properly? I've prayed and prayed. The answer that keeps coming is "Love one another." As a Catholic, chapter & versing doesn't come naturally, I had to actually look up the verse I wanted. It's Matthew 22:39, "Love your neighbor as yourself" That's a quote, from Jesus; he's kind of a bigshot with us. I love myself enough to marry the person I truly love. Jesus keeps whispering "love" in my ear. So, I have to vote "NO!" because that is clearly the more loving choice. I don't presume to know God's mind (unlike Mr Nienstedt). What I do know, is that if I'm wrong, and I could be, it will be a lot easier to face the Final Judgement having wrongly supported love than wrongly supported bigotry.

I think I should be able to marry whomever I chose (and I did, woo hoo!) without the state saying I picked the wrong gender of person. It's a slippery slope we're on. First, the big push to decide which gender one can marry, next they'll decide which race is appropriate. Pretty soon, the government will decide which religion your prospective spouse must be.

There is a great song that everyone pondering voting yes should listen to. The first time I heard it, I felt the Holy Spirit and it wasn't saying anything bad about homosexuals, it was agreeing with the song.  You'll have to follow the link because I couldn't embed it. For all the children.
God bless and vote your moral conscience.

Me & My Bad Attitude

I am a terrible, awful, horrible, despicable human being. Possibly, not even human. My supervisor would tell you that's not what she meant. HR would tell you that's not what was meant. But, when you get called into a closed-door meeting and informed that your complaining, negative attitude and derogatory comments are inconsistent with "corporate values" and must change or disciplinary action will be taken which can include termination, you gotta figure you're Hitler-esque.

I've tried to wear my heart on my sleeve but it's too protected there ~ instead I hold it out in front for everyone to see and spit on. I know I complain a lot. I thought that I mixed niceties in with the complaints, but there was no mention of that. I regularly make people laugh, but that doesn't count. I praise my coworkers frequently, apparently not to the right people. I thought actions spoke louder than words, but they whisper. 

So what was the incident that got me in trouble? A coworker was on vacation and I complained that it's hard when she's gone. She works twice as fast as anyone I've ever seen in the job (and I've seen dozens). It's not that other people aren't good enough, it's that you notice when Michael Jordan doesn't play. She is on a completely different level. In my twisted world view, I expressed praise for her, and no, I have no idea what my actual words were, but obviously they were bad. Apparently, the actual words were along the lines of "No one else is any good."Others (yes, plural) complained to my boss that I trashed them and made them feel bad. 

Really? You can file a complaint when a co-worker hurts your feelings? This meeting hurt my feelings.

Also, I gossip too much. Ummm . . . kay. . . half the time I talk about others, someone else started the conversation (also, someone else is always in the conversation). And we're expressing opinions, not making accusations. Are they being written up too? Is no one ever allowed to say anything about or to a coworker other than "Great job, team! I suck but you're wonderful!!"

If I have anything bad to say, I have to say it to someone who the power to fix it, usually, that would be my supervisor. Uh. . . my supervisor has a blank look or a glib answer for everything (seriously, only extremes). My manager can't make a decision to save her life (if you don't like the idea just say "no"). My director believes in "change for change's sake" and absolutely will not listen to any opinions or ideas that do not agree with his opinions and completely support his changes. 

She did say if I want to talk about people behind their backs I should do it outside of work. Going to a bar after work is a good way to handle it. Well, my alcohol consumption has quadrupled in the last four months, I guess I still need to drink more. Will I get in trouble if everyone but one person is invited to the bar? 

Are all companies like this now? Does everyone get a participation ribbon? Time to go pound my head into the wall.

My son's in an ambulance again. . .

My first-born is studying to be an EMT. This is a good career choice for him, since, like his mother, he has the attention span of a gnat. He is most interested in ambulance crewing (is that the right term?) and that has to be a job free of monotony. Joe has been in ambulances before he started EMT school ~ not as a ride-along to shadow an Emergency Medical Technician, he just had a knack for near-death experiences. Yep, I'm that glib about it, mostly 'cause that keeps me from hyper-ventilating. I am prematurely grey due to a concerted effort by my children. Seriously. I've performed CPR & the Heimlich, pulled a glassy-eyed semi-conscious child from a pool, lost a six-year-old at the Minnesota State Fair (near the Grandstand, no less) and a ten-year-old at a bog. My boys are so good at dramatic injuries, illnesses and disappearances that my reaction to something as mundane as a broken bone is like, "We should probably get that set." I do still wig out at assaults, they may say they're fine. but. . .  (note: we don't live in a good neighborhood, they actually have been assaulted). But, otherwise, it's got to be big to get a reaction.

So, back to school, Joe has been in ambulances, urgent cares & emergency rooms in multiple states. Some people check out the museums, he checks out emergency care (which actually runs in the family, we had one trip with such bad food poisoning that my brother & I both hit two ERs). He had an idea what he'd be getting into, or more so than most, anyway.

He wasn't worried about blood & gore. He knew he could handle the curriculum. He survived me, so he knew he could handle panicky next-of-kin. What he was really worried about was babies. You see, he has not held a baby since he was four and his brother came along, and he doesn't remember that. He was scared that his first memory of holding a baby would be while it was dying. That's a reasonable fear, it could happen and what a horribly sad first-baby-moment.

He's done his first shift in an ambulance. He ended up holding a baby ~ but, not the way he feared. He helped deliver it. I think he's gonna like this EMT gig.

Everything in this house sucks except the vacuum!

That's a quote, from my mother-in-law, God bless her soul. Sue was a funny lady. It was their anniversary last week, and that got me thinking of her ~ they'd have been married 51 years if she were still alive. What reminded me of the vacuum quote was a fight with my own vacuum. It may be dying. Accidentally feeding it a cat toy probably didn't help. It kept turning off.

For some idiotic reason, I own an upright vacuum. I have maybe 100 square feet of carpet in my house, most of that a sculptured Berber, the best design ever for holding on to crap you're trying to suck up. Never, ever buy a sculptured Berber. Most of my vacuuming needs are in corners behind furniture, under furniture, the drapes, the ceiling ~ you know, places where cat fur and cobwebs collect. There is a hose on my vacuum, fully extended it's about six-and-a-half feet, I have eight foot ceilings. Vacuuming cobwebs means lifting my upright 18 inches off the floor. Assuming, of course, that I can get the vacuum directly beneath the cobweb. Usually, I lift the bloody thing at least three feet then stretch to the side. It's like yoga, with weights. And no grace.

Would you mess with this cat?
She'll protect us from the evil vacuum monster. 

So, I'm lugging the darn thing around the house, trying to clean up after the now-miserable cats. Peanut, in a rare show of common sense, high-tails it out of the room . . . oooh! I just got that expression! Shasta, on the other hand, follows me, hissing. I don't get it. She hates the vacuum with a passion unbound, but stays near it. Like Vito Corleone, she seems to believe in keeping her friends close, but her enemies closer.

I went into the bedroom and spotted a centipede (gads, I hate those, ewww) on the wall. "Aha!" I think, "Nothing can live in a vacuum!" So I lifted the vacuum up, reached across the dresser with the hose and sucked up that bug. Feeling proud of my martial skills, I carry that vacuum around sucking up cobwebs, until I realize that the uninhabitable vacuum probably refers to space, not a Dirt Devil.

I put the vacuum down. Not picking that thing up again. How long can a centipede live in a vacuum bag? Aw, crap! That cat toy was filled with nip. Do centipedes eat catnip? There's a lot of nip. The toy was at least as big as the bug. If it eats all that catnip, it will be huge. It'll be a jungle sized centipede. I really don't want to change that bag. The vacuum is back in the basement. It'll be awhile before I can touch it again. It was behaving badly. Maybe it's time to buy a new vacuum. We could just throw the old one out.

What About the Children?

Cue Helen Lovejoy, "Won't somebody please think of the children?" It's the latest attack in favor of the marriage amendment. Yes, in favor, remember, this amendment is to illegalize already-illegal same-sex marriage. Idiocracy in action. If it seems I hit this topic a lot, it's because it matters, and we're running out of time.

Apparently, the big risk in legalizing same-sex marriage is that children will be raised by someone other than their biological parents. It tells the children that one or both people who made them, doesn't love them enough to raise them. Children should only be raised by the mommy & daddy who made them.

BULLSHIT!!! The best way to be raised is by two people who love you & each other and that doesn't have a damn thing to do with genetics. Trust me, I'm an expert. My more-or-less-sane-and-well-adjusted children were raised by the couple who created them, who love them and love each other, for always (26 years and counting). It seems to have been good for them. But that is so not always true.

Minnesota for Marriage would have you believe I should have been raised by my sperm & egg donors. She was a teenager, he was married and a father. So, I guess, Minnesota for Marriage supports polygamy? Instead, I was adopted by a couple who couldn't have any more children, but wanted another. They're still in love after 57 years, and comparing me to "regular" kids, my mother once told me, "Their parents got stuck with them. We picked you out special." Mom, you totally rock.

Two boys, two girls, a boy & a girl? Who cares? If they love each other and the children, if they're committed to each other and the children, the children will be fine.

Let the constitution protect freedom. Vote NO! Love is love and it's what children need most.

An Open Letter to John Nienstedt

He's getting quite a few of these open letters lately, hope he appreciates the sentiment behind them. I am Catholic (as in, I drag my butt out of bed to attend Mass every week because Jesus is more important than sleep) and I have no problem with homosexuality. I find myself increasingly embarrassed by Archbishop Nienstedt and actually wondering when he'll start demanding that homosexuals wear pink triangles so good people can avoid them.

The truth is, the church has NO business in this matter. No one is trying to make any church perform what it considers inappropriate weddings. To sue the government over Obamacare then argue that her stance on secular marriage must be enforced by law makes a hypocrite of the Church. That makes me sad. So, Mr Nienstedt, I'd like to share a few quotes with you. All Biblical quotes are NIV.

This one is frequently used in marriage Masses, even though it is Ruth speaking to Naomi ~ but, oh no! Wouldn't that be the evil same-sex marriage? Ruth 1:16 ~ Where you go I will go, and where you stay I will stay. Your people will be my people and your God my God.

We all need to practice this more. No mention of only loving heteroes. John 13:34-35 ~ “A new command I give you: Love one another. As I have loved you, so you must love one another. By this everyone will know that you are my disciples, if you love one another.” 

Matthew 7:1 ~ "Do not judge, or you too will be judged. For in the same way you judge others, you will be judged, and with the measure you use, it will be measured to you. "

You say homosexual marriage is immoral and should be banned but, and this might be my favorite, it's from the then Bishop of New Ulm, John Clayton Nienstedt, "We cannot legislate morality."  

Tea with Tumnus

National Coming Out Day was this week (October 11). That occurred to me as I was walking down a hall at work and "Mark" was coming out of his office. It was hard not to chuckle out loud, as "Mark" is so far in the closet he's sipping tea with Tumnus. Everyone in the office, except "Mark," knows he's gay. It's a bit funny, but it's more sad. When I expressed confusion that an adult could not know he's gay when it is so obvious to everyone else, a friend explained that she was in her early thirties before she came out or even fully accepted her own lesbianism. On some level, she'd always known, but tried to convince herself otherwise, because gay is wrong. And that's the story all around. We expend a lot of energy telling everyone that it's wrong to be gay. By the way, National Depression Screening Day is also October 11 ~ I'm assuming that's intentional.

According to the Surgeon General, homosexual males are four times more likely to attempt suicide than their heterosexual counterparts. Four times. Four times. I don't know about you all, but I find that number horrifying. The Ruth Institute (big supporters of strait [pun intended] marriage) tries to claim that less than 1% of the population is truly gay since many gays have dated members of the opposite sex in their teens. This is true. Not necessarily because of heterosexual feelings, more because of a culture that tells them they are sick and perverted. Passing a constitutional amendment to permanently ban gay marriage will do wonders to reassure lonely teens of their importance to society. And why, if less than 1% of the population is gay, does the Ruth Institute even care? How much damage to traditional marriage will they do?

We. Must. Stop. Torturing. Children. We have to stop encouraging bullies ~ and if you think passing that consarned amendment won't encourage bullying, you're kidding yourself. Being gay is no more perverted than being straight. Gay or straight, tall or short, black or white, that's how God made us ~ and it's about time we accept that and let adults marry the adult of their choice: gay, straight, tall, short, black, white, whatever. Even the Catholic Church has declared homosexuality to be nature, not a choice. Why would God make someone want to "pair bond" with a specific gender, make them attracted to only one gender, then deny them the option of bonding because it's the wrong gender? It's really such a little thing, why not tell gay teens it's okay to marry who you really want. It's okay to love who you love. It's okay to be who you really are. 

Vote NO!

Quote of the day, and isn't this the love we want all our children to find: "Let me go with you. Wherever you go, I will go; wherever you live, I will live. Your people will be my people." Ruth 1:16 (GNT) That's right, an Old Testament quote from a woman to woman. 

Where's My Treat, Bitch?

I have two cats. Peanut is friendly, affectionate, playful ~ he thinks he's a puppy. Shasta, on the other hand, is pure feline. Shasta is strikingly beautiful, and knows it. She has thick, lustrous black fur, with a charming white necklace and playful white bikini. She's elegant, graceful, condescending. We all know what female dogs are called, but do you know what a female cat is called? Queen. Shasta is well aware of this fact and finds it perfectly reasonable. When H. Rider Haggard wrote of She Who Must Be Obeyed, he was really thinking of a cat like our Shasta.

She spilled the catnip. Then rolled in it. She looked like the
ceiling of a planetarium.

She does have a weakness, one thing that will cause her to humble herself. Shasta is a nip-ho. She will do anything for nip, even tolerate having her claws clipped (she bitches, but only scratches once or twice). In effort to get her to file her nails on something other than my couch, I rubbed catnip all over her long-neglected scratching post. It worked. She loved that post. She molested that scratching post. It was the best thing ever. Until the nip wore off. Then the couch returned to primary target status.

Dave had a "better" idea. He somehow got her to scratch once, then gave her a treat. Those Temptations are almost as good as catnip. The next time she used the post, another treat. Pretty soon, the sisal on the scratching post was frayed, she'd scratch & scratch and get those treats. But, it didn't really look like she was into the scratching. She scratched shorter and shorter times before seeking that treat. It began to look as though Shasta had trained Dave to give her treats.

Now, she's a man's gal. I am allowed to exist only if I serve her needs. This has been long apparent ~ if I turn on the faucet when she's thirsty, open those Fancy Feast cans, etc. she won't kill me in my sleep. Sometimes she goes to the post, drags one paw down its surface, sits in front of me and gives me a very clear look, "Where's my treat, bitch?"


I need to take good care of my opposable thumbs, if I can't open those cans, I'm in a world of hurt.

PLOP. . .goes the wedding ring.

I itch, a lot. I scratch like a dog with fleas. It's gotten so embarrassing that, for a fun vacation treat, I finally went to see a dermatologist. She determined I have a rash. That isn't as stupid as it sounds, she thinks the seven separate rashes all the same. One of her recommendations was taking off my wedding ring before I wash my hands, and not replacing it until my hands are completely dry.

This is harder than you might think. After twenty-six years of always wearing a ring, taking it off is easy to forget. So, I stepped into the shower, ring and all ~ just like normal. When I remembered, I thought about putting my ring on my pinky, after all, there's no rash on that finger. But, it's a pretty sloppy fit on the pinky. What if falls off and slides down the drain before I can grab it? Fishing a ring out of the drain, with all that hair an slime, ewww. Dilemma.

I open the shower curtain a bit & ponder where to put it. The window sill, two inches away, didn't occur to me because . . . umm . . . because I hadn't yet had any coffee? The toilet lid? Yeah. That's close and level. (stop laughing) I gently tossed my ring to the toilet, thinking how much better this is than risking it going down the bathroom drain. (didn't i already tell you to stop laughing) It landed perfectly on the very smooth lid, slid to the back, down ~ clanking cheerily as it bounces off the porcelain and under the seat. Even with the shower going, I heard my wedding ring go PLOP into the water.

Oh yeah. It's so much more fun to fish it out of the toilet than the shower drain. Admittedly, the toilet was freshly scrubbed (thank you, God) and the shower was. . .errrr. . . less than immaculate, but still. . . something about reaching into the toilet is so icky.

This wasn't the first time I've felt how cold the water in the bowl is (very, for those who don't know).  When I was very little, no more than three, Mom was hanging some handwashables over the shower curtain and I was sitting. That hole is pretty gosh-darned big for a toddler. I lost my grip. I went splash. I remember my tail in the water, my hands & feet in the air, shoulders caught by the seat. It was very undignified, and a little scary. "Mom!" I screamed. "What?" she snapped, turning. I don't remember what she said, but I do remember the horrified expression on her face.

When someone is late, in my family, it's not unusual to ask, "Did you fall in?" I was in my thirties before I learned that no one outside of my family knows that expression. It is just an ongoing joke at my expense. Gee, thanks Mom & Dad.

Genealogy tip of the day: This cannot be said enough, check the math. I can't tell the number of times I've looked at someone else's family tree to see that Bob was born in 1920 and Bob's mother was born in 1868. Really? Possible, but not likely. Usually, it turns out that Mom was born in 1886. Sometimes the purported mother was actually a grandma. Anytime someone has a child after fifty, it's worth double-checking. 

The Wimpiest Hero

Donated platelets today ~ first time ever. It took an hour-and-a-half, but I got to sit in a comfy chair and watch a mediocre chick flick. I picked The Time Traveler's Wife and I'm not sure I could have followed it if I hadn't read the book, but having read the book, I kept looking for missing scenes and characters, etc. It was a pleasant movie, but read the book, it's better.

Anyway, platelets ~ so they stick needle in, just like a regular blood donation, only this time they suck out your blood, spin it around, pull some plasma and all the platelets they can get, and return the rest. Ninety minutes and they got what looked to be thirty cc's of sweetened condensed milk. Apparently, that's a good amount. The various people who need platelets include bone marrow transplant (BMT) patients. Now, my regular job involves making drugs for BMT patients, so the opportunity to do even more for my patients, while sitting on my ass, is extra cool.  I gave my platelets, watched a movie, got my cookie ~ Memorial Blood Center gets the best chocolate cookies ~ and went on my merry way.

While I was driving home, all smug cause I'm some kind of hero, saving lives and all that, I realized that I'm about the wimpiest hero ever. In an actual crisis, I'd be doing good to remember to call 911. Seriously, the pain in the butt in the movies who stands around crying, "Oh God. Oh no." until you want to reach through the screen and throttle her, that's me. Heroes are cops and firemen. A hero is the guy who sees a couple fighting and steps in to pull the dude off his girlfriend. An EMT who braves the scariest of ghettoes to get to his patient is a real hero. Heroes risk something more than the possibility that the chocolate cookies will be gone by the time they're done lounging in their comfy chair.

Next time you see a hero, say thanks. In the meantime, go earn a cooky so I won't have to be the only wimpy hero-lite.

Genealogy tip of the day: When looking at census forms, check institutions in the area ~ some relatives end up in state hospitals, some in prisons. Don't be disappointed if you find them, a black sheep (or a polka-dotted one) livens up the family story. 

OMG! Homosexuals in love!

A gay couple might want to get married someday. Here. In Minnesota. Oh, the humanity! For years, Minnesota was a haven for people who didn't (or at least, tried not to) hate groups of people for something they couldn't help. I'm talking after World War II, of course, we were atrocious in the twenties. Lately, though, we seem to be getting good at that hate thing again.

This whole business of a marriage amendment is silly at best ~ hateful at worst. I think most supporters are drinking the Kool-Aid and have decided that if we don't have a constitutional amendment banning gay marriage (which, by the way, is already illegal in Minnesota) that we'll be overrun by all sorts of special interest groups who want to redefine marriage as a legal opportunity to bond with children, farm animals and their ten best friends.

Proponents claim that gays will destroy marriage if they can marry. How much damage did Sally Ride and her wife do to the institution of marriage? None. How about Larry King, with seven exes? He makes a mockery of it. Easy divorce does far more damage to the cultural institution of marriage than gay marriage ever could. Welfare wreaks havoc on the family by encouraging couples not to marry ~ if Antoine marries Shauniqua, he'll have to get a job to support his kids, if he doesn't, he can live off her check; that destroys marriage and shreds the traditional family. Mai and Toua can marry at 15 and somehow that's okay, but Ryan and Mike can't marry at 30? Preposterous.

Churches should certainly continue to be allowed to pick and choose who they'll marry ~ if you don't like their rules, go to another church ~ it's called Freedom of Religion and is guaranteed by the First Amendment. The state is another subject entirely. The state should only be allowed to discriminate in marriage based on age (and 15 is way the heck too young). If we must have an amendment defining marriage, let's define it as a "binding contract between two consenting adults".

Marriage is the only contract where gender matters. And it shouldn't. Love is love and should be something we celebrate. Happy couples ~ all happy couples ~ are good for us. Emotions are contagious, so let's spread love & happiness instead of bigotry & bitterness. Vote NO.

And now these three remain: faith, hope and love. But the greatest of these is love.

Genealogy tip of the day: If Great-UncleWalter, the confirmed bachelor, shows up on several consecutive censuses with the same male roommate, they were probably more than friends. Wouldn't it be nice to end the lie for future generations?