theology

working out my salvation with fear and trembling, and hoping God has a sense of humor

The Lost Art of Redneck Cookery, Historical Excursions, and Inevitability

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It is fortunate that my grandmothers taught me how to cook. Since it is legend in my family that my Mom’s atrocious culinary offerings caused Suzie the Dachshund’s premature death, I’m glad my grandmothers were around.  In all fairness, Suzie wasn’t a particularly picky eater, even for a dog.  She was known to eat underwear, socks, rocks, her own poo, Barbie heads and assorted limbs, and pretty much anything else that would fit in her gaping maw.  So Mom’s cooking- I can still see the mashed potatoes with the big black burnt flakes and the accompanying “gravy” that was the texture, flavor, and consistency of partially hardened concrete- might have been a contributing factor or even the final tipping point, considering Suzie’s complete lack of discernment in her eating habits.   

I won’t say that I am the best cook there is by a long shot, but I can hold my own with most old-time redneck cuisine.  I can roll my own noodles, (no I do not “roll my own” anything else, except maybe pie crust) fry chicken, grill steaks, bake breads, pies, cakes and cookies, make soups and casseroles and roasts, etc.  Unfortunately these are skills that most young people see as being quaint and obsolete.  I could not be any more weird to the kids if I went out and shot deer, tanned the hides and made my own shoes .  My son and his friends consider microwaved ramen noodles, pizza delivery, and Taco Bell to be the apex of fine dining. 

The relevance of learning cooking skills  just doesn’t register with the POMC.  He worked at Taco Bell for two years and figured that was enough cooking for him.   He thought I was completely nuts to be boiling a chicken and rolling out noodle dough when you can get chicken-n-noodles all ready to be microwaved in less than five minutes, courtesy of Marie Callender. 

In my humble opinion- while some microwave meals aren’t half bad and I am not above eating them on occasion- when you do have the time and motivation to do the authentic slow food thing it tastes better.  My old time redneck cuisine isn’t all loaded down with salt and preservatives and heaven only knows what else either. 

Admittedly, most women of my generation (and most likely those younger than I) are about as clueless about home cooking as I am about football or other assorted man-sports.  My grandmothers’ generation was probably the last generation to consider cooking an essential skill. 

So here I am with my archaic skill sets- yes I can cook and bake, and do needlework for what it’s worth.  I enjoy down-home slow cooking when I have the time.  So there.  But it does disturb me that it’s a dying art.  It’s getting harder and harder to find things like shortening, cornstarch and various spices. Even worse, it’s getting harder and harder for me to find the time.

I am looking forward to Dad’s Birthday Cruise on Saturday.  It’s sort of disquieting for me to go since I’ve not had a classic air-cooled VW for years, but his buddies in the car club are cool and it’s always a good time.  I wouldn’t miss it barring extreme illness or Act of God, since it is also Dad’s birthday party, and an opportunity for me to get him an embarrassing gag gift.

We always go to one or two historical sites in Marion County.  This year we are going to the tiny village of LaRue to see a collection of Jim Thorpe memorabilia and then to check out another guy’s extensive collection of license plates.  Dad is always good at picking out interesting places to go.  I was sort of disappointed that we weren’t doing anything architecturally related this time, (I so enjoyed touring the Harding Home and Etowah a couple of years ago,) but it’s good to mix it up.  I might be surprised at what I get to see.

In a way it is almost painful to go home and revisit the past.  So much that I see in the history of those places points to a future that should have been better and brighter than today.  Unfortunately I was born into a place and time that was just on the cusp of catastrophic decline, and in a sickening sort of paradox, as I grew up, I watched it all fall and disintegrate and decay.

I know the reasons behind the fall, but hindsight is 20/20.  When one is confronted with the lingering shadow of what could have been, that which has become a spoiled, dusty, failed memory, and today’s more sordid reality, it can be disheartening. Sometimes when I drive past the decaying monoliths of a long-dead industry I see my own heart, my own spirit- something that belonged to the past and sort of exists, at least in form, but isn’t really there anymore.

I look at the idle, rusting frameworks and I see my own metaphor drawn out, speaking the unsaid, wrought in cold, dead steel.

Everywhere and nowhere, all points converge here.

I can find divers examples of proof for the devolution of humanity, believe that.  Just go to WalMart.

I don’t know what is more frightening- WalMart in the summer, or the stunning vision (or was that a sight) of fat, bald dudes in Speedos that we were treated to at Put-In-Bay.

The Birthday Cruise always ends at the Marion Cemetery, which I have not even come close to fully perusing despite emptying out my memory card and spending a Sunday afternoon last March taking pictures of almost everything that caught my interest. A 2GB card is not enough, especially if you want high res pics.

I’ve always thought this to be the saddest monument in the Marion Cemetery, poor six year old Wallie.  For being almost 150 years old, his monument has held up remarkably well.  Perhaps a grieving mother put this up years after Wallie’s unfortunate and premature passing, but it is consistent with the often maudlin Victorian traditions of memorializing the dead.  In those days death wasn’t just an Old Person Thing confined to hospitals and nursing homes, shrouded in wiring and tubes and technology and sanitized by distance and closed doors.  In 1864, when Wallie succumbed, death was a Living Room Thing, something that visited old and young alike, that was intimate and piercing and all consuming. 

Perhaps in society’s sanitization of death we have also depersonalized it and in the process have stripped ourselves of some of  our humanity.  We live with the false assumption that we have forever. 

Granted, medical science has come a long way in postponing death.  I would have likely been worm food thirty-odd years ago if not for antibiotics (yes people did die from rheumatic fever) and was almost worm food for sure twenty years ago- even with an eleventh hour c-section.   Delaying the inevitable is exactly that, though.  We all have to die, but we aren’t very good at facing it.

Dylan Thomas exhorted us to, “Rage, rage at the dying of the light.”  I think there is a sort of futility in that gesture.  On one hand there is the tragic death of one who seems to forfeit so much potential- someone young, someone with a great deal of talent, but then there is also the tragic life of one who is suffering and weary of life who longs for the sleep and peace of death and can’t find it.  God can make sense of such paradox, but I can’t.

There have been times in my life when I have wondered why I have been left to suck up valuable oxygen while those who I feel to be more worthy of life die.  That’s a question that I can only leave to faith- and to trust in the wisdom of God.  I figure no matter how long I am here, it’s only for a limited time.

Ask not for whom the bell tolls…

God’s ATM? Some Armchair Philosophy and Theology, and Odd Cuisine

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I don’t think God would mind if the driver of this PT Cruiser borrowed $1.40 from the kitty to replace the right rear taillight bulb.  Yeah, not only do I notice vanity plates and the burned out taillight, I also notice the big scrape on the left side of the rear bumper cover.  I’ve been in automotive way too long. 

Anyone who could afford to be God’s ATM could probably afford a little more high style ride than a PT Cruiser.  I would imagine if God were to drive a car He would pick something really good like a Mercedes or a BMW, not an underpowered and pathetically forgettable Chrysler offering.    On a philosophical and theological level, the thought of someone being God’s ATM- even as a sort of joke- and especially while driving a PT Cruiser- is a bit unnerving.  First of all, I really don’t think God needs money.  He created the universe, so it would stand to reason if He needed a few Ben Franklins ($100’s) and Yuppie Food Stamps ($20’s) for some reason that He could handle that without any help from a guy who really needs to check his bulbs and who also needs to stop backing up into poles.

Seriously, if God is God, then what in the flying thunder can anyone do for Him?  It smacks of arrogance and hubris for anyone to think he or she is indisposable to God.  The paradox in this is that humanity was created to serve God but apart from God we can’t even do that.   I am reminded of little kids who fashion crafts from things their parents have bought and present the crafts back to the parents as “gifts.”  Technically, you’re giving me my own stuff back, only now it’s scribbled and slobbered on.  That’s about how good of a job we humans do for God.  We take his stuff, make it crappy, and then- if we’re feeling generous- we give it a teeny tiny bit of it back to Him. 

We put our kids’ lame artwork on the fridge not because it’s good (generally it’s anything BUT fine art) but because we love our kids, and they tried.  I’d like to think that God smiles on our lame efforts too, but I really don’t want to fall under the illusion that I’m all that great or important.  I know I’m not. 

I’m certainly not even close to being God’s ATM. 

 

 

Why, oh, why do people whose ancestors come from the British Isles eat some of the most disgusting things?   Apparently canned sheep tongues are popular in Australia- complete with the cute little sheepie pictured on the can.   I’m surprised they don’t put the cute little sheepie picture on the lamb and rice dog food.  Americans generally aren’t into mutton, so maybe that’s why they picture dogs on the dog food bags.  Dogs may be pictured on the bags for the benefit of the illiterate, but I could see how a rube might think that dog food is actually made from dog meat, rather than, “This is what your dog is supposed to eat.”  Never underestimate the power and depth of stupidity and/or ignorance. 

 

 

No, Virginia, there is NO dog meat in the dog food bag, regardless of what you see in the picture.

I know some people in the US eat beef tongue (nasty enough) but think about it.  I’m sure sheep lick each other’s butts just like dogs do, but even if they didn’t,  I don’t want to eat something’s tongue. 

The Brits get the prize for the weirdest food in the Western world by far though.  Americans love potato chips, right- but in civilized flavors, such as sour cream and onion, barbeque, cheddar cheese, hot and spicy, etc.

Brits love potato chips (although they call them “crisps”) too, but the flavors are a bit more unique:

Mmmm, Cajun Squirrel and Chili Chocolate.  

Remind me if I ever travel to the UK to bring my own stash of food.

Why I Am No Paragon of Morality, Frumpiness and Poverty=Deliverance From Temptation?

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I try to avoid scandal and gossip for the most part, but a snippet in the (for lack of a better term) gossip column of yesterday’s Columbus Dispatch caught my eye.  To my horror, none other than Neal Schon has been implicated in a rather sordid affair with the White House party crasher chick.  I think he could do better, but that’s neither here nor there.  Granted, Neal Schon is probably the finest living guitarist on the planet today, (and nothing would change my opinion on that one) but that doesn’t mean one should look to him as some kind of moral example.  If anyone were tempted to be a tomcat, I can see how Neal Schon would be- he’s still a good looking guy, even though he’s well into geezer territory,  he’s a phenomenal songwriter and guitar player, and he has money to burn, etc.  He can pick and choose his women freely.  I find it hard to imagine too many women (yours truly included) who would have the moral fortitude to say no to a dude like that, even if you were well aware that regardless of whatever dalliances you get to enjoy, the relationship itself will almost assuredly turn out to be temporary.  In other words, I don’t know too many women, especially Journey fans of cougar age, who would turn down an opportunity to get busy with Neal Schon. 

I think in some ways my troll-like appearance and lack of material success has helped me maintain some kind of morality, especially in recent years.  I’m not tempted to drop everything and take off with a hot rock legend, but there is more to the story.  I’d never be offered the opportunity in a million years.  It can’t be a temptation if it’s an impossibility.  Jerry has his faults, but I’m lucky to have an old man with hair and teeth who is gainfully employed. 

Any dude I could scrounge at my advanced age, with my rather pathetic bait, would more than likely be a downgrade.  I am not digging correctional institute inmates, dudes 80 and older, the chronically unemployed, or deviants from the sex offender registry, even if there were a chance that they might have working Johnsons.  I’d much rather use my imagination and battery operated assistance like I already do than to stoop to an even lower level.   I hate to say it, but there ain’t no Coupe deVille in any Cracker Jack box I would be able to pick from.   Jerry, with his drunken tirades and ED, is definitely no prize, but then again, neither am I.

The silver lining of this dark cloud is: It’s a lot easier to be chaste and moral when you have no access to the alternative.  I should really be thankful for my frumpiness and relative poverty when all is said and done.  I get to stay out of trouble- if only by default.  No moral dilemmas here for me, and that’s a good thing.

I freely admit I don’t have the moral fiber to resist that kind of temptation.  If (and this is most certainly in theory) I was some hot chick that every man alive wanted, I would be the first one out there sampling the buffet.  If it were raining men, I would be right on out there with a big old bucket.  Believe that.  I can’t blame Neal Schon for doing exactly the same thing know I would do (only I would, obviously, be banging every hot dude at my disposal) if I had the means.  Truth be told, I don’t know very many people, when given the means, would be able to resist.  The spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak- especially if the flesh is hot and has plenty of cash and popularity.  Yeah, you know it’s morally wrong and you might even feel guilty, but at the end of the day I know I don’t have that kind of fortitude.

Nobody in their right mind is going to settle for last night’s leftovers when you’re having gourmet dinners delivered to your door. 

Perhaps it’s wrong for me to put a theological spin on things, especially with the clear and ever present knowledge that a lot of my outward moral behavior is by default, but maybe this is one of the things Jesus is talking about in the Lord’s Prayer.  Lead us not into temptation.  I know all too well if I were able to get close enough to that kind of temptation- hot dudes, sordid affairs, etc. that I would fall right on in. 

That’s not to say I avoid temptation altogether.  As much as I would like to say otherwise, even though chastity is the least of my worries (by default), I am tempted by a lot of other things.  I am tempted to be judgmental and sarcastic- even though I don’t have any kind of inherent virtue apart from the grace of God.  Left to my own devices I know full well I am a vindictive, vengeful, greedy, sarcastic bitch.  As hard as it is to take sometimes, I should be more thankful for my situation and shortcomings- if only to be reminded of my proper place.

I can’t point a derisive finger at Neal Schon or throw stones at his current paramour.  I’ve probably done far worse (though much more privately) in my lifetime than either of them.  I live in the glass house, and I have skeletons aplenty in my closets.  The major difference is that because of my frumpiness, poverty and obscurity nobody cares.  I’m thankful for that too.  What happened in the ’93 Camry stays in the Camry, you know?

The Camry tells no tales.  I am very thankful for this fact.

I even have a certain amount of pity for serial fornicators.  Even though it has been a very long time ago, I do know the thrill and the excitement of the pursuit of forbidden fruit.  It’s a hell of a rush- until the excitement dies, the other party decides to chase something else, and all you have left is shame and regret and a faded memory.  I know all too well the embarrassment of having done ridiculous things under the spell of temporary lust.  It’s not rational.  Following one’s heart- or one’s desires I should say- can lead one to act like a horse’s ass. 

Maybe there is more to the story for these lovers.  I know, it’s like a car wreck.  You don’t want to watch but you can’t help it.  Everyone wants dirty laundry (to quote Don Henley) and it’s particularly juicy when it comes from a highly unlikely and shocking source. Perhaps there is more to this sordid saga than simply animal attraction. Perhaps they truly do love each other.  Sending the cuckolded husband a pic of one’s junk is probably not the most tactful move, but I have to admit,  it is funny.  I wouldn’t mind a peek myself. 

 

 

 

Sins of Omission, Synchronicity, and There’s No Escaping Murphy’s Law

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I am sure the tome from the 1950’s advertised above has long been out of print, but I bet it’s most informative.  I can only imagine how quaint and tame the descriptions of sex acts in this book might sound when compared to some of the crazy things people do today.  I am sure this book does not contain terms such as, “dominatrix,” “golden shower,” “dirty Sanchez,” or “fisting.”   It may come as news to some, but there was actually sex before the 1960’s.   It was just kept behind closed doors, for the same reason most people keep the vacuum cleaner in the closet.  You know someone vacuums the floors from time to time, but you don’t necessarily want to keep the vacuum cleaner on display. 

In my case, the vacuum cleaner has been in the closet a very long time, but that’s my problem.  Involuntary celibacy is not for the faint of heart.  It is for the troll-like of body, and too soft of heart, however.

Speaking of vacuum cleaners, sometimes that’s the only thing in my life that doesn’t suck…which sucks because the vacuum cleaner is the one thing that’s supposed to suck.  No matter what I do (and I am sure that having three cats, three large dogs, and an incessant smoker doesn’t help here,) keeping the damned thing unclogged takes more time than the actual act of vacuuming.   I would like to pose a challenge to any vacuum cleaner manufacturer.  If you can provide me a vacuum cleaner (that I don’t  have to unclog, replace the belt, or completely rework every three minutes of use) that will actually suck up dog hair and the various other detritus- especially those damned cigarette pack cellophanes that Jerry trails behind him- that ends up on my floors, then you will actually have a decent product that is that is worth the $100-$500 one has to pay for it.  So far I have not been able to find any vacuum cleaner from any price range, manufacturer or design that I deem to be effective.  Let me do your product testing! 

I highly doubt that any vacuum cleaner manufacturer would be able to build a vacuum cleaner that would work for any length of time in my house.  There are just too many opportunities for Murphy’s Law to manifest itself.  First of all there’s the dog hair, most notably Sheena hair.  Sheena is a Husky/GSD crossbreed- with the horrific perennially shedding thick double coat found in both of those breeds.  To make it worse, Sheena’s hair is predominately white, so it doesn’t blend in.  So at any given time, save for right after I’ve vacuumed, you will find tufts of white fluff pretty much everywhere.  The house has been Sheenatized. Lilo also has a dense double coat, but the bulk of her shedding is in spring and fall (or the Central Ohio seasons of Monsoon and Fall Monsoon) so hers isn’t usually as bad.  Clara is the lightest shedder, with the sparser Malinois coat- but during the twice a year blowouts even she can drop some serious hair.

Dog hair is lethal enough to vacuum cleaners, but then you have Mr. Cig Pack Cellophane dropping those nasty bits of clear (and therefore almost impossible to see) plastic all over creation to clog up the works along with the hair.  One may pose the question, “Why doesn’t he throw them away in the trash can?,” to which I must reply, he was raised by wolves.  I am doing good for him to get a daily change of clothes and a  daily shower.  Beyond that, he pretty well leaves a trail of wrappers, cig butts, pop and/or beer cans, wherever he goes.  There is a laundry chute in the bathroom and the whitey-tighties still end up on the floor.  His mother did not train her POMC very well.  I hope I did better with mine.

My favorite Rube Goldberg machine is in the “Pee-Wee’s Big Adventure” movie- the machine that serves up Pee-Wee’s breakfast, including his smiley face pancake and Mr. T Cereal.

To me, the Rube Goldberg machine provides a wonderful illustration of logical progression- what led up to this and that and finally the final result.   It also is a wonderful illustration of what happens if a step in the progression fails.

For the want of a nail the shoe was lost.
For the want of a shoe the horse was lost.
For the want of a horse the rider was lost.
For the want of a rider the battle was lost.
For the want of a battle the kingdom was lost.
And all for the want of a horseshoe nail.
I remember these verses from an old book of children’s stories my Grandma had- all instructional tales with a moral to the story, similar to (and included some of) Aesop’s Fables.  Today when I think about these verses it makes me wonder how history would have been different had Operation Valkyrie succeeded, or even more dramatically, had the elaborate chain of events that led to WWI fallen apart somewhere. 
 
Yes, it may sound cheeky, but I wonder what my life had been like had I actually had the proper bait to go trolling for men.  🙂   
 
Then again one cannot forget the condition of synchronicity- all things working in parallel, or what I see to be the overwhelming tide of the will of God that makes the events of history plod onward and forward in ways we can neither control nor fully understand, no matter what  individual human effort is made to prevent or change them. 
 
Personally, I thought killing Hitler was a pretty freaking good idea- but as sadistic as it might sound, apparently there was a reason he lived as long as he did, and a reason why he wasn’t killed by the many assassination attempts against him.  I don’t understand why despots and sleazeballs are allowed to keep on truckin’ and those who really could be a benefit to society either die in what seems an untimely manner, or live out their days in impotent obscurity.  I can’t see the entire picture and I don’t pretend to.  But God is behind it all, whether we see things to be good or evil or incomprehensible.  One of the hardest things for me to do- being a rational type and all- is to stop trying to understand and just believe God has a purpose.
 
Far be it from me to claim to have more wisdom than Solomon, or to question the sovereignty of God like Job. 
 
It can be entertaining to play the history “what if” game- but ultimately there’s no escaping Murphy’s Law.  Humanity has been drowning in its grandiosity and hubris ever since the tower of Babel.  I can’t say Obama is the only human to get caught up in his own hubris, but he’s a good example of it.  I can only hope and pray that by the grace and mercy of God this blathering fool is booted out of the Oval Office- and that the American people have learned a lesson not only about the ways of petty tyrants, but of the folly of “sympathy voting.”  Isn’t it just as racist to vote FOR someone just because he’s black (or half-black) but clearly unqualified to hold the office as it is to vote AGAINST a qualified man simply because he’s white?

I don’t wish even someone as misguided as Obama eternity with Beezelbub, or even scathing, humiliating defeat,  but the way he’s going now it seems like scathing, humiliating defeat might just be what he wants.

If the World Ended 2 Hours Ago, Why Am I Still Here?

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I love black cats.  Isabel is quite sanguine today as usual.  None of the girls seemed to be tuned in to all the apocalyptic hoo-hah.

I figure the Lord is already here.  He’s been here eternally.  Even at the intersection of Morse Rd. and Cleveland Ave., (this billboard was up there last December) although I wouldn’t want to be there after dark.

Sheena did well at her vet appointment.  Her surgery is scheduled for June 22.  I am glad our regular Vet will be assessing her this time and will send the offending growth out for biopsy.  She seems to think these growths are benign, but that any strange mammary growth should be removed as a precaution.  I want it gone because of where it is.  Mammary cancer is not as frightening and deadly in dogs as it normally is in cats, but I’m not letting it get out of control- if that’s even what it is. With dogs, 50% of mammary growths are benign, and even those that are cancerous are usually not metastatic cancers.  Even so,  possible cancer is enough to be paranoid about.

I do believe what the Bible says about the End of Days.  I am not so confident in people who want to play with numerology, funky ancient calendars or manipulating Bible verses out of context to make them support outlandish claims.  The clearest thing in the Bible regarding the End of Days is that we can’t know when it’s going to occur, and we shouldn’t really try.  Any day might be my personal last, so all I can do is the best I can, and I’ll have to trust in the grace of God for anything and everything along the way.

I think it’s kind of funny how we went from annihilation by the Impending Ice Age to extinction via Global Warming in the span of less than thirty years.  It goes to show that science is not always right, and that the hubris of humanity is the third most plentiful element in the universe, right behind shit and stupidity.  Are we blatantly arrogant enough to think that the future existence of the planet is contingent upon whether we drive our cars or bury them?  The greenies haven’t made what I feel to be a coherent argument as to why I should exchange toilet paper for washable cloths either.

No human being is more than a slight electrical charge away from physical death at any given time anyway.  The only thing between me- or anyone else for that matter- and the Dirt Nap, is that spark that tells the heart to keep beating.  That’s a good reason not to put too much into this world and what it has to offer, because you’re going to spend a lot more time in the next.  Some things are for forever, but most things aren’t.  The challenge in this life is to learn the difference.

So we can hope people might put a lid on the doomsday soothsaying- at least until 12-21-12, that is.  Methinks barring personal calamity or God having different plans than mine for my sorry carcass, that I will wake up on 12-22-12 and  I’ll still have to get Christmas candy for my niece and nephew so that they can get (much to my sister’s distaste) their chocolate fix on Christmas Day.

I hate motorcycles.  I really do.  Clara is very disturbed by the bikers that tool up and down Stygler Rd. with their loud exhausts blaring.  I wish the bikers would stick their loud pipes where the sun don’t shine.  I don’t like things that disturb my dogs.

Not even Obama has done enough damage to bring on the apocalypse.  Yet.

The Power of Prayer, “No” IS an Answer, and the Freedom to Not Be In Control

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I am a control freak.  I freely admit it.  While I may not completely agree that Asperger’s syndrome should be in the same category as autism, and I’ve never really thought of myself as being “autistic lite,”  (I do function fairly well out in the neurotypical world) but I can identify with the Rain Man really well on the whole routine and habit thing.  Although I don’t necessarily insist on buying my underwear at K-Mart, (I don’t live anywhere close to a K-Mart, going in to the Wal Mart near me is more terrifying than being the last one left standing in an ’80’s slasher flick, so I generally go to Target for such things) I have a certain brand and style that I pretty much buy and wear exclusively.  I have certain things that I like and certain order I like to maintain in my world.  I only like to change my routine when it’s my idea. 

One of the really wonderful things about the Serenity Prayer is that it’s a big reminder on Who is really in control, and thanks be to God, it is NOT me.   That is a liberating statement.  The fate of the free world does not hinge upon whether or not things go my way or whether or not I screw things up or even if I forget to do things.  It really has absolutely nothing to do with me, so I am free to play word games on the DS and to turn up the volume on the TV when Jerry starts in on his drunk and stupid diatribes in the middle of the night.

As a child growing up with a Very Strict old-school Catholic mother (someday I will have to expound on old-school Catholic motherhood for those who never had the distinct privilege of enduring purgatory here on Earth) there were Acceptable and Non-Acceptable prayers. 

Acceptable prayers were: The Our Father (without the “and thine is the Kingdom, the power, and the glory, forever and ever” line that the “heathen Protestants” add on,) and the Hail Mary.  You could never go wrong, if you were asked to pray, if you said either the Catholic version of the Our Father, or the Hail Mary. 

Unless of course, you were asked to say Grace, which had to be Catholic Grace.  No “Protestant heathen” Grace, such as, “God is great, God is good and we thank Him for our food.”  You dared not even to use the longer Lutheran Grace which is often sung, and starts out with, “Praise God from Whom All Blessings Flow.”  It had to be the “Bless Us Our Lord, for These Thy Gifts” prayer, that’s Catholic Grace, and Mom liked to always add a few lines on the end of  it about her friend Judy’s boils, or about starving kids in Africa, or a thinly veiled nag fest on how Dad needed to stop smoking (he eventually did do that) and straighten up and go to Mass and be converted to Catholicism (don’t see that happening, ever.) 

Acceptable Prayer also included confession.  It was OK to tell God how nasty you were for having fantasies about sending your sadistic older sister to Africa with the starving kids, or how you got the telemarketers to quit calling the house by telling them Mom is not home because she’s been committed to the Asylum for the Insane, and she won’t be back for a year or two. 

Non-Acceptable Prayers included such things as:

“Protestant heathen” prayers, unless you were praying for the “Protestant heathens’ ” conversion.

Praying for stuff for yourself such as money, a pony, a remotely human looking boyfriend, a dirt bike, clean socks, or new clothing that actually fits, of your own choosing.  You weren’t supposed to waste God’s time with your selfish demands when there were far more pressing problems in the world such as Judy with her boils, Dad puffing away on cigarettes whilst being a “Protestant heathen,”  and  of course, there’s starving kids in Africa.

Praying for retribution- even if your sisters really do deserve to either be sent to Africa or to be abducted by space aliens, and even if the boys who put the used condom in your book bag really should wake up with a wicked case of jock itch for their trouble.

I prayed for a lot of crazy things when I was a child, and if I were God (in retrospect) I would have had to say no also.  It’s probably a good thing that my sisters didn’t end up in Africa.  They’d have gotten wicked sunburn.  Nobody in their right mind would have given me a Porsche 911 when I was 16 either.   Nobody in their right mind would give me a Porsche 911 now that I’m 42.  The distressed Subaru DL with its vicious oil leak, and four different sizes and tread patterns of tires, that I did end up with when I was 16, was oddly sufficient.  But “no” is an answer.  I prayed to be tall.  I’m 5’4′, the perfect height for “petite” pants to be high waters and for “regular” pants to drag the ground.   God has a sense of humor.  I prayed to be physically attractive, or at least not to have “the face that stopped a thousand trucks.”  I have the proportions of a mutant troll, and I have a face and hair combo that would scare the bejesus out of small children and dogs if not for hair color and strategically placed makeup.  Again, God has a sense of humor. 

If nothing else, my purpose in being kept vertical and drawing breath is to keep the Clairol and Maybelline folks in business, as well as ensuring that someone will always be out there to buy capri pants, whether or not they are technically in style.

I don’t want to run the universe.  I’m happy enough to have my own TV remote.  At this point in my life all I ask is for the grace to take what I’ve been given and roll with it- to be rich enough that I am not forced to steal, and to have enough to share with others.  No, I will never be beautiful, or even free from excessive body hair without continual vigilance.  No, I will never have a doting spouse, or piles of money, or anything even close to what the world calls success.  So what.  I belong to God, and He has good plans for me- and they will probably even be funny.

If God said, “No,” then apparently I didn’t really need what I asked for.  God knows what I need, but a lot of the time I don’t have the good sense to see it unless He shows me.  A lot of times He has something a lot better for me than the thing I asked for that He said “No” to, but I would never gotten to that point without getting that “No” answer first. 

The importance of prayer is not so much in praying for the “right” things but in the whole process of seeking, knocking and asking (see Matthew 7:7-8.)  It’s OK to ask God for what in retrospect may be very silly things.  God always has the perogative to say “no.” 

I have more than a few friends and acquaintances who claim to be atheists, and they are free to believe there is no God. I can’t argue for the existence of God only to quote the words of a wise Lutheran Pastor- “If you are saved, it is to the glory of God alone, but if you are damned, the fault lies upon you alone.”   

But I fail to see a logical answer for life, for order, for the existence of the universe itself,  in random chance.  I fail to see any kind of omnipotence in mortal men.  Everyone who has attempted to “rule the world forever” has fallen in a blaze of failed glory.  Even those who have attempted to usurp power that isn’t rightfully theirs on a smaller scale have ultimately failed. 

I make a lot of jokes regarding the current President and what I consider to be his dangerous, evil and failed policies, but it really isn’t funny.  I know that Christians are called to pray for the leaders of their government- even when praying seems like a silly thing to do because the person or situation you’re praying about seems utterly pointless.  But sometimes God answers “Yes” to impossible things, because He is in control and I am not.

So I’ll keep on praying that Obama gets impeached- or at the very least that the damage he does do will be limited and fixable, and that his heart will be changed from evil to good.  God may say “No” to my prayers for very good reasons that I can’t see, but He still wants me to pray.  Even if it’s silly.  Even if it’s trivial. After all, what do we talk to our friends about?  Do we address our friends with rote quotes using archaic words like “thee” and “thine?” Do we shield our friends from the rather unsavory parts of our lives, and try to put up a happy front when in reality we are pissed off and want to take someone’s head off?

Prayer is just conversation.  Sometimes it’s silly, sometimes it’s serious, sometimes it’s angry, sometimes it is the wordless, airless, deep-void lamentation of grief.  God wants to hear it all- not so much the memorized “thee” and “thine” stuff (though rote prayer can be a good starting point, especially when your mind has lost its words) but He wants all of us-  the heartfelt anguish and questioning of Job, the joy (and repentance) of David, and the humble trust and obedience of Mary. 

Save by the grace of God…

I’m glad He’s in control and not me.

elysianhunter’s “Inferno” (Hell as I See It) and Its Denizens, Swamp Life, and I Need a Hobby

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I believe in a literal hell.  Dante did too, although he was a far better writer than I, and his perspective on hell is distinctively colored by Roman Catholic traditions and the political intrigues of his day.  The French have a saying: “Plus ca change, plus c’est la meme chose.”  The literal English translation is, “The more things change, the more they stay the same.”  The Cliff’s Notes English translation is a simple acronym: SSDD. (Same Shit, Different Day.) It can be not only good satire to envision the populace of hell from time to time, it can also prove cathartic.  The thought that greater punishment awaits those who offend me might keep me from throttling someone, who knows?

I’m going to start off my virtual tour of hell with Beezelbub himself, even though Ol’ Splitfoot is on a brief hiatus from life in hell, and is currently wreaking nine kinds of havoc here on earth:

As you can see, right now, Lucifer has been loosed upon the earth to deceive the masses and to gather up his minions.   He is acting swiftly, and with a vengeance, because his time is short.  I hope his time in office is very short.  My countdown to January 20, 2013 reads 626 days, 7 hours and 53 minutes as of the minute I am typing this.

Fannyzilla, at the Gates of Hell, says:  “Yoose is Skrewed!  Abandonn Yer Chezebooger! Yoose No Can Has Chezebooger No Mo!”  

The first level of hell belongs to People Who Drive Like Assholes.

You know them.  We have all been behind the idiot who doesn’t realize he is tooling all over creation with only one (barely) working tail light.  That’s bad enough, but if you rear-end the prick, the cop is going to cite you.   I’ve had more than a few ABS checks (believe me, you will know it when you lock up your brakes and engage the ABS system) because some people are too stupid to occasionally check their bulbs.  Included in this category also is the idiot who insists in staying in your blind spot and not letting you over, the rapper whose car vibrates his car, your car and the pavement at every stop light while he’s treating everyone in half the county to a hideous diatribe about cop killing and sister-rape, and the bimbo who can’t talk on the phone and operate her turn signal at the same time.

The first level people will get to spend eternity forced to sit in a Dr.s’ office waiting room whilst being bombarded with whatever swill is on daytime network TV,i.e., Oprah, Montel, Jerry Springer, Judge du Jour, and you will be surrounded by sickies who are snotting and sneezing all over you.  The worst part is, just like in Dr.s’ offices here on earth, you will wait and wait and wait and you will never be called in.

Level Two is reserved for people who fail to control their heathen rugrats in Target, Wal Mart, Kroger’s or any other public emporium where everyone must go at some point to buy survival items (such as food, hair color and toilet paper) that can’t generally be purchased online.

The punishment will fit the crime.  Level Two residents will be condemned to walk the aisles of Target for eternity, surrounded by Queen Banchee (the memorable five year old who once stood in the end of the shopping cart screaming her lungs out all over Target while her Mom just kept plodding along in an apparent Valium-induced catatonic haze) and her minions as they scream, writhe on the floor, run all over the store, throw pointy things, and generally make you forget why you went to Target in the first place.  You are doomed to wander the Target store, with these wretched urchins as your constant companions, and you never will remember that you went to Target in the first place because you were out of toilet paper.

Level Three is for corrupt politicians and bold face liars, such as those who gravitate toward pandering careers in media.

I won’t just go ahead and just say “Democrats” because there might be one or two good ones out there, and there may be a GOP’er or two that lands on the shady side.   I mean corrupt politicians on the scale of a Bill Clinton- a guy who seriously questions things like the meaning of the word “is,” and who answers to a moral dilemma by stating that oral sex isn’t really sex.   I also mean media personalities who can flat out lie to the American people and spin the truth a 180- with a straight face.   Level Three residents will be doomed to an eternity of living in a giant cat box.  Imagine if you were about the same size as a Barbie doll and you were forced to stay in the cat box forever, even when the cat, who is three times your size, drops in to drop a deuce.  On your head.  And the cat “offerings” are also your dinner.   That would be Level Three.  In life you fed people shit and expected them to eat it and like it.  Now it’s your turn.  Bon Appetit!

The Fourth Level (and this is the final level in my version of hell, because you can’t get much worse than living in a cat box and eating cat shit for eternity) is reserved for the most vile of them all.  Child molesters, rapists and murderers end up here.

Fourth Level scumbags will receive kerosene enemas 24-7, with eternally burning kerosene.  While the enemas are taking place, all will be forced to listen to the song “Do You Really Want to Hurt Me?” by Culture Club, and watch the accompanying video. All Boy George, all the time.

Yes, for the record, I would like to hurt him.  I’d kick him in the crotch, but I doubt if there’s anything there.

Life here in the Central Ohio swamp would be a bit nicer if we actually did see the sun once in awhile (this pic was taken last year) but the torrential rains (yes, I know May is still Monsoon season) this year are a bit much.  Poor Sheena had to drop a deuce in a driving downpour this morning.  They have the “Potty Patch” for ankle biters so they can do the deed in the house, but that’s not practical for bigger dogs who put off gallons of liquid waste and solid wastes are measured in “shovelfuls.”  For reference: a dog will eliminate ten percent of his/her body weight per day.  A 50# dog will leave 5# of waste per day.  Given that my dogs are 55#, 65# and 65#, that’s 18 1/2# of dog waste generated by my girls every day.  They are not going to use the inside of the house as their toilet.  Short of them actually using the toilet and flushing, I can’t think of any containment device that can deal with that volume of toxic waste.

Big dogs need a lean-to relief station- outside, sort of like the beer tent at a street festival, only the dogs would be more discreet in relieving themselves.  This way they’re still outside but they don’t have to stand and squat in a downpour.  I have to contemplate this one.  Everyone needs a hobby.  Keeping my dogs dry while they pinch a loaf would be a very good thing.

The Squattin’ Station.  For big dogs, so they can drop their loads outside and still stay dry.  The only thing is that in Central Ohio you would need to be sure to anchor it securely otherwise the wind will pick it up and drop it off in the next county.

Mortality, cont., Simple Thanks, “Sin Boldly,” and Whatever I Fear

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I know it might be considered a bit morbid to troll about in old cemeteries.  As a kid cemeteries used to scare the living hell out of me (along with just about everything else, so go figure) but today I find certain cemeteries to be particularly serene.  In spite of the “buy one get one free” sign in front of the cemetery (Chapel Heights Memorial Gardens) where my grandparents are buried, it’s actually a very peaceful place to hang out.  People fish in the creek that runs in front of the cemetery which could be seen as irreverent by some, but I don’t think my grandparents would mind.  They always enjoyed fishing.

I’ve always loved willow trees.  This is the view of the creek that runs in the front of the Chapel Heights Memorial Gardens.  The peculiar thing about Chapel Heights, as far as cemeteries go, is that the only grave markers they allow are simple flat ones- like Grandpa’s Army marker. There are no obelisks, or statues, or ostentatious carvings. From a distance it simply looks like a park.  The beauty there is more natural than historical.   When the weather improves some (but before the mosquitoes take over) I will need to take another roadtrip up there to just sit and hang out for an afternoon.

My favorite cemetery (now that does sound morbid, but what the hey) from a historical perspective, is the Marion Cemetery – right across from the Harding Memorial on SR 423. The Merchant Ball is there, and you can see where it rotates on its base even though no one can explain how or why it does.   Some of the best examples I have seen of maudlin Victorian era gravestones anywhere are in the Marion Cemetery.  I have taken pics of a few of them (the one at the top of this page is one of my favorites) but I don’t have enough space in my memory card for all the really good ones.  I could literally spend a week in there wandering about and taking pics of cool old Victorian headstones.   There must have been a lot of people in Marion back in the day with a LOT of scratch to spend on their dead relatives from the looks of the monuments in the Marion Cemetery.  Today the place is so poor I’m surprised that anyone who dies now gets a burial or a grave marker at all.  If I would have to make an educated guess, cremation has probably become the dispatch method of choice for the dead, simply for the cost effectiveness.  From another practical viewpoint, I have to wonder about the wisdom of burying dead people in a reclaimed swamp.  Burying people in the ground- even in concrete vaults and steel coffins- doesn’t strike me as being terribly sanitary considering the high amount of rainfall and the poor drainage that is inherent to Marion County- and the rest of Central Ohio.

I am thankful the dryer works.  It can dry a large load in about 90 minutes which is encouraging.  90 minutes is a lot faster than 3 hours plus.   It feels good to have the laundry caught up. It is a relief to know that if I want to wash the dogs, or wash all the living room quilts that cover the furniture, I can.   I washed my bed sheets and blankets yesterday.  Since the dogs like to sleep in the beds I have to wash everything often, otherwise it ends up covered in hair and smelling like dog funk.  I’m glad that Lilo is really the only one of the three that ever gets much of a funk to her.  Clara has almost no odor, likely because of her short coat and sparse undercoat.  Sheena I can’t really explain.  She should reek to high heaven with her thick undercoat,  (Heidi and Kayla were purebred GSDs- and they both reeked no matter how often they were bathed) but for a dog with such a thick coat Sheena is remarkably clean-smelling. 

As far as my ongoing quest to live authentically (which is how I understand Martin Luther’s instruction to “sin boldly”- here is a link to a better theological understanding of that instruction) I can only appeal to the grace of God to overcome my fear.  I can only trust that He will give me the courage and the discernment to do the right thing- and the forgiveness I inevitably need when I screw up.

I’d like to have a spontaneous and unfettered approach to life.  Not being dead broke all or most of the time would help, which would require me to (somehow) get Jerry to pay for his fair share of things instead of just footing the bill myself because I know he throws major fits every time I request money.  He can go to the hell hole and blow hundreds of dollars and to him that’s quite fine, but if Steve-o needs $50 to pay his electric bill and I don’t have it, it’s a Federal case.  Jerry can be generous when he wants to be, (especially to his family, except Steve-o of course) but he simply doesn’t get it. No matter what method I use to explain it to him- spreadsheets, calendars, letting him see my bank statement, etc. he just doesn’t get it that I’m not randomly blowing money on frivolous and unnecessary things (such as beer, cigarettes or gambling, but I digress.) 

One time when I asked him for money because I was dead broke after paying the car insurance, he actually accused me of having an illicit drug habit!  I don’t.  I can’t even drink with the medical issues I have. Most of the illicit drugs out there would probably kill me outright.  He should thank God I’ve never been into crystal or the white powder, or I’d probably ripped his head off and shit down his neck hole years ago.    

Technically one could say that I do have a “drug habit” – but all the drugs I take are prescribed by my Dr.- and are pretty much essential to keep me vertical and above ground.  Otherwise I wouldn’t bother with expensive (though non-frivolous) things like blood pressure meds and insulin.  It’s not like I have the Dr. write me scripts for high dollar face Nair and that stuff that’s supposed to make your eyelashes grow.  (WTF?)  I simply don’t make enough money to pay for everything – stuff like car payments, the exorbitant amounts for various insurances, scripts, groceries, gasoline, etc. and so on- for both of us.  If I did have enough money to pay for it all, believe me, I wouldn’t ask.  I would just pay and keep my mouth shut.

I do draw the line at a few of Jerry’s vices.  I refuse to buy his beer, smokes, or to support his gambling habit. 

In his favor he does pay his own truck payment, and he has to buy his own beer, smokes and lottery tickets. 

Very few things terrify me and stress me out more than arguments about money.  I’ve never been a person of means, and I’ve had to scrape and pinch and rob Peter to pay Paul my entire life.  My parents were never people of means either.  Their most heated and (verbally) violent arguments were always centered around money and (almost always) the lack thereof.  Nothing would send Dad into a rage quicker than anything involving money.   I can’t blame him.  There were times when we were growing up when he had to make the choice between paying the mortgage and utilities or buying food or medical care. 

As a kid I remember weeks of eating pretty much nothing but Cream of Wheat or no-name Mac & Cheese to get by because there was no money for food.  I remember going without things like glasses or dental visits for years at a time, because there was no money in our household for preventive care. Before I could drive it really didn’t matter if I had glasses or contacts or not, so I just dealt with it.  Ignoring my health is likely how I ended up with rheumatic fever too, (you get it from untreated strep infections) because it came to a point when I would refuse to tell anyone I was sick, and I’d even try to deny it even if I was clearly deathly ill.  I knew they couldn’t afford the Dr. visit or whatever scripts he might prescribe- and I didn’t want to hear their fight about how much it cost and how they don’t have the money after the fact.  Now I have permanent heart valve and joint damage.

I should know better at this point in my life.  It’s not about lack of money, but how “household” money is being used.  Right now Jerry pretty much pays his truck payment and sustains his own vices and thinks that’s all he needs to do- while I’m footing the bill for Steve-o,  as well as Jerry’s scripts, Jerry’s food, all the insurances, etc. he insists on having even though it’s overkill, and so on. 

I am dead afraid of letting him get a taste of reality because I know he will do anything he can to punish me for it.

Why I am browbeating myself for expecting Jerry to act like an adult and take responsibility for his fair share is beyond me.  I’m glad he bought the dryer, because I really despise crunchy clothing and I’m not going to the laundromat, but in perspective, that dryer cost less than one month of all the various life insurance that gets deducted out of my checking account- on his insistence- every month.  The dryer is also a replacement for the one I bought for $350 back in 2000 that he has had the use of for the past 11 years, if you really wanted to play tit-for-tat.

I don’t think I owe him obeisance for anything.  For all intents and purposes I kiss his ass to keep the peace- but I of all people should know that feeding alligators only makes them hungrier.  Appeasement is Obama’s foreign policy and it’s not working for him either.

I know what I’m doing.  I don’t like it, but I need to find the courage to change it.

Ashes to Ashes, Dust to Dust, Mortality, and a Working Dryer

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Jerry came off the $300 for a dryer last night from the discount appliance store.  Yay! It has a small dent near the top, which is the reason why it was $300 rather than $450.   I could care less about cosmetic flaws.  Nobody is going to come down to my basement for the view, much less to admire the appliances.  I just need them to work. The model we ended up with was actually one I hadn’t researched ahead of time online because it was out of my price range.  It is larger than the old dryer (7.0 cubic ft. vs 5.8 cubic ft) and according to the reviews I have trolled through so far (why bother to read reviews after you buy something, but what the hey?) most people who have bought this model report that you can dry a large load of clothes in less than an hour.  I would delighted if this is really so, especially in an electric dryer.  I am further along the road to being able to do laundry again.  The new dryer is sitting in the garage waiting for whoever Jerry can bribe to help him 1. get it down the basement stairs- which is not going to be a good time, and 2. remove the power cord and vent from the old dryer, 3. attach the power cord (correctly I hope…) and vent to the new dryer.  Whoever is willing to help him get this beast down the stairs is cordially invited to haul the old one away. The old one has to be worth something.  The motor, heating element, and timer still work.

I would be pleasantly surprised- no- elated- to come home and be able to wash and dry clothes again.  Especially if I can have dry clothes in three hours or less.

Today is one of those holidays I have to explain to Jerry.  Otherwise he will be taunting all the Catholics (a good number of Lutherans, and even some Methodists too) he encounters today for having “dirt on their heads.”  Since I grew up Catholic I know all about Ash Wednesday and Lent and the rituals surrounding the season- as if Mom would let one forget that you better not even think about eating a Sloppy Joe for lunch on a Lenten Friday- even if it is served with the school lunch.   What I don’t understand about the no-meat-on-Friday-during-Lent rule is, what part of a seafood dinner is self-denial?  You can’t have a bologna sandwich because it’s meat, but you can have catfish nuggets or a 21-piece shrimp dinner, or even frigging lobster instead?  What kind of a sacrifice is that?  I’ll gladly trade a bologna sandwich or a Sloppy Joe for a shrimp dinner any day.  It would be more sacrificial in my opinion to say, “No, I’ll have the bologna sandwich instead of the cocktail shrimp and catfish nuggets.”   Lutherans also observe Lent, but with a little less focus on strict ritual forms.  I like the idea of taking up a good habit- like getting some extra exercise, or taking up a devotional series, or doing an anonymous act of kindness every day, rather than giving something up, or being weird about food, but to each his or her own.   

The whole point of observing Ash Wednesday and the season of Lent in general, at least in my opinion, is to remember one’s mortality.  Life on this earth in these flawed and wretched bodies is a limited time offer.  So what’s the purpose of life?  From a Christian perspective, the apostle Paul explains the purpose of life as follows:

“For it is by grace you have been saved, through faith—and this is not from yourselves, it is the gift of God— not by works, so that no one can boast.  For we are God’s handiwork, created in Christ Jesus to do good works, which God prepared in advance for us to do.” Ephesians 2:8-10 (NIV)

I have heard it said that a person is immortal while God still has work for them to do here on earth.  I’d like to know what it is I’m supposed to accomplish so I can get it done and over with if that’s the case- but it’s not about what I do. It’s about what God wants done.  I am somewhat surprised at the lengths He has gone to in order to keep my sorry carcass alive.  If one were to adhere strictly to the odds of natural law I should have been worm food many years ago. I’ve been very close on more than one occasion.  The theology behind the immortality of those who have not completed their earthly mission seems to be correct at least from my observation, (God is omnipotent after all) but it does open up a can of worms.  The implication is that God had a purpose for both Mother Teresa- and Hitler.  The Old Testament is full of examples of God using “bad” people to get the Israelites back in line, time and time again.  In accepting the omnipotence of God, one must take the downright evil and tragic in the world along with puppies and flowers and rainbows.  One must also accept that there is a reason why some children die very young, why kids go out and rob and rape and shoot each other, and other people manage to outlive all their friends and family and languish for decades in their dotage, senile and crazy and crapping their pants. 

I don’t have an easy answer for any of that.  I don’t think I’m supposed to.  I’m not God.  That job is taken, and I am supremely grateful for that fact.

In accepting the omnipotence of God, one must accept suffering and the truly mind-numbing and tragic in the world.  Believing God and questioning Him doesn’t mean we will ever have clear explanations or complete understanding, but there is comfort in knowing that sooner or later things will be as He intended them to be, which is an important point.  Whether I understand God’s purpose or not is not as important as being compelled to ask Him the questions and accept the answers He is willing to give me.  The primary sin of humanity (according to C.S. Lewis) is pride- wanting MY will versus THY will.  That’s the paradox the apostle Paul speaks of in Romans 7.   We might not like the processes God uses to put us in our proper place.  I know a lot of the time I ask God, why this, or why that, and either He is silent or I’m just not hearing His answer.

I know I am a cynical and often sarcastic individual and those really are not good qualities.  Behind the humor is tragedy, a sense of longing for something better, of wanting something beyond this life. 

I freely admit it’s hard for me to see Jesus through my own apathy.  I am not at all effective in seeing Christ in others (I try to avoid most people, truth be told,) and it’s especially difficult to think of doing things for Jerry as serving God.  It’s hard to imagine Jesus acting like a petulant, whiny child. 

I am not always a very thankful person, either, which is also shameful.  I should not be so willing to criticize, or to covet what I simply don’t have.  I should be more grateful for what I do have.

God put me here for a reason, even if I don’t understand it.  Maybe I’m here to expand others’ vocabularies- or to learn to love the Great Unwashed.

I can see people looking at me and laughing at the visual.  This is plausible too.

Things to Add to the Bucket List, 30 Years Ago Today, and Simplicity is Complicated

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On with the February funk, including the whole death theme, because it just plain fits.

I’ll put it this way.  At the end of this month I will be 42.  I have no illusions.  At least half of my life is most likely over, because I honestly don’t anticipate being able to make it to 84, barring extreme advances in medical science and some pretty serious Acts of God.  I know that if God wants to keep some poor sucker lingering about far beyond what we perceive to be his/her useful life He can and does, but I hope and pray I don’t outlive my purpose.  This being said, I still have no clue why I’m taking up valuable oxygen, other than (maybe?) to keep a few people entertained.  It’s not my place to know and I understand that.  I also understand that there have been at least three instances in my life where I narrowly escaped the Reaper:

1. I spent the first week of my life in the hospital with pneumonia and my entire childhood battling various respiratory ailments (as well as getting regular beatings from my sisters, their friends, and kids at school.)

2. I had rheumatic fever when I was 10 years old.  Save for a  two week long series of painful penicillin shots in the butt, and a year-long course of penicillin pills, I’d been worm chow over 30 years ago.

3. I understand first hand why at the turn of the 20th century 1 in 4 women died in childbirth.  In spite of an eleventh-hour c-section, (the whole Murphy’s Law as it applies to childbirth thing, believe that) I was almost one of them.  That was the closest I’ve ever gotten to the Dirt Nap, and at that time I was ready to go ahead and take it.  Some days I’m still very open to the possibility, though I believe the length of my time here is God’s decision not mine.

Again, somehow, I am still remaining vertical almost 20 years later, so there must be some reason why I continue to display vital signs- though said reason continues to elude me.

Before I go take the Final Trip, there are a few things I’d like to do.  Of course the Cougar Cruise is one of them, but I’d be happy just to go on a regular cruise with all the other geezers and so forth.

I’d like to do some international travel.  Granted, I’ve been to the Canadian side of Niagara Falls which was pretty cool, and I was in Windsor, Ontario for an afternoon as a little kid. Windsor is more or less Detroit’s French speaking quarter, and not much to write home about.  I did learn that Dad does not speak French.  I would caution that one does not go to Canada for the cuisine.  Everything we ate in Niagara Falls tasted like greasy Clorox.  It might simply have been the establishments we had the bad luck to choose, but from what I experienced it seems Canadians use grease like Cajuns use spice- and apparently Clorox is the spice.  Acck.  Then again, I believe the national entree of Canada consists of French fries smothered in gravy.  I don’t think I’ll be going for the gravy covered fries any time soon.   I still remember those nasty bland Cloroxy, greasy, slimy, luke-warm chicken wings we had for dinner one night, but even in the States, Hooters’ is not renowned for their culinary acumen.  There wasn’t even any hot sauce on the side to give them a hint of flavor.  It was as if they had never heard of Tabasco or habanero sauce.  Leave it to Jerry.  We had to eat there because Hooters’ was just across the street from the hotel, and they had American beer.  I hope it tasted like Clorox too, but even that would have been an improvement over Natty Lite.

I’d like to go to Europe, even though Grandpa said he didn’t lose anything there and there was no way in hell he would want to go back there.  When he went there, it was during the war.  It makes sense not wanting to go back to that. 

Australia sounds interesting too.  Aussies speak English so that’s a plus already.  The only thing that might not be so fun about Australia is all the venomous critters that seem to live there.  Perhaps I watch Animal Planet and Discovery Channel too much, but I might have to take a pass on the deadly spiders and the box jellyfish.

In a way I’d like to go to the Holy Land, but with all the foreigners fighting over there, I think I’ll have to settle for the shows on History Channel and so forth.  I’m not afraid to die, but I am afraid of torture and rape.

30 years ago, one could get a coveted ticket to see Journey on the Escape tour, which would be the one and only reason why I would like to see time travel made a reality.  I never got to see Steve Perry with Journey, live and in the painted-on jeans.  I’ve seen video with Steve Perry, which is sweet, but it’s not quite the same as being there live.   I’ve gotten to see Journey-which was awesome- once with Steve Augeri, and once with Arnel Pineda, but I never got to see them with Steve Perry, and barring a miracle, I probably never will.  I can’t blame him.  If I were 62 years old and had the life he did, I’d be happy to be retired with my memories and cats.

Today we get a lame-ass half-time show by the Black Eyed Peas, who never really impressed me to begin with.  New music absolutely sucks and no it’s not just because I’m old.  They’re trying to substitute sleaze and special effects for no-talent losers.  Give me a band who can actually play, and singers who can actually sing, and screw the costumes, the sleazy dancing and the light shows.

I’d love to get my life down to being more simple, but that would mean in some ways it would have to be more complicated, which doesn’t seem to make sense on the surface. 

All I can say at this point is that if I have 40 years or four seconds left, I can only pray for the strength to get through it- and to make something worthwhile of the time.