I have a handful of friends. Strange, but true. There are four people in this world, other than my family, who might just show up to help me out in an emergency, regardless of time or distance. I, too, would do the same for them.
However, in general, I just don't like people. Even my friends. Friends will always call you at the worst possible moment and will be impossible to get off the phone. Friends will make you late. Friends never take good advice. Etc.
This morning, one of my few friends asked me if I would follow her to the auto-shop and then take her to run a "short errand." I informed said friend that I had to pick up Son #1, The Starving Child, and take him to an opthmology appointment by 10:45 am and that it would take me 30 minutes to get there, requiring my appearance at school by 10:10 at the latest.
"No problem!" said my friend, "We'll take the car first thing and the errand is just some quick grocery shopping."
Reluctantly, as I've experienced this many times, I said, "Okay. Be at my house by 8:15."
At 8:20, the phone rang. I knew who it was.
Indeed, it was my friend, telling me she was just passing our kids' school and would be at my house within 10 minutes. I hung up and sighed.
We took her van to the shop without incident, though she seemed always to be in the lane that ended at the next intersection. This was confusing, since she's lived here for years. At any rate, the van was dropped off by 9am.
I loaded her twin 2-year-olds into the van's built-in car seats, she got in, and we tooled away.
"Where do you need to go?" I asked, expecting her to tell me a location nearby the auto shop.
"Oh, you know where XXX is," she said, naming a local grocery store at least 10 miles away, "I just need to pick up some chicken soup and Gatorade for (daughter) and (husband), who are home sick."
Again, I sighed. As I reminded her that I needed to be AT the school by 10:10am, one of the twins began to cry.
"Poor sweetie," I said, "What's wrong?"
"Oh, he's just getting over this stuff that we've all had," replied my friend, "and (twin #2) is just now starting to get it. Do you have any tissues?"
I mentally reminded myself to buy more hand santizer, since I would obviously be using all the stuff I had in my bag during this trip. Handing her the tissue box, I turned onto the street where XXX grocery store was - only 8 more miles.
At 9:25, we pulled in and parked. I took (twin #1) and crammed him into the seat of a cart, while she did the same with (twin #2). She pulled out her list.
"I only have a couple of food items, but can we just go through the mens' department, the kids' department, the automotive department, and photo/frame department, and the craft department?" she asked.
I said, "Well, we have about 15 minutes to get everything and get out of here."
"No problem," she said.
At the grocery store, my friend first purchased both twins a package of Cinnabon "twisty thingies." These were broken into small pieces and strewn on the floor throughout the store. I tried to pick them up as I saw them fall, but gave up after a while. Later, as we headed for the checkstands, me with a somewhat desperate look on my face and my friend apologizing over and over, she bought all three of them chocolate donuts.
"Be sure you eat them quickly, boys," she said, "we can't eat in Maleficent's car!"
Even if I did allow eating in my car, I would have to say I didn't to my friend, simply because I've seen the inside of HER car.
I kept the boys entertained while she checked out, trying to keep them from spitting and coughing on me, and liberally applying sanitizer.
You know the rest of the story. I was 20 minutes late picking up The Starving Child, and by recklessly speeding, I was only 5 minutes late for his appointment, but was unable to feed him on the way as I had intended due to his having missed lunch for the appointment.
As I loaded The Starving Child into the van, I noticed chocolate donut crumbs all over the backseat of the van.
I hate people.
Friday, January 25, 2008
Thursday, January 3, 2008
My Girlie-girl
My daughter, the Princess, is a girlie-girl.
I am not and never was.
I have decided, based solely on my personal family experience, that the girlie-girl gene skips generations, since my grandmother was not a girlie-girl, but my mother was.
What to do with a princess? Yesterday, she wanted to paint her 6-year-old nails and cover her face with sparkly pink powder from a makeup kit she received for her birthday from my brother's MIL. I should have thrown the damned thing out. Her dream gift from Nana for the recent holiday was a "deluxe" Sleeping Beauty dress. She wanted a girl-day while we were visiting, including lunch at her favorite restaurant, which she calls The Elephant Party, and a showing of the treacly Disney movie, "Enchanted."
I am having to reevaluate my contempt for all things "feminine," and it sucks most heinously.
During my formative years, there was a school of thought that put forth the hypothesis that girls and boys were, except for the obvious physical differences, exactly the same. Girls learned stereotypical girl-behaviors and boys learned stereotypical boy-behaviors. If we could only teach them differently, there would soon be a generation of children all playing with all the toys and dressing up as the same super-heros and cowboys (there was little support, even at that time, for boys dressing up as princesses). I had on double-LP, and have purchased on DVD more recently, Free To Be, You And Me, a musical compendium produced by Marlo Thomas (formerly That Girl on TV, now spokesman for St. Jude's Children's Hospital) with such voices as Alan Alda, Rosie Greer, and Carol Channing performing gender-role-ridiculing songs, poems, and stories. One of my favorites was "William's Doll," in which a boy, who kept on asking for a doll, while his parents kept on giving him footballs and other accoutrements of boyhood. His grandma finally gave him a doll and explained to his baffled parents that William would be a father someday and needed to learn how to care for his child. I now wonder why the story illustrating a BOY emulating non-boy behavior was more impelling to my young mind than the tales of girls striding confidently out into this men's world were. Maybe it was because William's outcome was much less likely in the real world than the other. I always liked fantasy. I'll admit that I did and still do love Sheldon Harnick's poem, "Housework," rendered in Carol Channing's gravelly voice, was also a favorite.
Before I misrepresent myself as some feminist role-model, let me first add that I am a happily married, misanthropic stay-at-home-mom with no desire for a career to speak of. I am too lazy to be an activist of any sort. I refuse to wear shoes other than flats, preferably flip-flops in summer and sneakers in winter. I wear makeup occasionally. I grow a winter pelt between 10/1 and 5/31 every year, but shave during the summer. Hypocracy, thy name is Maleficent.
Still, I don't feel forced, though I probably AM, since I would feel WRONG (why?) to go swimming with hairy legs, into any of these things, and I don't want my daughter to be forced either. I should never have turned on the TV in front of her, and should have kept her hermetically sealed in the house. Not that it's possible. Nigel says we can't shelter her from the real world, but when her role-models are not us, but are the ridiculous girlie-girls out there in megacorporatiobuybuybuyland, it's difficult not to second-guess myself.
Some studies indicate that there may be some truth to the belief that boys and girls have innate behavioral differences - that there IS a girlie-girl gene. I would like to believe that this is NOT at all true. Some deep, very deep, abyssally deep desire for it to NOT be true forces me to try to turn the Princess away from her girlie-girl ways, to encourage my boys to coddle their baby-dolls (for which they begged, but on which they spend much time performing karate moves), and to teach critical thinking skills to all three.
Bottom line: It's hard to compete with the crap available to girls. There is definitely a back-lash in our country against feminism. It is difficult to set an example when I have so many contradictory behaviors and beliefs myself. Ugh.
My inner misanthrope says, "I am what I am and fuck you if you don't like it."
More confusion to follow, I'm sure.
I am not and never was.
I have decided, based solely on my personal family experience, that the girlie-girl gene skips generations, since my grandmother was not a girlie-girl, but my mother was.
What to do with a princess? Yesterday, she wanted to paint her 6-year-old nails and cover her face with sparkly pink powder from a makeup kit she received for her birthday from my brother's MIL. I should have thrown the damned thing out. Her dream gift from Nana for the recent holiday was a "deluxe" Sleeping Beauty dress. She wanted a girl-day while we were visiting, including lunch at her favorite restaurant, which she calls The Elephant Party, and a showing of the treacly Disney movie, "Enchanted."
I am having to reevaluate my contempt for all things "feminine," and it sucks most heinously.
During my formative years, there was a school of thought that put forth the hypothesis that girls and boys were, except for the obvious physical differences, exactly the same. Girls learned stereotypical girl-behaviors and boys learned stereotypical boy-behaviors. If we could only teach them differently, there would soon be a generation of children all playing with all the toys and dressing up as the same super-heros and cowboys (there was little support, even at that time, for boys dressing up as princesses). I had on double-LP, and have purchased on DVD more recently, Free To Be, You And Me, a musical compendium produced by Marlo Thomas (formerly That Girl on TV, now spokesman for St. Jude's Children's Hospital) with such voices as Alan Alda, Rosie Greer, and Carol Channing performing gender-role-ridiculing songs, poems, and stories. One of my favorites was "William's Doll," in which a boy, who kept on asking for a doll, while his parents kept on giving him footballs and other accoutrements of boyhood. His grandma finally gave him a doll and explained to his baffled parents that William would be a father someday and needed to learn how to care for his child. I now wonder why the story illustrating a BOY emulating non-boy behavior was more impelling to my young mind than the tales of girls striding confidently out into this men's world were. Maybe it was because William's outcome was much less likely in the real world than the other. I always liked fantasy. I'll admit that I did and still do love Sheldon Harnick's poem, "Housework," rendered in Carol Channing's gravelly voice, was also a favorite.
Before I misrepresent myself as some feminist role-model, let me first add that I am a happily married, misanthropic stay-at-home-mom with no desire for a career to speak of. I am too lazy to be an activist of any sort. I refuse to wear shoes other than flats, preferably flip-flops in summer and sneakers in winter. I wear makeup occasionally. I grow a winter pelt between 10/1 and 5/31 every year, but shave during the summer. Hypocracy, thy name is Maleficent.
Still, I don't feel forced, though I probably AM, since I would feel WRONG (why?) to go swimming with hairy legs, into any of these things, and I don't want my daughter to be forced either. I should never have turned on the TV in front of her, and should have kept her hermetically sealed in the house. Not that it's possible. Nigel says we can't shelter her from the real world, but when her role-models are not us, but are the ridiculous girlie-girls out there in megacorporatiobuybuybuyland, it's difficult not to second-guess myself.
Some studies indicate that there may be some truth to the belief that boys and girls have innate behavioral differences - that there IS a girlie-girl gene. I would like to believe that this is NOT at all true. Some deep, very deep, abyssally deep desire for it to NOT be true forces me to try to turn the Princess away from her girlie-girl ways, to encourage my boys to coddle their baby-dolls (for which they begged, but on which they spend much time performing karate moves), and to teach critical thinking skills to all three.
Bottom line: It's hard to compete with the crap available to girls. There is definitely a back-lash in our country against feminism. It is difficult to set an example when I have so many contradictory behaviors and beliefs myself. Ugh.
My inner misanthrope says, "I am what I am and fuck you if you don't like it."
More confusion to follow, I'm sure.
Wednesday, January 2, 2008
Golden Compass
Happy New Year!
We took the kids to see The Golden Compass this afternoon, and a good time was had by all. Having already read the books, I certainly hope the series will continue, considering that the movie ended well before the demise of poor Roger. I understand why the movie had to end that way. No guarantee that #2 and #3 will be made (though there is soon to be a Prince Caspian movie, regardless of the lack of box-office for the first Narnia movie, which I can't even think about without humming Lazy Sunday), plus the movie would have been even more despised by those who were already predisposed to despise it had it ended on such a sad and sour note. All three of the Malefikids decided that the armored-bear battle was the best part, and I have to agree. There's just something about armored bears. It was somewhat disconcerting, to me, hearing Gandalf's voice coming from Iorek's mouth, though.
I heard some kid-less theater-goers at the end of the show saying, "Uh huh!" and "Yeah, I could see it." I assume they were shills for the anti-Golden Compass crowd who wanted to vet the movie before exposing their kids to the evil atheist conspiracy endorsed movie. I couldn't see it myself. Several of the characters said such things as, "Merciful Lord!" and other godly exclamations. It was made quite clear in the very first narration that the movie took place in a parallel universe, very different from ours. Plus the discussion of "souls" and the difference in their manifestation between Lyra's universe and ours was not very atheist-ish.
The movie lessened the trauma of losing one's daemon (which was pronounced "demon") that was so evident in the books and even brought a tear to my reader's eye. Probably, the producers didn't want to address the insanity and death that resulted, in the interests of the younger viewers. Violence was not censored, though it was bloodless, and we were treated to a graphic image of Iorek ripping the jaw from his rival's face at the end of their battle. The jaw itself flew toward the screen, which would have been great in 3-D.
Like the more recent Harry Potter movies, there was just too much in the book to include, which probably made the movie confusing to those who hadn't read it. The Gyptians, Lee Scoresby, and Serafina the witch were peripheral characters only, with no development or back-story.
The casting was excellent.
On a more personal note, my mom has informed me that my nephews and niece will not be allowed to see this movie, due to the fear of my sister-in-law that it will turn them into atheists. She attends an Episcopal church, which, in my experience (and I have quite a bit), always seemed a bit more open to harmless entertainment and a bit less stridently fearful. Her background is Church of Christ, though, of which I don't know enough to determine the possibility of lasting effects.
I don't know if she has allowed them to see any of the Harry Potters, but I assume not. In regard to those, I even got a laugh out of Nigel, who is Roman Catholic in name, but has actually formed his own religion of which he is the only member (the definition of "cafeteria catholic"), when I asked if the parents who claim Harry Potter is satanic and will make their children turn to sorcery and witchcraft truly fear that their kids will point a stick at them and cry, "Stupify!" and have it actually WORK.
Bottom line, crazy sister-in-law: FICTION, dumbass.
Perhaps I should sent the Pullman trilogy to them as a late solstice gift. Probably not, as I don't want to make my poor brother's life any more difficult than it already is.
Poor kids!
We took the kids to see The Golden Compass this afternoon, and a good time was had by all. Having already read the books, I certainly hope the series will continue, considering that the movie ended well before the demise of poor Roger. I understand why the movie had to end that way. No guarantee that #2 and #3 will be made (though there is soon to be a Prince Caspian movie, regardless of the lack of box-office for the first Narnia movie, which I can't even think about without humming Lazy Sunday), plus the movie would have been even more despised by those who were already predisposed to despise it had it ended on such a sad and sour note. All three of the Malefikids decided that the armored-bear battle was the best part, and I have to agree. There's just something about armored bears. It was somewhat disconcerting, to me, hearing Gandalf's voice coming from Iorek's mouth, though.
I heard some kid-less theater-goers at the end of the show saying, "Uh huh!" and "Yeah, I could see it." I assume they were shills for the anti-Golden Compass crowd who wanted to vet the movie before exposing their kids to the evil atheist conspiracy endorsed movie. I couldn't see it myself. Several of the characters said such things as, "Merciful Lord!" and other godly exclamations. It was made quite clear in the very first narration that the movie took place in a parallel universe, very different from ours. Plus the discussion of "souls" and the difference in their manifestation between Lyra's universe and ours was not very atheist-ish.
The movie lessened the trauma of losing one's daemon (which was pronounced "demon") that was so evident in the books and even brought a tear to my reader's eye. Probably, the producers didn't want to address the insanity and death that resulted, in the interests of the younger viewers. Violence was not censored, though it was bloodless, and we were treated to a graphic image of Iorek ripping the jaw from his rival's face at the end of their battle. The jaw itself flew toward the screen, which would have been great in 3-D.
Like the more recent Harry Potter movies, there was just too much in the book to include, which probably made the movie confusing to those who hadn't read it. The Gyptians, Lee Scoresby, and Serafina the witch were peripheral characters only, with no development or back-story.
The casting was excellent.
On a more personal note, my mom has informed me that my nephews and niece will not be allowed to see this movie, due to the fear of my sister-in-law that it will turn them into atheists. She attends an Episcopal church, which, in my experience (and I have quite a bit), always seemed a bit more open to harmless entertainment and a bit less stridently fearful. Her background is Church of Christ, though, of which I don't know enough to determine the possibility of lasting effects.
I don't know if she has allowed them to see any of the Harry Potters, but I assume not. In regard to those, I even got a laugh out of Nigel, who is Roman Catholic in name, but has actually formed his own religion of which he is the only member (the definition of "cafeteria catholic"), when I asked if the parents who claim Harry Potter is satanic and will make their children turn to sorcery and witchcraft truly fear that their kids will point a stick at them and cry, "Stupify!" and have it actually WORK.
Bottom line, crazy sister-in-law: FICTION, dumbass.
Perhaps I should sent the Pullman trilogy to them as a late solstice gift. Probably not, as I don't want to make my poor brother's life any more difficult than it already is.
Poor kids!
Monday, December 17, 2007
What sacrifice?
'Tis the season for difficult questions. I'd not normally be all "religion-talk" on anyone, but it's been shoved in my face since the first part of November, so I feel justified in taking it on at this time. This has more to do with Easter, anyway.
I've been told time and again by those who would save me from myself, that the lawd SACRIFICED his only son to save me from eternal damnation and let me live forever. John 3:16! John 3:16!
From MY reading of the gospels, the story goes something like this:
Jesus, the son of the christian god, was killed by crucifixion on a Friday (according to the church calendars, the Friday prior to the first Sunday after the first full moon after the vernal equinox - Full moons? Vernal Equinoxes? Doesn't sound very christian, but we can get into that another time). Bright and early the following Sunday, he was found to have risen from his grave and showed himself to some of his disciples (including Mary Magdalene, which makes one wonder why women have such a poor image in the christian church, but we can get into that another time, too, and NO, I don't believe The DaVinci Code is non-fiction). After he had shown himself to several of his disciples, he rose into the sky to sit at the right hand of the christian god, his dad. He sits there to this day.
My question is, "What exactly is the christian god's sacrifice?"
His so-called son suffered for a time before he died, and perhaps his dad wept and wailed during his travails. To get the maximum wailing, let's say he was nailed to the cross at 6am (doubtful - who would have turned out that early to see the parade? It wasn't like there would be limited parking.). However, according to further calculations, and let's say he died at noon that Friday and rose at 8am the following Sunday, just to give him a little more down-time, dad was without his son for approximately 44 hours. And this was while dad was constantly aware that his fair-haired boy would not be permanently separated from him at all, but would be knocking at the pearly gates quite soon.
Traditionally, a sacrifice means to give something up permanently. "A forfeiture of something highly valued," according to Yahoo's dictionary. Forfeiture, IMO, means more than giving something up for 44 hours, knowing you'll get it back in perfect working order. Good grief, even Abraham knew that when he (almost - "Just kidding! LOL!" said god) sacrificed Isaac, he wasn't EVER getting him back.
A little help? Please?
Just in time for xmas!
Last week, during my daily "keep-from-doing-productive-things" quest for non-mainstream information and other radical notions, the surfing of my favorite blogs and forums, I ran across a comment that was new to me, but obviously not to others:
The "H" in "Jesus H. Christ!!!", I now know, stands for HAPLOID. Haploid is a scientific term used to describe cells containing one member of each homologous pair of chromosomes.
When I read this, it was all I could do to keep my monitor clean and dry while remaining upright in my chair. I mean, it makes perfect sense! Since (I assume) the christian god did not physically have sex with the Mary of the story, Jesus' cells would contain only half of the normal complement of chromosomes. I also assume "he" would only have X chromosomes, which makes one want to ascertain whether "he" was actually "she."
After some further surfing, I found that I was simply behind the times, as this is all over teh intarwebs. See for yourself!
Anyway, as an armchair science lover, I suspect there are more than one problem with this in real life, but superficially, it makes sense and it's funny, too! What more can one ask for?
The "H" in "Jesus H. Christ!!!", I now know, stands for HAPLOID. Haploid is a scientific term used to describe cells containing one member of each homologous pair of chromosomes.
When I read this, it was all I could do to keep my monitor clean and dry while remaining upright in my chair. I mean, it makes perfect sense! Since (I assume) the christian god did not physically have sex with the Mary of the story, Jesus' cells would contain only half of the normal complement of chromosomes. I also assume "he" would only have X chromosomes, which makes one want to ascertain whether "he" was actually "she."
After some further surfing, I found that I was simply behind the times, as this is all over teh intarwebs. See for yourself!
Anyway, as an armchair science lover, I suspect there are more than one problem with this in real life, but superficially, it makes sense and it's funny, too! What more can one ask for?
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