It’s that time of the year again. As has become a tradition much maligned anticipated in our neighborhood, moiself is hosting a different Partridge, every week, in my front yard’s pear tree. [1]
Can you identify this week’s guest Partridge?
* * *
Department Of Creative Metaphors I’m Going To Regret
Dateline: my birthday, earlier this week. We did our main celebrating the previous day, inviting friends and our offspring to join us for lunch and a couple of hours perusing the Portland Art Museum’s two current, well-presented, special exhibitions:
On my bday itself moiself just wanted a quiet evening at home. After the proverbial comedy of errors re what we would order (takeout) for my bday dinner, [4] MH returned from his quest with za from Pizza Schmizza; [5] specifically, five slices of two (of their seven available) veggie options: Margherita and Extreme Veggie. The latter’s toppings included black olive slices, which MH loathes. [6]
MH and I sat in our respective chairs in the family room, enjoying our za and watching a recording of the most recent SNLepisode. Our elderly cat, Nova, assumed her customary, après-diner position (on MH’s lap).
Keeping it warm for her favorite human.
I glanced over at MH, and saw Nova investigating what was left of MH’s dinner. His plate was empty save for a pile of ~12 olive slices (each with a smidge of cheese clinging to them) that he had meticulously removed from his Extreme Veggie slice.
For some reason (other than knowing of MH’s antipathy toward olives?), I began wondering aloud, “Hmm, what must that pile look like, to you or other olive haters?” As soon as the answer left my mouth, I realized I was in danger of regretting it:
“Satan’s assholes?”
Bet ya can’t eat just one.
* * *
Department Of Only Sometimes?
Sometimes I loathe certain members of my species. Like the asshat driver who delayed Belle’s train this past weekend AND sent one of the train employees to the hospital.
Belle was coming down for a quick/overnight visit, via Amtrak from Washington, to join MH and I and friends in celebrating my birthday at the above-mentioned art museum. She didn’t have much time in her weekend schedule, but went to the trouble to get train tickets, which I greatly appreciated. Ten minutes after she boarded the train to Portland we got a text from her, alerting us that the train had stopped. The train passengers were told at first that the delay was due to a “track obstruction,” an explanation which was later expanded into, “debris coming into contact with train equipment.” As the time passed Belle sent further clarifications:
“Okay, apparently at a crossing someone in a car hit the railguard and broke it because they didn’t want to wait, and then our train ran into the broken guard and it smashed out the driver/engineer’s windows. We’re going to a rail yard about a mile away to turn the train around and use the other (unbroken) engine at the other end instead.
They said the driver is okay. The train driver that is.”[7]
Two hours later:
“Trail stillllllll hasn’t turned around. Waiting for freight trains to get out of the way.”
An hour after that:
“Oof, apparently it took extra long because they did actually have to take the engineer to the hospital.”
The train arrived in Portland three hours late. No word on the condition of the engineer.
* * *
Department Of A Succinct Review Of A Holiday Release Movie ( Sub-Department Of: Filler Alert )
The musical Wickedhad a running time of two hours forty-five minutes (three hours total, including the 15 minute intermission between Act 1 and Act 2). [8]
The movie Wickedhas a run time of 2 hours forty minutes…three hours total, including the previews of coming attractions…and only covers Act 1 of the play ( “The adaptation was split into two parts to avoid cutting plot points and expand the characters’ journeys and relationships.” ).
“Remember to schedule a pee break – pass it on.”
* * *
Department Of What Is The Best Question?
The best question…to? For? About what?
Yep, the question itself is almost totally subjective and context dependent. But moiself woke up Wednesday morning with that question in mind, and I’d love to hear other’s opinions.
Here’s a sample of best questions that sprung to my mind:
* May I give you a foot rub?
* Would you like to hold your grandbaby?
* May we help you practice your acceptance speech?
* Paper or plastic?
* Where shall we take our honeymoon?
* How would you like to celebrate your promotion?
*Where shall we park the new Porsche?
* Would you like fries with that?
* Would you like conscious sedation or general anesthesia
during your colonoscopy?
* Vaccinations are up-to-date – would you like to take your new kitten home this afternoon?
* Would you like a complimentary upgrade to first class?
* Indoor or outdoor court for your pickleball lesson with Ryan Gosling?
* May I send you a picture of a pajama-wearing baby sloth?
May you never think your time is so important that you must smash through a railroad crossing guardrail; May you have no culinary loathing equivalent to Satan’s assholes; May someone ask you *your* best question; …and may the hijinks ensue.
Thanks for stopping by. Au Vendredi!
* * *
[1] Specifically, in the pear tree daughter Belle purchased and (with the help of MH) planted many years ago
[2] More than 250 “recently rediscovered photographs from Paul McCartney’s personal archives,” taken by McCartney during a pivotal period as The Beatles grew from British faves to international stars.
[3] Featuring more than 200 iconic rock posters, of a specific style first designed by graphic artists in San Francisco’s Haight-Ashbury neighborhood. The posters’ instantly recognizable patterns – a combination of seemingly pulsating neon colors, unique lettering, and witty (and sometimes sexually and/or pharmaceutically suggestive) design – quickly spread around the nation as other poster artists used this new, psychedelic graphic language to promote rock concerts. The exhibition also showcased the eclectic fashions of the psychedelic clothing styles.
[4] Our favorite downtown pizza restaurant forgot to turn off their online ordering; they were closed for their holiday party…someone noticed our order and called MH back to say, oops.
[5] A local chain, started in Hillsboro some 20+ years ago by two expat New Yawk bros, now with 20+pub ‘n grub style places in Oregon (and one in Washington).
[6] Black; Green; Kalamata, Nicoise; Castelvetrano….you name the olive, MH dislikes it. Which is great for me as if we’re dining out and the salad or pasta has kalamatas, as then I get his.
[7] As you might imagine, few passengers were holding charitable thoughts about the okay-ness of the car’s driver.
[8] I saw the play, when it was touring. I highly recommend it – you’ll never look at The Wizard of Oz story in the same way.
[9] “free-think-er n. A person who forms opinions about religion on the basis of reason, independently of tradition, authority, or established belief. Freethinkers include atheists, agnostics and rationalists. No one can be a freethinker who demands conformity to a bible, creed, or messiah. To the freethinker, revelation and faith are invalid, and orthodoxy is no guarantee of truth.” Definition courtesy of the Freedom From Religion Foundation, ffrf.org
It’s that time of the year again. As has become a tradition much maligned anticipated in our neighborhood, moiself is hosting a different Partridge, every week, in my front yard’s pear tree. [1]
Can you identify this week’s guest Partridge?
* * *
Department Of Maybe Next Year….
As in, maybe next year November will return to being one of my favorite months. But for now, good riddance.
November was a trying month, in many ways and for many reasons. Its devastations included the death of a friend, a lovely, the-world-was-a-better-place-with-him-in-it person, followed by the election of a the-world-will-be-a-wretched-place-with-him-and-his-henchmen-in power, despicable excuse for an arrangement of DNA. The latter event contributed to my continuing disenchantment with the apparent values, cognitive abilities and perceptions of a good deal of my fellow Americans.
Still, there are good people still willing to fight the good fights, and there are Santa hats on the flamingoes. What were those wise words of…who was it, Epicurus? Paul McCartney?Obladi; obladah; life goes on, brah.
* * *
Department Of Overheard Foolishness
I thought moiself was done for the year, when it comes to explaining the holiday season to those whose certainty about their religion being the reason for the seasonis directly proportional to their ignorance of the historical facts behind what came to be known as Christmas. But, nooooooooo, I had to overhear a couple of Happy Holidays-HatingHalfwits carping about the subject at a grocery store. [2]
The HHHH most likely don’t read my blog (poor deprived dears). If they did, they’d know that I run moiself’s annual blog post re the winter/fall holiday season origins on the Friday before Halloween, which was October 25 this year. On the chance you have even a mosquito’s bunion’s amount of interest in being prepared should you encounter a HHHH, you can refresh (or repulse, or another re- reaction) yourself, here ( “The Holiday War I’m (Still) Not Declaring” ). Or, for another rational take on the subject, treat yourself to journalist/religious studies graduate/author David G. McAfee’s entertaining and informative article on the subject – teasers to follow.
“Contrary to what you might believe if you’ve been fed a steady diet of right wing
propaganda over the last few decades, atheists don’t spend the holiday season
eagerly waiting for someone to wish them a “Merry Christmas!” so that they can
pounce on them insult their faith or file a lawsuit.
In other words, there is no “war on Christmas“…. … I and many other atheists enjoy celebrating as much as anyone else does
on December 25. We might visit family, exchange gifts, overeat and do all the
other Christmas things… In fact, a Pew Research Center study from 2013 showed that more than 80%
of non-Christians in the U.S. also celebrated Christmas…. So…why do atheists and other non-Christians want to celebrate
the birth of Jesus Christ, whom they don’t believe is divine?
The quick answer is that we don’t.
The fact is that the date of December 25 has about as much to do with Jesus as any
other date on the calendar, and that date is most certainly not the actual birthdate
of Jesus of Nazareth. [4]
So, if the source isn’t biblical, how was December 25 first linked to Jesus’ birth?
Prior to the existence of Christmas…Romans already had multiple celebrations
around that same time of the year, as did many others around the world….
First, there was Saturnalia, which included feasting and gift exchange and
preceded a December 25 celebration of Sol Invictus, a Roman sun god.
December 25 also became associated with the god Mithra….
During the fourth century, during emperor Constantine’s reign, it was the
Catholic Church that decided to make Jesus’ birthday a formal holiday and set
that date for December 25, centuries after Jesus was said to have lived….
In modern times, Christmas is often treated as the sole December 25 holiday,
with some Christiansrefusing to acknowledge those that came prior to their holy
celebration – or that some Christian groups mark Christmas on a different date,
such as January 6, 7 or 19.”
( read the rest of the article here: “Atheists aren’t fighting a ‘war on Christmas’ – many of us even celebrate it. Christians don’t own the idea of a winter celebration.” By David G. McAfee, Salon, 12- 2022 )
* * *
Department Of A Blast From The Past
What turned out to be the most convincing reason a YOU-of-all-people-should-write-a-blog-why-aren’t-you-writing-a-blog?!?!?! [5] friend gave me (was it really over a dozen years ago?) for writing a blog was that the blog would serve as a journal of sorts for my life. As in, I would have a record, or at least a random sampling, of what was on my mind during a certain period of time. And now, that’s what I have.
I was feeling curious this week, about what was on my mind a year ago, early December. Here is a sample from my blog of 12-8-23 ( The Oracles I’m Not Consulting ):
Department Am I So Lucky To Have Raised A Science *And* Film Nerd?
Dateline: last Saturday, circa 8:50 am. The following IM message chat ensued between daughter Belle and moiself, after she’d IM’d me the previous evening to let me know she was going to see the new Godzillamovie.
Belle: OkayGodzilla Minus One was AWESOME…. I know I recommend a lot of movies but I RECOMMEND this one.
Moiself: I will see it for sure…We’ll see if I can drag MH to it.
Belle: It’s a pretty low budget film, but the combination of practical and special effects is really well done, and the story is really solid. I also really like the Godzilla design.
Moiself : He doesn’t have a peewee head, I hope. In some past ones his head was out of proportion to his body, IMO.
Belle: Sorry, his head is tiny haha.
Moiself: 😵💫
Belle: … the tiny head had never really bothered me. It makes sense for a lizard that lives in land and water. It’s an aerodynamic shape; and, I think the canon is that he feeds off of radiation, so he technically doesn’t need a big mouth to eat anything
Moiself: This conversation is so going in my next blog post.
You are right, of course. I think I’m reacting to having been imprinted on the original Godzilla, in which he had a much bigger head, more like a T-rex, but your commentary on the design makes sense.
Belle: Because of course the anatomy of a giant radiation-consuming lizard has to make evolutionary sense!
Moiself: Doesn’t the radiation trump evolution here?
Belle: Exactly lol, I’m saying it’s kinda silly to assume the small head is because he doesn’t need to eat things when it’s a totally made-up monster. But I like the case of evolution gone totally haywire. That’s more fun.
* * *
May you enjoy serious discussions re the size of a movie monster’s head with someone you love; May you be the good people still willing to fight the good fights; May you convert to pacifism anyone foolish enough to declare that people are declaring a war on any holiday;
…and may the hijinks ensue.
Thanks for stopping by. Au Vendredi!
* * *
[1] Specifically, in the pear tree daughter Belle purchased and (with the help of MH) planted many years ago.
[2] Commiserating over being wished “Happy Holidays” instead of “Merry Christmas.”
[3] “free-think-er n. A person who forms opinions about religion on the basis of reason, independently of tradition, authority, or established belief. Freethinkers include atheists, agnostics and rationalists. No one can be a freethinker who demands conformity to a bible, creed, or messiah. To the freethinker, revelation and faith are invalid, and orthodoxy is no guarantee of truth.” Definition courtesy of the Freedom From Religion Foundation, ffrf.org
[4] “In fact, according to Luke 2:8, there were “shepherds out in the field, keeping watch over their flock by night” on the date of Jesus’ birth, which would indicate a day more closely tied to springtime (due to weather conditions), according to the story. Other clues, including the biblical description of the alignment of the stars on the night that Jesus was born, back up that Jesus was likely born sometime in the spring, not winter.”
[5] I was adamant about not writing a blog…thus, the title of the blog I eventually decided to write.
It’s that time of the year again. As has become a tradition much maligned anticipated in our neighborhood, moiself is hosting a different Partridge, every week, in my front yard’s pear tree. [1]
Can you identify this week’s guest Partridge?
* * *
Department Of The Reason It’s Time For The Partridge Of The Week Is Because It’s The Day After That Most Problematic of Holidays [2]
That holiday would be Thanksgiving. So, you can enjoy a heartfelt rant thoughtful narrative about how we non-indigenous Americans grew up with a preposterous narrative, as summarized by moiself in the Department Of The Big Day Next Week, segment of this blog. Or, take it from the professionals:
So, what exactly is the harm in this school-sanctioned account of history? Understandably, the untrained eye may not notice the harm in such a myth, as most Americans are victim to the same whitewashed lie as the rest, and dismantling a centuries-old myth certainly does prove challenging.
But the first lesson for educators and adults to digest is the fact that this narrative is egregiously whitewashed and Eurocentric on many levels. Moreover, it is a lie, which serves to rob American children of valuable historical lessons.
Truth be told, this beloved lie was packaged solely for nationalistic consumption when, following the bloody Civil War, President Abraham Lincoln declared Thanksgiving a national holiday in 1863. Back then, Americans were desperately in need of unity and inspiration. Hence, the myth of the first Thanksgiving was born to inspire and unite.
Beyond the myth, and the seemingly good intentions of Abraham Lincoln (who actually despised Indians) the actual story of pilgrims and indigenous people went down much differently.
( The Thanksgiving Myth: Reflecting on Land Theft, Betrayal and Genocide Colonialism is great for the colonizer, and disastrous for the colonized. )
* * *
* * *
Department Of ‘Tis The Season…
…to take your brain cells for granted. Thus, moiself has been sampling Netflix’s steaming pile of treacly feces plethora of Christmas movies, as the perfect diversion while I’m doing my morning treadmill or elliptical warmup.
I find the formula – and there is a formula, even if it isn’t a Hallmark production – amusing in a way that’s hard to describe.
On Monday I called out to MH as he walked past my office, “The Meet Cute ® in this one is the fastest so far – in the first five minutes!”
I forget the title of whatever one I had on my computer screen; something to do with a male dance revue. [3] The one I’m currently…watching (I don’t know if that is the correct word, as I never seem to finish them) is titled, Christmas in Notting Hill. In a rip-off nod to the actual movie,Notting Hill, there is a Meet Cute ® in which the has-been English soccer player bumps into the visiting American teacher, spilling her orange juice all over her blouse crushing the Christmas ornament against her chest, the ornament which reminds her of her deceased mother and which she’d just found at a Notting Hill market. Will the perky, idealistic American, who is the kind of person who has always done the right/sane/responsible/staid thing, take the scholarship offered to her by an American college, or will she accept the offer to travel around the world teaching special ed to…special ed kids around the world? You’d need a mosquito’s dental floss chainsaw to slice through the plot tension!
* * *
The Department Of Yes, Sometimes It’s That Simple
Exhibits A through Z, of why the elected leader of the Roman Catholic Church (or any religion, for that matter) is where he is due to church traditions and theologies – read: politics – and not because of any special anointment by a deity:
Those music lessons I’m not taking are for learning to play the ukulele.
Moiself has a ukulele. Quite a nice one – a Kamaka, size 26″ (tenor), with a koa wood body and a mahogany neck. It was a gift from my father, three decades ago. He got it for me for my birthday, not long after we’d joked about our family’s checkered history in terms of music lessons (all of us Parnell kids had at least one session at some point; none of us stuck with it for long).
A series of school music teachers [4] told me I had smaller than average hands for a person my size, and due to an almost-needed-amputation accident as a child (recently blogged about here), I have a differently-abled pinkie finger on my right hand.
Maybe, my father suggested, an instrument for me should be smaller, and one that can be played with less than five fingers?
Once considered a quirky or niche instrument, the ukulele has had a surge in popularity in recent years. But at the time my father gifted me with mine, there were no uke teachers around, [5] and I knew I wasn’t naturally gifted enough to have the discipline for self-taught lessons. So I stored the instrument…and forgot about it.
Several recent events conspired to jog my memory (including cleaning out a closet), and I found the uke. I had it restrung by the local music shop proprietor and signed up for beginning ukulele lessons given through the Parks & Rec Department. As the first day of the class approached, I got out my uke, practiced tuning it and attempting basic/beginning chords…then had an epiphany.
After said epiphany I phoned in my cancellation for the class. I’d realized I had less than zero interest in wanting to practice – in wanting to devote even a mere 10 minutes per day to practicing. I realized that I didn’t really want to take ukulele lessons, or music lessons of any kind – what I wanted was to *want to* take music lessons.
I think I wanted to *want to* take music lessons in part because playing a musical instrument is supposedly something well-rounded, intelligent, creative, cultured, curious persons should want to do. We’ve all read that script:
“In no particular order, learning to play an instrument:
* Reduces Stress * Produces Patience and Perseverance * Develops Music Appreciation * Cultivates Creativity * Uses Almost Every Part Of The Brain * Strengthens Your Immune System * Increases Time-Management Skills * Increases Memory Capability * Allows You To Share With Others * Increases Emotional Perception * Increases Personal Discipline * Enlarges The Brain * Breeds Confidence….” (excerpts, Sixteen Benefits of Playing anInstrument )
I’ve a lifelong love of listening to music and hearing musicians perform live. Perhaps my role in the music world is to be that of the appreciative audience. Perhaps someday I will feel more motivated to try music lessons again.
And yes, I understand you can get better at anything via persistence, and that hard work trumps innate or “natural” talent any day…. Nevertheless, you could tattoo a description of moiself’s natural aptitude for music on the tip of my pinky finger and still have room for the Declaration of Independence.
May you find your own version of frothy, formulaic diversions to lighten repetitive endeavors; May you want to (and not just want to wantto) do things that are good for you….and fun; May you have everything to live for because you’ve nothing to die for;
…and may the hijinks ensue.
Thanks for stopping by. Au Vendredi!
* * *
[1] Specifically, in the pear tree daughter Belle purchased and (with the help of MH) planted many years ago.
[2] MH and I typically put up our Solstice/Christmas decorations on the day after Thanksgiving.
[4] As well as school PE teachers and my high school volleyball coach
[5] I searched high and low for group lessons; a few guitar teachers offered individual lessons, at exorbitant (to moiself’s budget) fees.
[6] “free-think-er n. A person who forms opinions about religion on the basis of reason, independently of tradition, authority, or established belief. Freethinkers include atheists, agnostics and rationalists. No one can be a freethinker who demands conformity to a bible, creed, or messiah. To the freethinker, revelation and faith are invalid, and orthodoxy is no guarantee of truth.” Definition courtesy of the Freedom From Religion Foundation, ffrf.org
Department Of But First, This Public Service Announcement
Moiself was on a podcast! Or, at least my voice was.
As longtime or even new readers of this blog have surmised, I regularly listen to a variety of podcasts. Most of them may be categorized, as per subject matter, as having to do with the incredibly broad topics of science, the brain, and human behavior as seen and analyzed through a variety of perspectives. [1]
One of my favorites of these podcasts is No Stupid Questions. Near the end of each NSQ episode the hosts ask for listener feedback, via sending a voice recording to the show’s email address. At the end of each episode two or three listener comments regarding previous episodes are played.
I shouldn’t have been surprised – after all, *I* made the memo and emailed it to the show – but within a week I’d forgotten that I’d done so. As is often par for the course when it comes to hearing your own voice on tape, at first moiself didn’t even realize that it was my voice, until a couple of sentences in when I recognized the content ( Oh yeah, that’s me…yikes, that’s me? Crap, I can hear the remnants of the slight lisp I had as a child [addressed in this blog], which resurfaces when I’m tired or need a glass of water…and danged if I don’t hear the echo of my family tones – specifically, my two sisters’ – in my own voice….).
You’d have to listen to this podcast episode (or scroll forward to approx.. 38:09, or read the transcript here) to get to the listener comments regarding the previous episode. As previously mentioned, the episode I commented upon addressed the subject of “Doing the right thing for the wrong reasons,” as in, does that somehow negate the good deed or the right thing that you did? I also liked the perspective of the comment which played after mine, from “Ian,” (a fellow Oregonian!), who pointed out the hidden problems and unexpected consequences in doing the right thing for the right reasons.
In the USA and in northern hemisphere countries around the world, there are multiple holidays with a relationship to “our” Halloween. The relationship is as per the time of year and/or the theme, underlying beliefs, customs or origins of the various celebrations.
Many of these holidays originated as dual celebrations – acknowledgments of times of both death and rebirth – as celebrants marked the end of the harvest season and acknowledged the cold, dark winter to come.
And after Halloween, the holiday season really gets going.
* * *
Department Of Life Is Tough But It’s Even Tougher If You’re Stupid Chapter 22467 in a (never-ending) series
“The idea of a “War on Christmas” has turned things like holiday greetings and decorations into potentially divisive political statements. People who believe Christmas is under attack point to inclusive phrases like “Happy Holidays” as (liberal) insults to Christianity…. Christmas is a federal holiday celebrated widely by the country’s Christian majority. So where did the idea that it is threatened come from? The most organized attack on Christmas came from the Puritans, who banned celebrations of the holiday in the 17th century because it did not accord with their interpretation of the Bible….” (“How the ‘War on Christmas’ Controversy Was Created,” NY Times, 12-19-16)
* * *
Department Of If Something Seems Familiar, That’s Because It’s Time For My Annual Holiday Traditions Explained ® Post
What do we vegetarians, vegans, non-meat and/or plant-based eaters do on Thanksgiving? ( Other than, according to your Aunt Erva, RUIN IT FOR EVERYONE ELSE. [2] )
The above question is an existential dilemma worthy of Soren Kierkegaard, the Danish philosopher, who wrote eloquent discourses on the subjective and objective truths one must juggle when choosing between a cinnamon roll and a chocolate swirl. [3]
* * *
Department Of I’ll Take Those Segues Where I Can Find Them
Four weeks from today will be the day-after feasting, for many of us. Then, just when you’re recovering from the last leftover turkey sandwich/quiche/casserole/enchilada-induced salmonella crisis and really, really, need to get outside for some fresh air, here comes the Yule season. You dare not even venture to the mall, lest your eardrums be assaulted from all sides by Have a Holly Jolly Christmas,Feliz Navidad,ad nauseum.
This observation provides a convenient segue to my annual, sincere, family-friendly, [4]
As to those Henny Penny/Chicken Little hysterics proclaiming a so-called “war” on Christmas, a rational person can only assume that they are not LGBTQ, or Jewish or a member of another minority religion, or an ethnic minority – in other words, they’ve never experienced actual bigotry (or actual combat). If they had, it’s likely they would not have trivialized discrimination (or war) with their whining.
The usage of “Happy Holidays” as an “attack on Christianity” is an invention of right-wing radio talk show hosts. Happy Holidays is nothing more nor less than an encompassing shorthand greeting – an acknowledgement of the incredible number of celebratory days, religious and otherwise, which in the U.S. is considered to start in October with Halloween, moving on to November with Thanksgiving (although our Canadian neighbors and friends celebrate their Thanksgiving in October) and extending into and through January, with the various New Year’s celebrations.
It is worthwhile to note that while many if not most Americans, Christian or not, celebrate Christmas, there are also some Christians who, on their own or as part of their denomination’s practice or decree (e.g., Jehovah’s Witnesses and The Worldwide Church of God), do *not* celebrate Christmas [5] (nor did our much-ballyhooed forebears, the Pilgrims). Also, the various Orthodox Christian denominations use calendars which differ from most Protestant and Catholic calendars (a biggie for them at this time of the year is the Nativity of Christ, which occurs on or around January 7).
Happy Holidays — it’s plural, and for good reason. It denotes the many celebrations that happen during these months. People in the northern hemisphere countries, from North, Central and South Americans and Egyptians to the Celts and Norskis, have marked the Winter Solstice for thousands of years, and many still do. And some Americans, including our friends, neighbors and co-workers, celebrate holidays that although unconnected with the winter solstice occur near it, such as Ramadan, Hanukkah, and Kwanzaa.
In 2024 the Chinese (lunar) New Year began on on February10; in 2025 it will begin on January 29
Most folks are familiar with the “biggies”- Halloween, Thanksgiving, Hanukkah, Kwanzaa, Christmas, New Year’s Eve, New Year’s Day. But don’t forget the following holidays, many of which my family has learned about (or celebrated with) via our children’s teachers and fellow students, and our neighbors and co-workers.
* The Birth of the Prophet (Nov. 12) and Day of the Covenant (Nov. 26) are both Baha’i holy days (our family has had Baha’i teachers, childcare providers, and neighbors).
* St. Nicholas Day (Dec. 6).
* Bodhi Day. Our Buddhist friends and neighbors celebrate Bodhi Day on December 8 (or on the Sunday immediately preceding).
* Feast of Our Lady of Guadalupe (Dec 12).
* St. Lucia Day (Dec. 13) Our Swedish neighbors and friends celebrate St. Lucia Day, as did one of our daughter Belle’s and son K’s schools, when they were in grade school (Belle, as the oldest 3rd grade girl, got to play St. Lucia).
* Bill of Rights Day (Dec 15).
* Pancha Ganapati Festival (one of the most important Hindu festivals, Dec. 21st through the 25th, celebrated by many of MH’s coworkers).
* The Winter Solstice (varies, Dec. 21 or 22, this year on the 21st ).
* Little Christmas Eve (Dec. 23) Celebrated by my family, LCE was a custom of the small Norwegian village of my paternal grandfather’s ancestors.
* Boxing Day (Dec. 26), celebrated by our Canadian-American and British-American neighbors and friends.
*Ramadan and/or Eid, the Islamic New Year (as Islam uses a lunar calendar the dates of their holidays varies, but these holidays aresometimes during November-December)
* The Chinese New Year. I always look forward to wishing my sister-in-law, a naturalized American citizen who is Cantonese by birth, a Gung Hay Fat Choy. (The Chinese Lunar calendar is the longest chronological record in history, dating from 2600 BCE. The New Year is celebrated on second new moon after the winter solstice, and so can occur in January or February).
This is not a complete list. See why it’s easier to say, “Happy Holidays”?
The USA is one of the most religiously diverse nations in the world. To insist on using the term “Merry Christmas” as the all-encompassing seasonal greeting could easily be seen as an attack on the religious beliefs of all of the Americans who celebrate the *other* holidays and festivals. At the least, it denotes the users’ ignorance of their fellow citizens’ beliefs and practices.
* * *
Department Of Did You Know…
…that the Reverend Increase Mather of Boston observed in 1687 that, “the early Christians who first observed the Nativity on December 25 did not do so thinking that Christ was born in that Month, but because the Heathens’ Saturnalia was at that time kept in Rome, and they were willing to have those Pagan Holidays metamorphosed into Christian ones.” [6]
…that because of its known pagan origins, Christmas was banned by the Puritans, and its observance was illegal in Massachusetts until 1681. [7]
“Do you celebrate Christmas?”
We Heretics/apostates non-Christians Happy Heathens ® often hear this question at this time of year. The inquiry is sometimes presented in ways that imply our celebration (or even acknowledgement) of Christmas is hypocritical. This implication is the epitome of cheek, when you consider the fact that it is the early Christians who stole a festival from our humanist (pagan) forebears, and not the other way around.
Who doesn’t like a party, for any reason? We who are religion-free don’t mind sharing seasonal celebrations with religious folk – sans the superstition and government/church mumbo-jumbo – as long as they accept the fact that the ways we all celebrate this “festive season” predate Christianity by hundreds of years.
Early Roman Catholic missionaries tried to convert northern Europeans to the RC brand of Christianity, and part of the conversion process was to alter the pagan’s existing religious festivals. The indigenous folk, whom the RC church labeled “barbarians,” quickly discovered that when it came to dealing with missionaries, resistance is futile. The pagans intuitively grasped the concept of natural selection and converted to Christianity to avoid the price (persecution, torture, execution) of staying true to their original beliefs. But they refused to totally relinquish their traditional celebrations, and so the church, eventually and effectively, simply renamed most of them. [8]
Pagan practices were given a Christian meaning to wipe out “heathen” revelry. This was made official church policy in 601 A.D., when Pope Gregory the First issued the now infamous edict to his missionaries regarding the traditions of the peoples they wanted to convert. Rather than try to banish native customs and beliefs, missionaries were directed to assimilate them. You find a group of people decorating and/or worshiping a tree? Don’t chop it down or burn it; rather, bless it in the name of the Church. Allow its continued worship, only tell the people that, instead of celebrating the return of the sun-god in the spring, they are now worshiping the rising from the dead of the Son of God.
( Easter is the one/odd exception, where a pagan celebration was adapted by Christians without a name change. Easter is a word found nowhere in the Bible. It comes from the many variants (Eostra, Ester, Eastra, Eastur….) of a Roman deity, goddess of the dawn “Eos” or “Easter,” whose festival was in the Spring.)
The fir boughs and wreaths; the Yule log; plum pudding; gift exchanges; feasting; the holly and the ivy and the evergreen tree….It is hard to think of a “Christmas” tradition that does not originate from Teutonic (German), Viking, Celtic and Druid paganism.[9] A celebration in the depths of winter – at the time when, to those living in the Northern Hemisphere, the sun appears to stop its southerly descent before gradually ascending north – is a natural instinct. For thousands of years our Northern Hemisphere ancestors greeted the “reason for the season” – the winter solstice – with festivals of light and gift exchanges and parties. The Winter Solstice was noted and celebrated long before the Roman Jesus groupies pinched the party.
But, isn’t “Jesus is the reason for the season”?
The reason for the season? Cool story, bro. Since you asked; actually, axial tilt is the reason for the season. For *all* seasons.
And Woden is the reason the middle of the week is named Wednesday. [10] My calling Wednesday “Wednesday” doesn’t mean I celebrate, worship, or “believe in” Woden. I don’t insist on renaming either Christmas or Wednesday.
“Now, go fetch me the brazen little sheisskopfs who took the Woden out of Woden’s Day!”
The Winter Solstice is the day with the shortest amount of sunlight, and the longest night. In the northern hemisphere it falls on what we now mark as December 21 or 22. However, it took place on December 25th at the time when the Julian calendar was used. [11] The early Romans celebrated the Saturnalia on the Solstice, holding days of feasting and gift exchanges in honor of their god Saturn ( Other major deities whose birthdays were celebrated on or about the week of December 25 [12] included Horis, Huitzilopochtli, Isis, Mithras, Marduk, Osiris, Serapis and Sol ). The Celebration of the Saturnalia was too popular with the Roman pagans for the new Christian church to outlaw it, so the new church renamed the day and reassigned meanings to the traditions. [13]
In other words, why are some folk concerned with “keeping the Christ in Christmas” [14] when we should be keeping the Saturn in Saturnalia?
* * *
Whatever your favorite seasonal celebrations may be, moiself wishes you all the best.
May you have the occasion to (with good humor) ruin it for everyone else; May you find it within yourself to ignore the Black Friday mindset; May you remember to keep the Saturn in Saturnalia; …and may the fruitcake-free hijinks ensue.
Thanks for stopping by. Au Vendredi!
* * *
[1] I will dump them all the first time I catch wind (no, not intended) of the first all elephant/fart joke podcast.
[4] Well, yeah, as compared to the usual shit I write.
[5] And a grade school friend of mine, whose family were Jehovah’s Witnesses, considered being told, “Merry Christmas” to be an attack on *her* beliefs.
[9] “Learn not the way of the heathen…their customs are vain, for one cuts a tree out of the forest…they deck it with silver and gold…” Jeremiah 10:2-5
[10] Wednesday comes from the Old English Wōdnesdæg, the day of the Germanic god Wodan (aka Odin, highest god in Norse mythology and a big cheese god of the Anglo-Saxons until the seventh century.)
[11] The Julian calendar, adopted by Julius Caesar ~ 46 B.C.E., was off by 11 min/year, and when the Gregorian calendar was established by Pope – wait for it – Gregory, the solstice was established on 12/22.
[13] In 601 A.D., Pope Gregory I issued a now famous edict to his missionaries regarding wooing potential converts: don’t banish peoples’ customs, incorporate them. If the locals venerate a tree, don’t cut it down; rather, consecrate the tree to JC and allow its continued worship.
[14] And nothing in the various conflicting biblical references to the birth of JC has the nativity occurring in wintertime.
That would be, Nobody Wants This, a Netflix comedy series. Summary: romantic, professional, cultural, and family shenanigans ensue as a relationship develops between an opinionated, religion-free podcaster and a progressive Jewish rabbi who needs his new love to convert to his religion if he is to become head rabbi of his temple.
Nobody Wants This was recommended to me, and has an actor in it whose previous work I’d enjoyed, [1] so moiself gave the series a go. As I struggled through episode 8 (out of 10) I realized how apt the title was…for me. Nobody (or at least, moiself ) wants this – that is, to feel what I am feeling, as I am watching the show, which is…
Is it me, or is it the show?
Yep, a silly romcom made me feel something I have never, ever, felt: if I’d grown up under a cultural rock and knew nothing about Judaism and had never had any Jewish friends or neighbors or classmates or coworkers, and NWT was my introduction to Jewish culture – this show might be a stealth primer on antisemitism.
The actors are all competent and good-looking…but holy Hadlakat Hanerot, [2] the majority of the Jewish females are written as alarmingly unattractively characters. They are bigoted (very anti-shiksa, an epithet freely and frequently employed in the show) and stereotyped (concerned with money, getting married, and keeping up appearances, and if they are married they are tempermental princesses who run roughshod over their husbands).
“Let’s practice the kicking-the-shiksa polka!”
And the conversion plotline I found to be ick, as in, creepy. Sure, it’s played for comic effect, but I found it insulting to both sides – to believers and to those who are religion-free – as in this case, to the shiksa and the Jew-who-wants-his-non-Jewish girlfriend to convert. Yeah, let’s have the atheist character be so flip that she considers “converting”– after all, since she doesn’t believe in anyone’s gods she can just as well not believe in a Jewish god to please her hot boyfriend! And besides, those Jews have such nice rituals and throw such great parties (which is how the rabbi and his brother plot to get the rabbi’s GF to consider converting: “Show her the fun stuff first!”). It’s not like anyone might seriously consider that this *fun* stuff is based on ancient/primitive stories and superstitions which some folk nevertheless take seriously and therefore it might be just a tad respectful to ponder whether or not the convert-ee even wants to pretend that those things are true or at least relevant to her life and/or this century….
One of the side plotsin Nobody Wants This, about preparations for the rabbi’s niece’s bat mitzvah, was equally stomach-curdling for me to watch. I didn’t see that the ritual meant anything to anyone participating/planning it, aside from the pressure to throw a really big party ($$$) and impress your friends ($$$) and have the right dress ($$$) and a “theme” (Seriously? Like a Halloween party?), and you have to make sure it isn’t a theme someone else has done or is doing….
Watching Nobody Wants This reminded me of how queasy/uncomfortable I felt, several years ago, when I was reading about another person’s less-than-flattering perspective re her father’s culture. It was the memoir of a bicultural writer and actor, the daughter of a Black, non-religious mother and White, Jewish father. She spent alternating years with each parent after they divorced when she was seven years old; she felt estranged from both parents, for different reasons. [3] After the birth of her own child she had a nasty, public falling out with her mother. Her father’s family, while seemingly welcoming to (or at least tolerant of) her, left her with a bad taste in her mouth re their Jewish religion (or perhaps their culture, would be a better word), which, in her observation and interpretation, consisted of being very little concerned with spirituality and overly concerned with financial success.
Moiself doesn’t know anything about Nobody Wants This‘s creator(s) or writer(s) or director(s), but I’m thinking that they have to be Jewish in order to get away with the stereotypes. Could a goy write such material and not get called out on it? No matter the source, and despite some witty dialogue and truly comic situations, I just got more and more creeped out by the material as a whole. I gave it a try, but in the end – the end of the series I didn’t make it to – yeah, *this* nobody doesn’t want this.
* * *
Department Of And Then, There Is This….
Possibly the best Meaning of Life ® metaphor moiself has heard, can be found in definitely one of the best podcast episodes I’ve listened to: from the NY Times Modern Love’s, “Andrew Garfield Wants to Crack Open Your Heart.”
The metaphor comes not from Mr. Garfield, but from the NY Times essay he reads for the podcast: “Learning to Measure Time in Love and Loss,” by Chris Huntington. Perhaps you’d rather not listen to the podcast; that’s okay. Read the essay, if only so that you can understand that when we acknowledge the ultimate Human Problem® – which is that we can’t hold on to anything; life is all a letting go, and therefore the wisest, most heartfelt, and compassionate [4] approach to life we can take is,
Be the best prisoner you can be.
* * *
Department Of Just Wondering, #389 in A Never-Ending Series:
Why Do Human Beings Do This?
KC is telling her friend (or spouse or parent or coworker or…) JP about how KC is feeling down about something negative that has happened to her. Why does JP reply, “Oh, don’t be so so sad – there are plenty of people out there who are worse off,” or “C’mon, it’s not like you have a cancer, or are losing your home and will be living on the streets,” or use another comparison which brings up the hypothetical or actual troubles of other people?
Why do we essentially imply that there is a hierarchy of woe in the world, and if what’s troubling you is not at the top of the list ( Are you a starving child in war torn Somalia? Do you have a brain tumor? ) then whatever is troubling you is not that awful. Why the comparison to outside situations? Why is your particular trouble not worthy, to you, and to your situation, of the sadness it evokes in you? Why the need for comparison – it is a ham-fisted intent to supposedly lift you up (or shut you up)?
And why do people *not* do that in situations which evoke opposite – as in, positive – emotions?
Imagine KC telling JP how happy she is about something new and great in her life (her job promotion, new romantic interest, the Siamese kitten she has always wanted, or other good fortune that has come to her), and JP replying, “Now, don’t be so happy – there are plenty of people out there far better off than you….”
“The place to be happy is here; The time to be happy is now. The way to be happy is to help make others so.”
( Robert Ingersoll, [1833-1899]
American writer, attorney, orater, civil and women’s and freethought activist,
“the most noted of American infidels.” )
Not a picture of Ingersoll, but a baby sloth playing peek-a-boo makes me happy, right now.
* * *
May we be happy in the here and now;
May we think twice before sharing our things-could-be-worse perspective;
May we strive to be “the best prisoners” we can be;
…and may the hijinks ensue.
[5] “free-think-er n. A person who forms opinions about religion on the basis of reason, independently of tradition, authority, or established belief. Freethinkers include atheists, agnostics and rationalists. No one can be a freethinker who demands conformity to a bible, creed, or messiah. To the freethinker, revelation and faith are invalid, and orthodoxy is no guarantee of truth.” Definition courtesy of the Freedom From Religion Foundation, ffrf.org
Department Of OK Right Now Everybody Drop What You’re Doing…
No; wait – first, finish reading my blog.
Then listen to this NYTimes The Interview podcast (or read the transcript) to learn the difference between bonding social capitaland bridging social capital, and how joining a bowling league – or a running club, or hosting a regular games night – can save democracy…or just make us all a little less lonely and isolated…which we probably are. Even if we think we are not.
(And you know all the people – and by people moiself means Single Angry Men® – who call themselves Incels or join the Proud Boys and other extremist groups? They do this in part because they’re lonely.)
“The author of ‘Bowling Alone’ warned us about social isolation
and its effect on democracy a quarter century ago. Things have only gotten worse.” (intro to “Robert Putnam Knows Why You’re Lonely”; The Interview )
In the dialogue between Putnam and the host there is an intriguingly pertinent question:
“Are we isolated because we are politically estranged, or are we politically estranged because we are isolated?”
* * *
Department Of Adventures In Babysitting
I’m not sure what sparked the memory which sparked the ensuing stories in this department. [1] I think it was a convoluted chain, one that in this case began when I read an article about a climber/snowboarder who fell into the crater at Mount Saint Helens. Dude actually survived the 1200-foot fall, but died when he fell again as he was trying to climb out of the crater. Moiself was thinking about the poor guy, alone, in the cold….
Dateline: A Friday afternoon, early June, some twenty five years ago. KH and JJ, two eleven-year-old girls, lived in our cul-de-sac and were best buds. I had used their child watching services during the previous summer, paying them to play with my kids, at my home, three days a week for several hours, while I was at home working on whatever writing I was working on at the time. [2]
On that afternoon I got a call from KH, who proudly announced that she and JJ had, just that very morning, passed the final test in the Baby Sitter Certification training class they’d been taking. “We were wondering,” KH said, “if maybe you and MH would like to go out and have a date night tonight – maybe to the movies – and we could babysit for you?”
Although we hadn’t made any such plans, of course, moiself had to say yes. “This is amazing,” I told MH (and anyone I knew who would listen, for three weeks afterward). “Babysitters who call *you!*
I’d actually intended to look for a sitter for Saturday night so that MH and I could go to the movies; thus, we ended up using KH’s and JJ’s two nights in a row. On Friday we saw Titanic (I trust no description is necessary). On Saturday we saw, The Ice Storm, the Ang Lee-directed film wherein a winter storm is a metaphor for two upper-class Connecticut couples who use drugs and adultery as an escape from their bleak, dysfunctional, lives in the socially turbulent 1970s and whose children, while seemingly contemptuous of their parents, reflexively begin to mimic them. Not exactly the Heartwarming Family Drama ® of the year. [3]
After leaving the theater on Saturday evening, I told MH, “I never want to see a movie involving cold, and water, ever again. No cold in any form; no cold water, no snow; no ice; no ice water….”
Department Of Adventures In Babysitting, The Prequel
Way back when, like many teens and preteens (mostly the female ones), I made spending money by babysitting. I had a few regular gigs: the most frequent one was for the two little boys of a young married couple who lived two houses down the street from my family. I babysat for them once or twice a month, then it began to be a regular gig, as in every Friday night and sometimes Saturday night as well. This happened after the wife, whom I’d deemed the first time I saw her as she-married-way-too-young, [4] had apparently begun to feel that she indeed had married too young and had missed out on…certain rites of passage. She asked her husband to leave their house – which he did, with grace and patience, hoping she’d come back to him after she’d gone through her “phase” – and started dating on a regular basis.
I was thirteen, and really didn’t understand such things. All I knew is that that that was one of my favorite gigs: the boys were adorable, sweet, well-mannered, and amazingly clean (the mom was quite the clean freak, and bathed them every night, right before I arrived, so that they would be ready for bedtime). And just as my parents began to wonder aloud about the frequency and length of my sitting jobs with that family (I often did not get home until after 1 am), the husband came over to our house one evening to explain the situation to my parents. It was a move I found at once strange and unnecessary, yet also somehow….gentlemanly?
Most babysitting gigs came out of referrals from established gigs, or recommendations via my older sister and friends who also babysat, and who would pass along my name when they were unavailable for a certain jobs.
Three such referral jobs stand out in my babysitting career.
The first involved a family of five children. I never would have agreed to watch five children as the only sitter; frankly, I was lied to, by omission, when the father contacted me over the phone and I asked him about the gig’s parameters and rate of payment.
And the kids were horrible. Just awful. Ranging in age from about four to ten – yeah, those breeders barely took a breather between pumping out insolent brats – they fought amongst themselves, made a mess of the house, and mocked me when I tried to enforce the rules their parents had written down for the babysitter. After an hour and a half of that shit I did something I’d never had to do before when babysitting: I called the emergency phone number the parents had left me.
No words were minced as moiself told the parents about their children’s behavior. As I was on the phone, I saw by the expression on the oldest child’s face that she feared she and her sisters and brothers were going to be grounded for life. Yep, I’d called her bluff. When I’d warned her that I would call her parents unless she could help me corral her younger siblings, she’d replied, “Ha! Yeah, so what? I know you won’t!”
I sat sulking in the father’s car as he drove me home, counting my measly $1.50 for just over two hours (I thought I should have been paid for the hours agreed upon – and double, for the number of kids. But at that point I just wanted to get away from all of them, and didn’t argue about it).
The second memorable referral gig was actually three gigs. The referral came from another babysitter who lived right across the street from the four-year-old boy I came to think of as That Weird Kid Up The Block. On my first night as his sitter TWKUTB was described to me, by his parents, as “quite intelligent and very precocious.” While his parents were commenting to me re their son’s brilliance TWKUTB was arranging letters on one of those magnetized alphabet screens. His father proudly noted that, although TWTKUTB was only four years old, he was already composing stories on the board and writing complete sentences. “Show her,” the dad said to TWKUTB. The boy raised the magnetic board and pointed at the two “words” he had formed with five magnetized letters. “Pan Am!” TWKUTB said. He tapped his chubby fingers on the board for emphasis. “Pam Am!”
I was somewhat confused and just nodded, until I realized a response was expected of me. “Oh…uh…as in…air travel?” And the father confirmed that yes, the name of that (now defunct) airline was what his genius son had written. TWKUTB kept repeating “Pan Am,” insistently tapping the alphabet board in a way that made me realize that my reaction had unintentionally indicated to TWKUTB that I was not as impressed as he thought I should be.
After TWKUTB’s parents had left for their evening, it was just like any other night with any other less-than-gifted, entitled, grumpy, annoying child. I tried to entertain TWKUTB but he’d seemingly taken a dislike to me, and so I gave up and read my own book/did homework until his bedtime. It wasn’t the best babysitting experience, but his parents threw in an extra buck when they paid me, so I agreed to another gig.
On my third (and last) night babysitting TWKUTB, he was the one who answered when I rang the doorbell. TWKUTB peered at me through the screen door and snarled, “Oh, it’s *you* again.” His mother, two steps behind him, tried to hide her mortification…and later paid me double the hourly rate for what most parents offered at the time. [5] But it wasn’t enough to earn more of my time – I’d already decided that no compensation was adequate for a mere mortal having to abide her gifted spawn.
I’ve often thought back to how incredibly underpaid I was as a sitter (the going rates at the time were something like fifty cents – yep, $.50 – an hour, a dollar an hour after midnight). On the other hand….
On the other hand, after the kid(s) bedtime I got paid for being there and doing my homework… or after finishing the homework and being bored, I was essentially paid for watching TV and/or looking at the reading materials that the parents had in the house. It was amazing, what people would leave out on their coffee tables, end tables, etc.
Which leads me to Memorable Gig #3.
It started out like another other referral gig from someone-else-who-knew-someone-else: I got a ride, from a stranger – usually the dad, sometimes the mom – to whom I’d spoken on the phone, to their house. Today, in 2024, that’s an arrangement I can’t imagine the parents of a babysitter agreeing to.
But this is now and that was then, and then, after I’d put Gig# 3’s two children to sleep sans incident, I realized I’d neglected to bring my homework or any reading materials of my own. A quick check of the channels revealed that there was nothing on TV I wanted to watch. I sat in an armchair in the living room, harumping with anticipatory boredom, until I espied a large pile of magazines on the armchair’s side table. There was one of those “housewife” periodicals — BORING – atop the pile.
Underneath that magazine was another magazine, which – I can’t exactly remember the cover, but it had drawings on it that indicated to me that it was going to be some kind of comic book. Thinking I was picking up a cousin of MAD Magazine, I began turning through that pages, only to discover it was…gulp…my first ever glimpse of pornography. [6] I mean, way beyond erotica – that stuff was crass.
I cringed, gingerly slipped that magazine under the bottom of the pile, and looked for something else. Nope; it was porno after porno after porno, with a few of the smut rags pathetically and ineffectively “hidden” between months-old copies of Family Circle. I snorted and tossed the magazines across the room…then realized I was going to have to cover my tracks so the parents wouldn’t think I was snooping. I picked up the magazines and tried to arrange them on the table as I’d found them.
I was totally creeped out; I refused to sit back down in that chair, or on any of the furniture, and looked around the house with an increasing sense of dread, not wanting to touch any of the surfaces. My paranolia was problematic as I really had to pee, but *no way* was I going to use their bathroom. Fortunately, the couple soon returned home. The sound of the front door opening woke up their son, who called out from his room. The mother went to comfort her boy, first paying me for the evening, and the father drove me home. I remember scooting as close as possible to the car’s passenger side door; instead of making my customary chitchat with a babysitting parent about how their evening had been, I was silent, save for monosyllabic yes or no grunts in response to his attempts to make small talk. All I was thinking was, DON’T EVEN LOOK AT ME YOU PERVERT. I practically left skid marks jumping out of his car when it pulled into my driveway.
Never told my parents about it; never accepted a babysitting job for that family again.
I love it when I realize that moiself never, ever again has to babysit for strangers in order to earn money to go to the movies with my friends.
* * *
May you pay your babysitters (if you have them) well; May you join (or form) something like a bowling/social league; May you not develop a loathing for cold water movies; …and may the hijinks ensue.
Thanks for stopping by. Au Vendredi!
* * *
[1] I should have a rubber stamp with that phrase on it…or, a tattoo. The stamp might date me (at least, the reference does).
[4] As in, the first time I met her, I assumed she was her husband’s younger sister or other relative, and not his wife.
[5] I later found out, from their former sitter who’d referred them to me, that the parents were having problems – surprise! – finding a sitter who would sit for them more than twice.
[6] I’d seen some of the neighbor boy’s girlie magazines. This stuff made Playboy look like Ladies Home Journal.
[7] “free-think-er n. A person who forms opinions about religion on the basis of reason, independently of tradition, authority, or established belief. Freethinkers include atheists, agnostics and rationalists. No one can be a freethinker who demands conformity to a bible, creed, or messiah. To the freethinker, revelation and faith are invalid, and orthodoxy is no guarantee of truth.” Definition courtesy of the Freedom From Religion Foundation, ffrf.org
The post is a part two, meant to be read as companion piece to part one, my post of 4-7-23 ( The Upbringing I’m Not Regretting ). Cliff notes preview: the subject for part two is my leaving “the church” – specifically, how I told my pastor (but first told moiself ) that I was doing so, via a dream that I’d had.
My dreams range from pastiches of images/seemingly random blurbs from the previous day’s events, to straightforward narratives of events or scenarios realized, to Cecil B. DeMille [1] style, cast-of-thousands epics, with the occasional/random celebrity cameo. I think that the scenarios and images contained in my dreams can be
* both profound and significant, with my unconscious mind using my dreams to work on puzzles, or try to message my conscious mind;
* due to the random firing of neurons stimulating the brain’s centers of memory and creativity;
* everything above and beyond and in between.
I had a class in college wherein dream interpretation was mentioned and briefly discussed, [2] and for a couple of months after that, I kept a dream journal. Upon waking in the morning – or sometimes in the middle of the night, when one of my dreams was either so intense or ludicrous that my brain decided to rouse me from sleep with a what the hell was that? – I wrote down whatever dreams I could remember. I wrote what I wrote and put that journal away until the next dream; I purposefully did not read the journal entries until several months had passed. My idea was to try to view what I’d dreamed with new (or newer) eyes and perspective.
When I did go back and read them, I was astonished. Employing images and scenarios that were in turns realistic, fanciful, or outrageous, my brain apparently was using my dreams to work out/try to identify ongoing dilemmas relating to my school studies, my job, my boyfriend(s), my relationships with my apartment mates, my past, present, and future… Yeah, like, that would be, My Life ® .
My subconscious mind – likely the hippocampus, an area in the temporal lobe which is believed to be key in dreaming and imagination, and not to be confused with the part of a college where large semiaquatic mammals native to sub-Saharan Africa hang out….
“Are you sure this is the way to the dining commons?”
I’ll try that again.
My subconscious mind – likely the hippocampus, an area in the temporal lobe which is believed to be key in dreaming and imagination – knew things that my conscious mind was apparently unable or unwilling to deal with. And in that sense, my dreams were my attempt to send a message to moiself.
Although I was fascinated (and at times embarrassed) to read my dreams, I was busy with work and classes, and fell out of the habit of writing them down. Then,
As in, Hillsboro, OR, one winter weekend morning almost twenty years ago.
Moiself awoke in a state of some agitation. As MH and I packed up the car and kids for our day trip to Mt. Hood, I asked if he would mind driving as I needed to “…write something down.” Once we were on the road I opened the blank spiral notebook I’d grabbed at the last minute and wrote down the source of my agitation: the early morning dream I’d had.
I hadn’t consistently written down my dreams since college. This time after writing down my dream I did not set the notebook aside, but read through it again…and again…and again. Later that day, after we’d returned to Hillsboro, I told MH about my dream. I told MH that my brain was sending me a gigantamous, face-palm of a message:
You. Have. To. Leave.
You have to leave “the church;” as in, religious attendance and affiliation.
Your involvement has served its purposes (see 4-7-23 post for what that was).
Continued involvement, even in the liberal/progressive UCC, will not only give you an increasingly severe case of cognitive and ethical dissonance but will actually be harmful to the children you are trying to educate and raise with integrity.
I stopped going to church.
The pastor of the church (“Pastor D____”) our family attended was a person I liked and admired, as well as being one of the most well-read people I have ever met. A month or so after I’d had the dream she called to ask me if she could take me to lunch to discuss why I had left the church. Sure, I said, then asked if I could email her the narrative of my dream, so that she could read it before we met up. [3] Pastor D____ agreed, which probably accounted for the pleasant lunch that we had.
D____ in no way tried to refute or chastise me, or convince me that my decision was wrong. In fact, she told me that after reading my account of my dream she’d realized that, “Yes, it’s true, you don’t belong in the church.”
Yup; really.
And we enjoyed our chai teas and the Indian restaurant’s ample lunch buffet, and talked about…other stuff.
Over the years I’d shared my perspectives on Christian theology with D____, and through my participation in the weekly nonfiction book [4] group that she led, she was aware that I was not a “true believer,” even when it came into the UCC’s liberal theological/social gospel interpretations. What she was not aware of was that when it became my turn to serve as a deacon [5] and I was setting up for a church service, I would perform my own little acts of dissension, such as (but not limited to) the following.
In our church there was an enormous King James Bible kept on a platform behind the altar (the hefty tome had been donated by two church member in honor of their late son; the UCC is not a King James-ish denomination when it comes to bible translations ). It was customary to have that bible open to the pages of whatever Old Testament reading had been chosen for that particular Sunday’s service (even though, with extremely rare exceptions, the laypersons doing the scripture readings did not read from that KJ bible). When doing my Deacon set-up tasks, instead of opening that bible to the page(s) featuring the morning reading I would find a nearby page which contained a particularly odious passage, such as the Psalm which lauds dashing the infants of one’s enemies upon rocks ( Psalm 137) , or the Hebrew god’s directions of how and when to kidnap and rape women (Judges 21:10-24; Numbers 31:7-18, ad nauseum….) or the story of Yaweh sending bears to maul boys who had teased a prophet about his baldness (2 Kings 2:23)….
I hadn’t told Pastor D____ about that little petty prank of mine. I had told her other things, and she’s always assured me that those beliefs/disbeliefs of mine, those “arguments” I had with the tents of religion, were exactly why my presence and perspective was needed in church. Thus, during our lunch, after having read my dream, D____ apparently felt no need to discuss my reasons with me. She did say at one point that while it came as a disappointment to her that I was leaving (the church), it did *not* come as a surprise, considering how I’d “…made many close friendships with __________” (she named several people who had attended the church at one point, and then left).
Much like writing down a dream, setting it aside and thinking about it later, that remark of Pastor D___’s came back to me. When I shared it with MH, he reached the same conclusion about/interpretation of it, as moiself:
“In a way it’s like she *wants* you to go,
before you stay longer and influence others to leave as well.”
And now, the dream (followed by my thoughts about it, written later that same day, after I’d reread what I’d written):
* * *
The Dream ® : early Wednesday morning, April 20, 2005
I am looking at an old house that is for sale. Design or style-wise, it is a combination Victorian and what I call “Grandma house,” with many classic features, from the glass & brass doorknobs to hardwood floors, moldings, built-ins, and exceptional woodwork.
Pastor D___ is showing me the house. I’m unclear as to whether she is selling it; i.e., whether it is her house that is for sale, or whether she is acting as an agent for another party. The house has been newly remodeled and upgraded; I glance out a window and see workmen, their trucks parked in front of the house, packing up ladders and painting supplies. D___ tells me about the new plumbing and points out the fresh paint in many of the rooms and talks about the upgrades, which are very eye-catching.
Then I see the basement/first floor (I’m not sure which it was; we seemed to start touring the house in the middle floor, and the house had at least three floors), and I am astonished. The basement/ground floor is an absolute disaster. Its wooden flooring is old and rotting; paint has been randomly flung on the walls; floorboards and moldings are missing or pulled out and splintered, light fixtures are missing or damaged, woodchips and sawdust litter the floors…. I ask D____ if the remodeling will be finished soon, possibly by the workmen I’d seen outside? No, she tells me, they are packing up and not returning – they’re finished with this particular house.
D____ senses my disappointment, and points out that I can finish the job myself or hire another remodeling crew…and then she offers to lower the price to $305,000. (I can’t remember the asking price, but it was a good deal higher). I know that 305k would be a good price – a great deal, really – for that kind of house, if the house was in top condition, but its ground floor needs BIU extensive work, and I have neither the time, the skills, nor the desire to do it myself. I add up the time, materials and labor costs, estimating what it would take to get the floor in shape (I’ve been looking at similar style houses for some time and have comparison prices in my head) and am quite discouraged, as it would be less costly to just tear the place down and start over.
I tell D____ that I appreciate her showing me the house, and while it may be a good price for what it is, I just can’t buy it.
* * *
I just can’t buy it.
How obvious can my subconscious get?!?! The last line of my dream, not-so-subtly screaming out what’s been eating at me.
(And it is about what’s eating me. Despite K’s and Belle’s discussing their objections to bible-religion/”church stuff” with me over the years, they were not in the dream, nor was MH.)
I like many things about the UCC Hillsboro congregation in particular and the UCC denomination in general. But, for all our/their remodeling, they are still a Christian church in a Christian denomination, and the ground floor — Christian theology in particular, religion in general — is, to me, a mess: archaic, in shambles, needing to be replaced or simply razed. I also love, respect and admire Pastor D____ for what she is, and for what she does and tries to do. I appreciate the “deal” she has made for (people like) me, but I can’t buy it. I can’t buy Christianity – even the laissez-faire, UCC brand – for what it is.
I’m certain that there have been several recent triggers for this dream, including the Sunday when a family from our kids’ school attended our church. There was a baptism, and I remembered experiencing discomfort and even embarrassment on their behalf (or mine?) when I listened to – actually paid attention to – the baptism liturgy and thought, yet again, I don’t believe this stuff. That the “waters of baptism” confer any special blessing or standing – that’s voodoo/chicken bones talk. Much if not all of it is symbolic and/or metaphorical, I realize, but that’s not what was said (and then, what’s the point for using the symbols and metaphors?). The new member class I attended (as a longtime member who was there to meet potential new members) also brought uncomfortable issues to mind, as does almost any meeting where church policy related to theology is discussed. The new member attendees were all pleasant people, but listening to their experiences and ideas of what a church is or should be was awkward for me. When ZM mentioned how she was unfamiliar with the Bible, having grown up in a Hindu household, and was learning about it through the children’s sermon and her daughter’s children’s Bible, I found myself wanting to blurt out, RUN FOR THE HILLS!!!, or at least, “Don’t go any further than the kiddie version, or you might not like what you find.”
These feelings are nothing new to me. Participating in a “worship” service of any kind has always been a matter of toleration, as I find the whole concept itself to be silly at best. I don’t know what this means in terms of practical application; it’s not like I feel I must Leave The Church ® this very moment.*** I think they/we are mostly trying to do good in the world, and I enjoy the community. But the intensity of my concerns has increased…and it’s not just a social club, it’s a church. The community, as nice as I may find the members, is based on and organized around the false premises of religion, and I’m not good at pretending to not know what I know.
The intellectual dishonesty of the rationale for continuing to participate in church stuff – to support a more liberal group to help counter the Right/conservative religious voice (aka the “voting for moderates” justification, as per MH’s reason for why he remains registered as a Republican) – is no longer enough, for me. By being part of a religion, even a relatively progressive one, I lend credence to ideas that, in their application, are dangerous and just plain wrong, including
(1) the standards of reason, judgment and evidence I apply to every otherfacet of life may be set aside for matters of “faith;”
(2) extraordinary propositions can be believed without evidence;
(3) that, by applying interpretation and razor’s edge scholarship (read: by rationalizing myth, fallacy, ignorance and atrocity) the Christian bible – or anyone’s bible – is an appropriate and even a good lens through which humanity may view present day circumstances.
When I became convinced that the Universe is natural – that all the ghosts and gods are myths, there entered into my brain, into my soul, into every drop of my blood, the sense, the feeling, the joy of freedom. The walls of my prison crumbled and fell, the dungeon was flooded with light and all the bolts, and bars, and manacles became dust. I was no longer a servant, a serf or a slave. There was for me no master in all the wide world – not even in infinite space. I was free – free to think, to express my thoughts – free to live to my own ideal – free to live for myself and those I loved — free to use all my faculties, all my senses – free to spread imagination’s wings – free to investigate, to guess and dream and hope – free to judge and determine for myself – free to reject all ignorant and cruel creeds, all the “inspired” books that savages have produced, and all the barbarous legends of the past – free from popes and priests – free from all the “called” and “set apart” – free from sanctified mistakes and holy lies – free from the fear of eternal pain – free from the winged monsters of the night – free from devils, ghosts and gods. For the first time I was free.
(as quoted, in Leaving Christianity, from Why I Am Agnostic, by Robert Green Ingersoll. Ingersoll [1833-1899], nicknamed “the great agnostic,” was American politician and orator, humanistic and scientific rationalism philosopher during the Golden Age of Freethought [7] )
* * *
Parting Shot: I love it when/I hate it when…
I love it when my dreams are stylishly consistent.
Example: Godzilla once had a cameo in a dream of mine. The dream had started in color, switched to black and white during Godzilla’s scene, then went back to color when Godzilla left. Up until then, the only Godzilla movies I’d seen were filmed in B & W.
* * *
May you remember the dreams that are worth remembering; May you remember that any dream you remember is worth remembering; May you pay attention to what your subconscious is telling you; …and may the hijinks ensue.
Thanks for stopping by. Au Vendredi!
* * *
*** Even though I did.
[1] Am I dating moiself with that reference? Should I use Spielberg, or Nolan, or Cameron, or the casts-of-thousands directors of today? But then, today’s cast of thousands are maybe a cast of 6 actual actors with 1,974 CGIs….
[2] The jist of the discussion being that no dream can “mean” anything out of context for the one doing the dreaming – no object in th dream “represents” any thing or idea for all people. Or as that influential but misogynistic man of his times/founder of psychoanalysis, Sigmund Freud once admitted, Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar.
[3] I made no formal proclamation of dissociation or anything like that; I didn’t even really tell anyone. I just stopped going. MH was not ready to do the same, so he continued for a few weeks, taking the kids at first. When our offspring realized they had a choice, they elected to stay home with me. We were all still in the habit of having a certain amount of hours set aside on Sunday, and used that time to go to nearby city park, taking our trigger-handled trash grabbers and large trash bags. We’d roam the grounds of the park, picking up the plethora of garbage (fast food wrappers, beer bottle caps, etc.) which the park users somehow neglected to escort to the park’s many and ample trash bins.
[4] Subjects ranging from science and theology, comparative religion, religious history, critiques of religion….
[5] Duties vary widely between denominations and congregations, but generally a deacon is a church member who helps out the pastor and/or church members with, for example, setting up the sanctuary for the church service and then cleaning up afterward.
[6] “free-think-er n. A person who forms opinions about religion on the basis of reason, independently of tradition, authority, or established belief. Freethinkers include atheists, agnostics and rationalists. No one can be a freethinker who demands conformity to a bible, creed, or messiah. To the freethinker, revelation and faith are invalid, and orthodoxy is no guarantee of truth.” Definition courtesy of the Freedom From Religion Foundation, ffrf.org
[7] “The Golden Age of Freethought is the mid-19th-century period in United States history which saw the development of the socio-political movement promoting freethought. Anti-authoritarian and intellectually liberating historical eras had existed many times in history, notably in eighteenth century France. But the period roughly from 1875 to 1914 is referred to by at least one contemporary writer as “the high-water mark of freethought as an influential movement in American society”…. Freethought is a philosophical position that holds that ideas and opinions should be based on science and reason, and not restricted by authority, tradition, or religion. It is characteristic of the 18th century Enlightenment but hardly confined to any one epoch or place. The late nineteenth century American Golden Age was encouraged by the lectures of the extremely popular agnostic orator Robert Green Ingersoll, the popularization of Charles Darwin’s On the Origin of Species, the push for women’s suffrage, and other political, scientific, and social trends that clashed with religious orthodoxy and caused people to question the traditional ideas about the world that they encountered in received opinion.” (excerpts, Wikipedia, The Golden Age of Freethought )
Happy Summer Solstice to all! And to my fellow yogis, if this tradition is in your practice, I hope you had a memorable 108 Sun Salutations.
* * *
Department Of Get Thee Behind Me, Satan Sub-Department Of Stop Tempting My Husband, Bitch
Dateline: Saturday morning, circa 8 am, sitting at the breakfast table with MH. MH picks up his copy of yesterday’s (Saturday) NYT crossword puzzle, which he hasn’t yet finished; he works on it a bit, then tells me he’s stuck with the 49 across clue and the down clues which cross the answer are not helping him.
Moiself did the puzzle yesterday but can’t remember the clue. MH reads it to me:
” ‘Noted tempter’ …I can’t figure out the missing vowel;
I have “S _ _ AN. Susan? Susan is a noted tempter?”
He’s serious, and I can’t stop laughing.
* * *
Department Of Another Family Contemplation Of The Theory Of Relativity Sub-Department Of My Daughter, The Content Creator
Dateline: Tuesday am. We’ve had some home maintenance projects – new gutters and downspouts installed/exterior house painting – that are 99% completed. MH shared pictures of the house exterior on our family’s message board, so that our offspring could see the progress. The following hijinks exchange ensued.
MH: All done. Except for a gutter adjustment tomorrow.
Moiself: Actually/unfortunately, the gutter adjustment isn’t until Thursday.
MH: I’m living in an alternate timeline.
(daughter) Belle: If you don’t actually go to sleep tonight, then maybe Thursday is tomorrow?
Moiself: Don’t go getting all quantum time bending on us.
Belle: Is time a fixed variable that we have no influence over? Or is it a mutable part of the universe that we simply haven’t figured out how to manipulate yet? Is our perception of time the definition of it? So many things to consider. But yeah, for now we’ll just say Thursday.
Moiself: This conversation is so going in my blog.
That would be Sfoglini’s reginetti. Soon I will be ordering another case of it (the whole grain, which is my fave) because I’m down to three boxes, and moiself cannot be reginetti-less.
What is not to love about this shape – it’s like a teensy-weensy lasagna noodle. Makes me happy just to look at it.
* * *
Department Of I Respectfully But Vehemently Disagree
Moiself recently heard a Tony-nominated playwright interviewed on an NPR show , [2] during which he talked about his years of struggle to write his play, and how he scraped by due to the kindness of friends. He used his experience as an example of why “we need government funding” of the arts. I guess he meant we need more funding than we already have ? For as I heard him whine speak about the subject, I wondered if he was somehow not aware of the NEA and other state and local government grants and funds, as well as the hundreds of private individuals and organizations offering artistic grants and funding?
Dateline: Sunday evening watching the latter half of the 77th annual Toni awards. There is that same playwright – David Adjmi, accepting a Tony award his award for Best Play for Stereophonic. In his acceptance speech, Adjmi gushed about how “this was a very hard journey, to get this play up here….” and named the friends who let him sleep on their couch for seven years so that he could write the play, and then, again:
“It’s really hard to make a career in the arts; we need to fund the arts in America – it is the hallmark of a civilized society….”
Admi brought himself to tears as he recalled his struggle. Of course when he made the plea for funding there was the obligatory applause from Supporters Of The Arts ®, who must whoop it up reverently with their version of, say amen. Preach, brother!
As I do with most preaching, be it religious or artistic, I’m listening, then thinking…
Adjmi decries how hard it is to earn a living in the arts. This is nothing new; it always has been hard to earn a living in the arts. It always should be hard to earn a living in the arts.
I’m not denying his or any composer, singer, actor, writer, painter, potter or other artist’s struggle. I *am* calling for all who have chosen to pursue their art to check their privilege – their sense of exceptionalism – if they think, for whatever reason, that their particular job should not be a struggle, and/or is deserving of endowment.
Struggle is the common lot of most people in the working world, who do not receive any kind of artistic accolades nor have opportunites, e.g., award shows, for public forums in which they may complain about their struggles. They plow the fields, fix the cars bag the groceries manufacture the semi-conductors, empty the bedpans, collect the lab results, interpret the data, bake the bread, comfort the bereaved, put out the fires, clean the kettles, sweep the movie theaters, mend the crab pots, patrol the demilitarized zones…
Adjmi didn’t mentioned receiving financial aid or grants for Stereophonic, and his play’s success belies his plea for funding. Somehow, he managed to produce this work of art without the government’s help – and let us always remember that the translation of “the government,” means the tax dollars of moiselfand y’all.
Save for those rare artists born to wealth (or the nepotistic receivers of artistic funding and opportunities), life in any artistic field has always been that of financial struggle before commercial success (and often afterward), usually involving multiple side jobs and other means of support. How would the playwright who thinks there should be more public funding of the arts, and others who hold similar sentiments, define what would constitute more support of “the arts,” and who will get to define what is an art worthy of support, and which artists will get support, and for what length of time such support is given….?
There are museums and art galleries wherein I’ve lingered for hours, and others I’ve fled after15 minutes because, content, meh. I’m a fan of performing arts and patronize live music, theater and other events. There’ve been plays and concerts I’ve attended/movies I’ve seen where I left feeling entertained and even aesthetically transformed, and others – even a few ones which won prestigious awards and were recommended by “everyone” [3] – where I left during intermission, or if I forced myself to stay to the bitter end, I left the venue thinking, Holy imaginative waste of time, how did this piece of embarrassingly trivial, reductionist, hackneyed crapola ever get produced? It’s a bad enough that I spent money on a ticket, but to subsidize this playwright’s/director’s/performer’s delusion that they are “artists” worthy of third party “support”….?
Sorry, starving artists. Eat less, get a second job, a third job, a patron, a couch to surf on. Struggle, like the rest of us. Government support for the arts? You take their money, you play by their rules. In Russia during the USSR era there was little art seen by the public apart from that which was funded – or allowed – by the government. Remember any great works of socialist realism that came out of the Soviet-sponsored art?
Socialist Realism
A form of modern realism imposed in Russia by Stalin following his rise to power after the death of Lenin in 1924, characterized in painting by rigorously optimistic pictures of Soviet life painted in a realist style
The doctrine was formally proclaimed by Maxim Gorky at the Soviet Writers Congress of 1934, although not precisely defined. In practice, in painting it meant using realist styles to create highly optimistic depictions of Soviet life. Any pessimistic or critical element was banned…. It was quite simply propaganda art, and has an ironic resemblance to the Fascist realism imposed by Hitler in Germany (see ITAL Entartete Kunst – degenerate art[4] ).
I love it when I come across a new (to me) George Carlin witticism; I hate it when I remember that Carlin died years ago and isn’t here to reflect on today’s wackadoodle.
* * *
May you have strength when tempted by Susan; May your art remain free of government supports and constraints; May you decide to have a favorite pasta shape; …and may the hijinks ensue.
Thanks for stopping by. Au Vendredi!
* * *
[1] As decreed by the Most Omnipotent Italian Saucy Epicurean Loving Foodie, as in, moiself.
[2] Can’t remember which program…a Fresh Air interview, most likely?
[3] for example, not to deny the creativity and hard work of Lin Manuel Miranda, but I couldn’t abide Hamilton (or In the Heights) – both of which I sowanted and expected to like (or maybe, thought I *should* like). With the rapid-fire, rap-ish dialog, I felt like the cast was shouting at me the whole time.
[4] Degenerate art ( Entartete Kunst) is the label the Nazis applied to art they didn’t approve of – any art which did not extol or depict “Kinder, Küche, Kirche” ( family, home and church), which was the Nazi party’s and Hitler’s view of the virtues of German life.
[5] “free-think-er n. A person who forms opinions about religion on the basis of reason, independently of tradition, authority, or established belief. Freethinkers include atheists, agnostics and rationalists. No one can be a freethinker who demands conformity to a bible, creed, or messiah. To the freethinker, revelation and faith are invalid, and orthodoxy is no guarantee of truth.” Definition courtesy of the Freedom From Religion Foundation, ffrf.org
AMWTDITW is a takeoff of a specific genre, ala the Airplane/Police Squad/Naked Gun lampoons of, respectively, disaster/detective/mystery movies. AMWTDITW’s writer/director/producer/lead Actor Seth MacFarlane pays respects, in a way, to that most American of movie genres, the western, and his AMWTDITW is the even more profane and scatological, red-headed stepchild of Blazing Saddles (and thus might not be everyone’s cup of whiskey).
Just about every western cliché gets its moment, with a few contemporary updates (e.g. MacFarlane’s mild-mannered sheep farmer protagonist debates self-esteem issues and gently chastises his fellow Old West townsfolk when they use ethnic slurs). I started watching AMWTDITW on Monday, during my morning pre-breakfast/pre-yoga, ~ 35 m elliptical warmup, and finished two days later. Other movies and series I have watched or am watching during elliptical time include TacomaFD and Fisk, both of which my spirit animal recommends.
Hats off to the composer of the AMWTDITW score; the opening theme in particular is a mahhhhvelous homage to the classic western movie soundtracks. And I’ll put more hats on, just to be able to take them off to Netflix, for adding this to their streaming recommendations for moiself.
And the last hat goes off to one of the best movie sight gags I’ve seen, involving a sheep. [1]
* * *
Department Of Wildlife Identification
What is this?
Did you guess that it’s an antiskid pad that is glued to the foot of the legs of one of our kitchen table chairs – a pad [2] which detaches itself, and then is patiently reglued by MH, at least 10x per year for the past twenty-seven years? You are correct.
I’ve seen it on the floor a million times….okay; more like 270 times, according to the above estimate. So why then, last Friday afternoon, did moiself see the pad on the floor and for the first time realize that it reminded me of the door to a trapdoor spider’s burrow?
That long time ago would be in the galaxy which contains the city of San Diego, where my family lived for two years, during what was moiself‘s kindergarten and first grade years. [3] The house we rented was on the rim of one of the many canyons winding through the city – a canyon my sisters and I and our neighbor friends considered to be an extension of our backyards. We spent many glorious afternoons – and almost all of the summer days that we weren’t at the beach – exploring and playing down in the canyon, experiencing what now might be referred to as a “free roaming” or “free range” childhood. (Sadly, I have little doubt that when MH and I took the parenthood plunge in the mid-90s, were we to have let our own children have such freedoms [4] someone would have sicced Child Protective Services on us.)
There were all kinds of critters and trees and bushes and cacti and dirt paths in the canyon, and a small creek that somehow managed to survive even in the summer heat. My friends and my “canyon games” included Desert Scientist, Runaways In the Forest; Tracking the Wayward Outlaw, Pioneers Exploring the Prairie, and so on. As for the latter game, I had to temper my fascination with the local flora after getting chewed out by my mother one afternoon. “How can a straight-A student be so stupid?!?!” she muttered, while she used a pair of pliers to tediously yank, one by one, the spines out of my jeans pocket – spines from the “baby cactus” knob that I thought was so cute I had to take it home to show my folks. [5]
The canyon’s many snake holes and trapdoor spider dens were among my favorite canyon features to explore. [6] My friends and I sometimes played a version of Ding Dong ditch with the latter. A trapdoor spider constructs the door to its burrow using dirt and plant material that the spider hinges on one side with its silk. The TD spider then places twigs round the door, and weaves some of its silk as “triplines” around the twigs and down into its burrow. When we found the telltale door to a TD spider’s burrow, we’d tap the ground around the twigs and the trapdoor (or sometimes tug on the twigs), mimicking the vibrations of passing prey, then raise our fingers as the trapdoor flew open and the spider quickly lunged out of its burrow. The TD spider, realizing that instead of a juicy grasshopper within its reach there were just a bunch of giggling juvenile hominids, would flash its eight eyes in an expression that seven-year-old moiself interpreted as the arachnid equivalent of, “You gawddamn kids get off my lawn!,” and just as quickly back down into its burrow and pull the door shut.
* * *
Department Of The God That Is Not In The Gluten
Dateline: last Saturday; 12-1:30pm; the classroom of a local gourmet grocery store/café which offers culinary classes; attending a sourdough baking class with 12 other civilians.
While chatting with the students standing on either side of me and overhearing the comments of others, moiself surmises that the class is roughly 50% newbie sourdough bakers, and 50% experienced sourdough bakers who are interested in expanding tips and techniques. [7] The class teacher (whom I had met a few months ago, while buying one of the sourdough bouleshe makes on the weekend and sells in that store), is a fulltime middle school teacher. He introduces himself and says a little about what got him into baking sourdough bread, which he took up as a hobby during his spare time when he was in the Middle East “…on a Christian mission.”
Yeah, I know. Moiself be thinking, why is this detail necessary? Is he one of *those* (Gotta take gotta make, every opportunity to witness!)? Well, he’s a genial guy, so, let’s hope he got that out of his system and now it’s on to the bread.
Obviously, in a 1½ hour sourdough baking class there will be no start-to-finish product; rather, each student is presented with premeasured ingredients, and goes through the processes of feeding the starter and mixing the dough, gets tips on shaping and rising and scoring the loaf and baking, and gets to take home the dough they’ll mix, with instructions to bake it the next day.
Near the end of the class the teacher brings out an enormous bin of dough that he’d mixed five hours earlier, to show the class what the sourdough will look and feel like after the recommended five-hour rest. He will divide the dough into 12 equal portions, and each member of the class will get to practice different techniques in folding and pre-shaping the dough, reshaping the dough, transferring the dough to a rising bowl… This ready-for final-rise dough we will also be able to take home, to bake at a later time.
As he stands at the head of class he taps his fingers against the dough peeking out around the edges of the bin, and gives a brief explanation of how flour and water combine to make bread. Many people mistakenly think wheat flour contains gluten. The two main components of wheat flour are starch and two proteins, glutenin and gliadin. [8] When wheat flour is mixed with water , this action helps combine the two proteins, which form gluten.
Correct. But then he has to add, “And this is where, as a Christian, I see the hand of god…” and he hovers his hands over the dough.
And this is where, as a religion-free, reality-loving person, I somehow manage to prevent moiself from doing a face palm (if only to keep my forehead flour-free).
What I want to say, but don’t:
“And this is where, as an Atheist, I see chemistry….”
…and physics, if you wanted to go even further into the explanation of the chemical bonds and structures of the proteins involved.
The point: there is nothing supernatural about how you go from flour + water + salt + leavening agent + time + heat = bread.
Again: this is where *I* see chemistry. You know, the chemistry you just mentioned to the class. You gave a brief, fact-based, natural world explanation of what happens when you make bread, then you introduce the supernatural? Why? Perhaps the bakers of ancient times raised their hands in prayer to Vesta when they put their loaves in the communal ovens, but most of us we now know that there is nothing magical/supernatural about baking….”
Does he also sees “the hand of god” in other natural processes?
Sometimes, classes for which you registered online send you a questionnaire or survey link after the class is over, so that you may offer feedback to the class’s organizers and/or teachers. I keep checking my email, hoping to have the opportunity to offer a more abbreviated version of, “Hey, the class was mostly fun and useful, but I did not appreciate the teacher referencing his [9] religion in a baking class. I found it odd that he credited an imaginary deity the supernatural within seconds of having mentioned the scientific explanation of how gluten is formed.”
I love it when a religious believer who makes supernatural attributions to culinary results and a baker who is religion-free can use the same recipe and ingredients, follow the same instructions, and produce equally yummy-looking and tasting bread loaves. [11]
* * *
May you raise your hands in praise of the person who gives you homemade bread; May you be inspired to re-watch your favorite spoof movie; May you never feel too old to play ding-dong ditch; [12]
…and may the hijinks ensue.
Thanks for stopping by. Au Vendredi!
* * *
[1] No no no – and shame of you for even thinking that.
[2] Not to pick on that particular chair pad; none of them stay on for long.
[3] Due to my father’s temporary work transfer. He was being groomed to be the chief of the audit division of one of the IRS’s 33 districts, a position he later turned down, as the promotion would have required permanent relocation, and his devoted wife and snippy little ungrateful bastards loving children told him they would refuse to leave So Cal! (He was promoted to Assistant Chief of the audit division of the Los Angeles district, a title he retained until he retired). My parents, knowing the transfer was temporary/for training purposes, rented out our Santa Ana house and in turn found a house to rent in San Diego for two years.
[4] We’ve never lived by a canyon or any large open area, but if we’d just allowed our kids to roam the neighborhood for hours, arranging play on their own with the neighbor kids without parentally supervised and/or arranged play dates (which is how I was raised), I know someone would have called the cops on us.
[5] How I managed to get it in my pocket without sticking my fingers, I’ll never know. Yet, that’s what I did.
[6] I discovered that western diamondbacks will give you a percussion performance with their rattles if you jab a stick down the gopher holes they are occupying.
[7] Rice flour is great for getting sticky dough off of your hands!
[9] Besides Friendly Neighborhood Atheist® moiself(and at least one other, if I gauge the eye-rolling reaction of another class participant correctly), I’m fairly certain (judging from conversations overheard/jewelry worn) there was at least one Muslim and one Jew among the other students.
[10] “free-think-er n. A person who forms opinions about religion on the basis of reason, independently of tradition, authority, or established belief. Freethinkers include atheists, agnostics and rationalists. No one can be a freethinker who demands conformity to a bible, creed, or messiah. To the freethinker, revelation and faith are invalid, and orthodoxy is no guarantee of truth.” Definition courtesy of the Freedom From Religion Foundation, ffrf.org
[11] Which proves the religion-free person’s point.
[12] Except that, dammit!, everyone’s porch has cameras these days, so the anonymity is gone.
Department Of Did I Raise My Offspring Right, Or What?
Dateline: yesterday, noonish. Son K, who is aware of my preference for dry, subtle humor which mines the nuances and incongruities inherent in trying to lead a life of service and reflection in these coarse and chaotic times, sends me this catchy ditty. Moiself hereby nominates the following for Best American Folk Song Ever. Just try not to sing along (but be warned, definitely NSFW).
* * *
Department Of Two Annoying Life Event Trends I Am Looking Forward To Seeing Combined
Those would be a wedding reception which features a gender reveal, and a robot.
“After the vows, the champagne toasts, the filet mignon and the first dance between the bride and groom — after all the normal wedding stuff — came the cue. The cue for the abnormal wedding stuff. ‘Start waving those hands for the PARTY ROBOT!’ Into the candlelit banquet hall lumbered a menacing eight-foot-tall humanoid machine, pumping his metallic fists to the thumping electronic music, flanked by servers bearing sparklers and trays of dessert.” (The Robots are coming…for your wedding,” The Washington Post 4-24-24 )
Silly moiself, googling the idea of gender reveal/wedding, thinking I’d get nothing (but it would still be better, as in, even tackier, to combine it with a wedding reception)….
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Department Of Arguably One Of My Favorite Pieces of Jesus Art…
…is a stained glass window at Saint Ignatius College Prep, comedian John Mulaney’s high school, which he and David Letterman visited while filming Mulaney’s appearance on Letterman’s show, My Next Guest Needs No Introduction.
Moiself can’t help but think that the stained-glass artist who created that panel was a closeted (which, until relatively recently, you had to be) atheist or at least skeptic, as the artist gave JC an eye-rolling, “Oy vey, the horseshit people believe!?” expression.
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Department Of All-Time Great Pranks
This slice o’ life story is courtesy of the six degrees of separation principle vis-à-vis my [1] neurons making the connections that they…just make, sometimes.
Dateline: last Saturday 7:45 AM-ish; walking. The podcast I was listening to reminded me of some actor, [2] who reminded me of another actor, which reminded me that one of those actors is either currently or formerly a Scientologist, which brought to mind one of the great pranks ever played on me, which occurred when I was in college at UC Davis.
Way back then the town of Davis had a very active Scientology Center. I use the term Centerdeliberately – there was no “Church of Scientology” at that time, [3] a fact that Scientologists boastfully emphasized in their recruitment efforts. When a Scientology proselytizer knocked on your door or approached you on the campus quad, and you as the average student/citizen had no interest in taking the time to challenge Scientology bullshit beliefs, it’s likely you’d use some version of the customary brushoff:
“No thanks/not interested, I have my own religion.”
The eager beaver Scientologist would scoff, “Religion?!? Scientology is *not* a religion!” The Scientology recruiter would use that as an entryway into assuring their target that there’d be no conflict in learning about Scientology – “which, *not* being a religion, would not require any renouncing of your personal religious beliefs – which is a proven/effective method/philosophy combining spirituality and Science ®, to handle stress and show pathways to healthy and successful lives….”
Moiself could (and may, eventually) share more stories re my encounters with Scientology adherents at UCD. Instead, the afore-mentioned prank, which discerning readers will surmise has something to do with Scientology, will now take center stage.
My college boyfriend “Scott,” [4] no fan of any supernatural beliefs (including the religions of the dominant culture, one of which I pretended to believe in, at the time), considered Scientology to be the most egregious example of spiritual and intellectual quackery. As a student who would go on to get undergraduate and graduate degrees in several scientific disciplines, Scott particularly objected to the cult’s organization using the word sciencein any way shape or form.
I knew that Scott had visited the Scientology Center at least once, to check it out, after I’d amused him with my tales of encountering Scientology recruiters on campus. Scott and his best friend “Bruce” returned the favor, amusing moiself and a couple of my apartment mates one evening when they showed up at our apartment, pulled out a small tape recorder from Bruce’s book bag, and played back Scott’s session with a Scientology auditor which, unbeknownst to the auditor, they had surreptitiously recorded with the tape recorder hidden in Bruce’s book bag.
The tape’s audio wasn’t all that great, but we could hear enough to be both flabbergasted and highly entertained, as the auditor asked Scott a series of questions while Scott grasped both handholds of the infamous Scientology E-Meter.
The E-meteris (was? Are they still using that batshit crazy thang?) a crude electronic device meant to mimic a polygraph, and was used by Scientology auditors (“counselors”) to purportedly “examine a person’s mental state.” [5] In terms of sophisticated electronic devices, Scott described the E-Meteras perhaps one or two steps above using a “telephone” consisting of two tin cans connected by kite string.
One evening about a week after Scott entertained us with the E-metertape, I heard a knock at my apartment door. My three roommates and I had a lot of regular visitors to our apartment, most of whom just opened the door and announced their arrival – so, someone who actually bothered to knock was something different, maybe even special. When I opened the door I beheld a young man standing on our welcome mat. He was carrying some kind of satchel and a piece of paper with a name and address on it. He looked at me, then past me to my three (all-female) roommates who were in the living room, then down at his paper, then his eyes traveled back up to our apartment door. He asked if this was 224 A St. apartment 16? When I replied in the affirmative, he said that he was here at the behest of a man named “Victor Lazlo, who visited the Scientology Center and expressed a desire to ‘get clear.’ “
Had I been sipping a beverage there’s no way I could have avoided a classic spit take.
Young Scientology Man seemed undeterred by my and my roommates’ scarcely muffled guffaws. I got rid of him by throwing him a bone, something ala, “Oh, yeah, Victor – he moved back on campus,” and giving him the dorm address of a male friend of mine. [7]
* * *
A Haiku For Unglamorous Vegetables In Our Weekly Farm Share
Celery root, and turnips. I was surprised by Their very pleasant
aroma, as they boiled. Meanwhile, I sauteed leeks in (plant-based) butter.
Garlic; a pinch each of white pepper, nutmeg, and green salt; [8] a splash each
of lemon juice, and veg broth; mashed all together; top with fresh parsley. Yummers – who knew?
* * *
Department of Employee Of The Month
It’s that time, to bestow that prestigious award upon moiself. Again. The need for which I wrote about here. [9]
“If you think it’s offensive that I call alleged biblical miracles ridiculous, you should ask yourself whether or not it’s ridiculous to insist that Muhammad flew on a winged horse. Or that the earth was hatched from a cosmic egg? Or that Xenu, the dictator of the Galactic Confederacy, brought billions of his people to earth 75 million years ago and killed them using hydrogen bombs? These are all religious beliefs of others, but that doesn’t mean calling them ridiculous is an insult – it’s an objective fact until proven otherwise.” (David G. McAfee, journalist and author, of No Sacred Cows: Investigating Myths, Cults, and the Supernatural, and other books)
* * *
Parting Shot: I love it when/I hate it when…
I hate it when I realize that April 1 is way done gone and past, and no one even tried to play an April Fool’s joke on moiself.
* * *
May homely vegetables inspire you to write haiku; May you appreciate having a creative prank played on you; May you avoid gluing your __ to your…..you know; …and may the hijinks ensue.
Thanks for stopping by. Au Vendredi!
* * *
[1] In olden days referred to as “the six handshakes” principle, Six degrees of separation is the theory the idea that anyone can be connected to any other person via six or fewer social connections – that is, a chain of “friend of a friend” statements can connect any two people in a maximum of six steps. For example, let’s say that, despite having never been to China or having met him, moiself claims to have a connection to Chairman Mao Zedong, to whom I am connected, six-degrees style, via my sister-in-law who is from Canton, whose great uncle was an aide to a vice president of the Chinese communist party who served under Mao. (BTW, my SIL is from Canton, but that’s the only part of that example that is true….I think).
[2] An actor who was not mentioned in the podcast, but, there it is.
[3] The Internal Revenue Service did not recognize Scientology as a “charitable and religious organization” until 1993, after a 37 year dispute and controversial negotiations.
[5] As in, if used by a properly trained (ahem) auditor, the device can allow the operator to “see a thought” and uncover hidden lies and other thought “crimes. “
[6] A key character in the movie Casablanca, Victor Lazlo (played by Paul Heinreid) was the heroic Czechoslovakian resistance leader, and unintended rival to (Humphrey Bogart’s) Rick Blaine for the affections of Ilsa Lund, Lazlo’s wife (played by Ingrid Bergman).
[7] Damn! All these years later, I think I’d forgotten to ask them if the guy ever showed up.
[9] Several years ago, MH received a particularly glowing performance review from his workplace. As happy as I was for him when he shared the news, it left me with a certain melancholy I couldn’t quite peg. Until I did.
One of the many “things” about being a writer (or any occupation working freelance at/from home) is that although you avoid the petty bureaucratic policies, bungling bosses, mean girls’ and boys’ cliques, office politics and other irritations inherent in going to a workplace, you also lack the camaraderie and other social perks that come with being surrounded by your fellow homo sapiens. No one praises me for fixing the paper jam in the copy machine, or thanks me for staying late and helping the new guy with a special project, or otherwise says, Good on you, sister. Once I realized the source of the left-out feelings, I came up with a small way to lighten them.
[10] “free-think-er n. A person who forms opinions about religion on the basis of reason, independently of tradition, authority, or established belief. Freethinkers include atheists, agnostics and rationalists. No one can be a freethinker who demands conformity to a bible, creed, or messiah. To the freethinker, revelation and faith are invalid, and orthodoxy is no guarantee of truth.” Definition courtesy of the Freedom From Religion Foundation, ffrf.org
Active, reliable, sarcastic, affectionate, bipedal, cynical optimist, writer, freethinker, parent, spouse and friend, I am generous with my handy supply of ADA-approved spearmint gum and sometimes refrain from humming in public.
