***Oops, spelled liaison wrong...yet another reason why I could never be in a job that requires you to be infallible
Maybe it’s because I love Halloween so much, but I also really love November first — or All Saints Day as it’s celebrated in the Catholic Church. Because I am an admittedly bad Catholic, I don’t go to mass very often, but All Saints’ day is one of those times (like Midnight Mass and Ash Wednesday) when I really like to get my stuff together and visit Jesus on his own turf.
The one thing I really like about Catholicism is the tradition. I love the history of the church and the fact that the Pope is like a modern day King of Religion. The position hearkens back to another world, a time when people were writing the manuscript of the Bible with quill pens on gold leaf paper and painting pictures of naked cherubs on chapel ceilings. Sure, past Popes have been known to be corrupt, but like anything in life, there is good with the bad.
So, despite being a Catholic (and a former Catholic school TEACHER at that), I don’t truly believe in the Pope’s infallibility. I think the guy is wrong on a lot of issues (the Roman Catholic Church in general is in need of an overhaul and a shake-down), however, I’d never abandon my Catholic roots for these negative reasons. I think the faith is pretty much the embodiment of human nature: kinda messed up. And for this, I like it.
One day, Pope Benedict will probably be counted amongst the rest of the Catholic Saints...so it's probably be a good time to get on his good side.
All week, I really try to be healthy. Despite my random blog posts about whoopie pies, Chick-fil-A, In-N-Out, synthetic cheese products, and all natural casing wieners, I think Grey, Ollie and I actually eat very well. But for some reason, come Sunday morning, a breakfast of wild Alaskan salmon, strawberries, and hard boiled eggs just doesn’t sound appealing. I daresay I’d rather eat my own crap, come to think of it. Lazy Sunday mornings just seem to necessitate lard and glaze with a hefty portion of vanilla creme. It’s like the law of the universe or the tidal pull of the moon — WE NEED IT.
So our little Sunday tradition involves the three of us piling into the car, looking like bums in our pajamas and flip flops, and driving to the local Dunkin’ for some doughnuts. The funniest part is that Ollie now sees the orange and pink sign and starts hyperventilating. As we pull through the drive through and try to order he starts screaming, “DONUTS DONUTS DONUTS DONUTS!” as if the clerk could give us any damn kind they wanted as long as they have a hole in the center.
Oddly, I remember feeling the same way as a kid. There used to be a DD right on 12th Street in Erie (now I think it’s a laundry mat –oddly Erie is one of the only places in the country that currently does NOT have a DD) and I remember there was nothing better when my dad and I would go for a Sunday morning sugar run to the shop. It’d be our sabbath from Raisin Bran and whole wheat toast and just knowing I’d have to face a bowl of fibrous oatmeal the next morning at breakfast made the Sunday treat taste all the better.
We may not go to church on Sunday, but at least we celebrate the glory of donuts!
Now that we’re small town folk, I’m happily noticing all the charm that comes along with living outside the big city. In fact, in our own back yard, we have a family of cute little bunnies that have made their home somewhere. This comes as a pleasant surprise, because in Arlington, all we had were big black squirrels that would eat our trash and chew through our pumpkins at Halloween. One time I even saw one on the back porch eating a discarded corn cob with his little paws just like a human!
I only have one little problem with the rabbits in my yard — and it’s probably just as illogical as my fear of the Amish. My issue is this: One time, I saw Satan take the form of a bunny. I’m not kidding, I seriously think I looked in the face of the Devil himself — and what form was he in? A bunny rabbit. Odd, yes, I would have pictured seeing him as raging Rottweiler (The Omen, anyone?) or maybe a cat (I HATE cats), but against my preconcieved notions, old Lucifer made his debut as Thumper.
It was back in California when I was teaching junior high at a Catholic school. Though my primary focus was English, I was also charged with the monumental task of teaching theology. Of all the jobs I’ve been poorly qualified for in my life, I think this, religion teacher to 7th graders, takes the cake for most ill-suited. But of course, I tried to make the best of it and organized as many field trips as possible to make the class fun for the kids. On one such trip, I accompanied 60 12-year-olds to an old monastery where we prayed with monks and sang Kumbaya in the courtyard.
The one odd thing about the monastery grounds was just how many bunnies were hopping around. The kids and I found it cute until one of my students pointed out a pack of red-eyed rabbits gathered around another bunny…EATING IT ALIVE! Of course, since we were on holy ground, the only explanation I could come up with for carnivorous rabbits was that the rabbits were actually possessed by demons. And, looking back, I sincerely hope me saying, “Kids, that’s what Satan looks like” didn’t scare anyone away from the Catholic church or organized religion in general…
Of course, the bunnies could also have been rabid, but would that be as exciting an explanation for my students? Hardly.
Here I am with my little rug rats (top row, near right). I hope I didn't leave anyone too mentally scarred after being under my influence for an entire school year.
It’s the anniversary of my bachelorette party! Six years ago this weekend, twelve of my girlfriends sent me off into wedded bliss with a bachelorette weekend to remember in Las Vegas.
Somehow, from the moment we landed at McCarren International, everything went our way. The 13 of us were treated like VIPs and ushered to the front of every line. We were given roped-off areas in clubs to sip bottles of bubbly that were on the house and even bumped into billionaire Mark Cuban poolside who bought all our cocktails and entertained us with his normalcy. We were shuttled around in a gas guzzling stretch yellow Hummer and enjoyed the people watching at the pool (or human soup as we called it). It was ridiculousness at its best, and I don’t pretend to have had such a wild weekend ever since.
The highlight of the trip, however, was our trip to Olympic Gardens (incidentally, the one and only strip club I’ve ever visited). Despite the male dancers being extremely attractive and well groomed (and probably 100% gay), I don’t think I have ever laughed as hard in my entire life. Whereas men probably go to strip clubs for totally different reason, women go to giggle hysterically at a guy in a banana hammock pretend he’s a rogue police officer with feathered handcuffs. To this day, the pictures we took that weekend make me laugh until I have tears in my eyes and I think I catch a faint whiff of musk scented body oil in the air and my throat burns with the memory of flaming body shots.
So in addition to the ridiculousness the strippers added to the trip, I am so grateful for my girlfriends for planning and attending such a debaucherous weekend!
Ironically, three months after this picture was taken, I began work as a religion teacher at a Catholic School in San Diego. On another note, I wonder, what is with this stripper's mismatched get-up? A visor and combat boots? I must have gotten shafted and landed the only straight dancer in the place!
Our entourage. Luckily, unlike The Hangover, everyone woke up the next morning with all their teeth.
One thing about this blog is that in addition to making me a more thankful person, it’s also greatly improved my handwriting. You’re probably looking at the chicken scratches on the note above thinking, “Um, this is improvement?” but really, it is. I mean, think about it, how often do we actually handwrite things out? I’ll write an occasional check or to do list, but other than this blog and its daily notes, I can’t think of anything else I actually scribble on paper on a regular basis.
So I thought it appropriate that I thank my first grade teacher, Sister Ann Louis, who taught me to read and write. “Sister” as we called her, ruled the class with an iron fist, and I credit my immense fear of her for my rapid learning. You didn’t screw around in Louis’ class, you came in, put on your pencil grip to your trusty #2 and got crackin’ on your phonics workbook or else you’d have a ripped off car antennae (I’m not kidding) smacking your uniformed ass faster than you could say “Sister of Mercy.” I guess she thought rulers on knuckles were just too 1950. Whatever her pedagogical practices — it worked.
In fact, I remember practicing the letter L in cursive about 900 times because I thought it was the most beautiful letter in the world. Was it a coincidence this was Sister’s initial? I don’t know. I just know I was so jealous of my best friend, Julia Lillis, who got to write four Ls every time she signed her name (that bitch) while I was stuck trying to make a capital S look pretty (impossible).
And now, almost all of Sister’s handwriting guidance goes to waste. But at least I can be thankful for this blog and my daily excuse to break out the old pen and pencil!
I owe my ability to write to nuns like this. THANKS, ladies!
We have a signed lease! YAAAAAY! Finally, we can move!!!
Some Catholics may quibble and say my Saint Joseph statue didn’t do his duty because we didn’t actually SELL our house, but honestly, finding someone to rent the place from us is just as good. In fact, it’ll be better to wait to sell until the market rebounds a bit more. Plus our renter is a nice, normal person with great credit and no inclinations to spray-paint the walls neon pink or skin goats alive in our bathtub — pretty much a dream tenant.
Now the packing begins since we’re set to move the first week in June. Pretty soon, we’ll be Delawarians — is that what they’re called? Oops, I just looked on Google and I guess it’s “Delawarean.” I guess I’ll just have to furiously study Delaware fun facts online before our move date. Like — what’s the official state drink? Do we have a mascot? Oh, the things I’ll have to learn!
Somehow, this doesn't seem as bad ass as when people from Texas say it.
Tonight was the opening of the Buddha Bar in DC, complete with velvet ropes, big bouncers and all the things that are decidedly un-Washington. I have very fond memories of the Buddha Bar in Paris as I spent quite a bit of time there in my early twenties sucking face. So when I found out Washington Life was sponsoring the party here in town, I was all for it. Now I can smooch under the eyes of a large golden Buddha in my hometown. Yeehah!
Of course, the concept of the Buddha Bar works so darn well because the Buddha is rather trendy right now and doesn’t inspire guilt as you smack your boyfriend’s arse or down buckets of Veuve Clicquot. I mean, what if it was the Scientology Bar or the Jehovah’s Witness Bar? Just don’t think they would have the same marketing power.
As I was contemplating all this, my friend Cynthia of Essence Magazine fame and I started discussing the coolness of Quakers. Â All the peace and understanding, not to mention the oats and the furniture. She told me that on beliefnet.com there is a quiz you can take that tells you what religion your credo lines up with and that she came out as 100% Quaker. What! How amazing. So as soon as I left the land of short skirts, flashbulbs and enormous Buddhas, I scurried home to take the quiz myself.
And what did Belief-O-Matic say about me? Well, turns out that I am 100% Unitarian Universalist. And luckily, my second match was Quakerism at a whopping 94%. Feewf. Of course out of 27 religious results, Roman Catholic (my religion since birth) was my second to last! Err, maybe it’s time for a little self-reflection. Thanks Belief-O-Matic!
The Buddha Bar. One just opened in DC tonight and the place was packed. If there was a statue of a pagan or a fiery Jesus, would it have been as raging? I think not. Buddha is just so hot right now.
It’s time to break out the big guns at our house. And, as much as I wish I was talking about shooting the neighbor’s stupid labradoodle, I actually mean in selling the house. I can’t tell you how tired I am of keeping the place 100% clean (kind of impossible with a toddler) and leaving with 10 minutes notice before a showing. It’s been a great house for us, but we need to move on!
That’s why I decided it was time to resort to Catholic voodoo. I had my friend Kris buy me a Saint Joseph statue at the Catholic Superstore the other day for this specific purpose. For all you non-Catholics and loosely practicing ones, St. Joe is the patron saint of real estate. In fact, if you know how to ask him, he’ll actually help you SELL your house!
All you have to do is follow a simple “St. Joseph Real Estate Spell” (which I easily found on Google) and Jesus’ step-dad will be working round the clock as your divine real estate agent. I simply buried him upside down in the front yard and say a little prayer. The only catch was that because I didn’t have a chance to get the statue from Kris yet that I had to use an old plastic one I had of St. Joe holding  Baby Jesus. Poor Jesus is missing a hand and I had to re-affix Joseph’s head back on with Superglue, but I figured this busted figurine will be a good stand-in until I have a chance to get the new one. Plus, at least Joseph has Jesus to talk to down there under my hydrangea bush.
Apparently when you finally sell the house, you’re supposed to dig the statue back up and put him in a place of honor in your new home. At this point, I will honestly build a shrine to St. Joseph if we sell our house. I will devote an entire floor to his honor and maybe even name the baby after him (I’ve always liked the sound of Josephine!). I just want to SELL!!! Cross your fingers for us!
Eh, so what if Joe was missing his head? He's a SAINT (and this is just a statue) so I'm sure the house will be sold in no time! Let the bids roll in!!!
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