A Dog's Life

The day before Thanksgiving, my 12 year old dog - the love of my life, the scruffiest and kindest little mutt ever spat from what was likely a schnauzer mix getting it on with a terrier mix - suddenly became ill and died. It seemed impossible. He had a sore back. That was all that was wrong with him. The vet said it was a sore back and he needed some doggie aspirin but he was in fine shape. He did seem that way. Even on the day he died, he took a vigorous walk, ate a hearty breakfast, climbed up to his place on the couch, stretched out his skinny legs, and looked at me with his big, brown intelligent eyes, as if to say, what are you worried about? He slept for a few hours, the informal nap he liked to get in before his more important afternoon nap.

Then he woke up, and he was sick. He was very sick, very quickly. He jumped on and off the couch and walked into the walls. He tried to scootch himself behind the sink, into the corners, and around the backyard fencing. And then he howled and panted and no amount of petting his sweet little nose or fluffing his gray head would comfort him. I admit it, I snapped at him to calm down. I was scared. I begged him to sleep. Instead, he paced the house as though he'd never been there. He looked lost. And so I knew. I knew in that cold dark place that is never wrong. H. drove through the icy streets to the Emergency Vet, who had the quiet strength of a man used to giving bad news. He told us quietly that my sweet little dog, a dog so robust that his only previous illness concerned soft poo, that most likely he had a brain tumor. There was every sign of a brain tumor, but if I wanted he could put my poor guy [who could be heard whimpering from the exam room] through a number of unpleasant tests, but that the end result would surely be the same.

I had promised myself that I was not going to let him suffer for me just because I couldn't bear to lose him. I would never be ready to lose him. What about his sweet black nose, and the way his hair stood up in a mohawk, and his double dew claws and his arrooooo when he was happy? What about the way he ate the air if I blew in his face? It was too soon. I wanted more time. I wanted to curl up with him in his favorite blanket and tell him again the story of the day we met when he sat at the back of his cage and looked at me as if all hope was gone. I wanted to kiss his little face a thousand times. I wanted him with me forever, and that was not possible.

H. talked to me, but I'm not sure I heard a word he said. I knew what had to be done. Such a hard, hard thing to do. They brought my sweet, hurting little boy into the too bright room, and he whined softly because he was scared. All the sedative they had given him had not calmed him at all. We told each other in our own way - me with words, he with his eyes - how much we loved each other. No one had ever loved a dog quite as much, I told him. Then the vet inserted the needle, and we held him and while we told him what a very good boy he was [and he was], quicker than I ever imagined, he was gone.

Gone. The scruffy little mutt that I adopted from a shelter in Santa Fe, New Mexico. When I took him home we both looked at each other and thought, "What do we do now?" He had never been owned, I had never owned a dog. I fed him, tentatively. I walked him, tentatively. We learned together. I discovered that he had a sensitive stomach and that he thought if I let him he could catch a squirrel [he never did]. He learned that I was a soft touch, and in a week, he was not only sleeping on the bed but under the covers. In the morning I would sometimes find him, head on the pillow, paw on the blanket - snoring. He had many fine qualities that were not instilled by me but were simply his nature. He loved children. He loved people. He slept late in the mornings, in fact, I had to wake him for breakfast. He arroooooed with joy. He was funny. He was independent. He knew when to curl up alone, and when to lick my face when I was sad.

In our years together, I had three long term boyfriends, and each loved him passionately. S. taught him a complicated game with tennis balls that they played intently every night [S. a bit peeved when the dog beat him]. R. looked for a brindle dog to adopt just like him when we broke up. H. wept with me when he died. He was the kind of dog who grew on you like that. He was homely. He wasn't flashy. He wore a little blue raincoat when it rained, but I could tell he would have preferred a gray one.

I think because loving a dog is so primal and so passionate, the loss feels unbearable. It's a love without any hurtful memories to soil the absolute joy of connection. I mourned my mother terribly, but I also remembered our failings with each other. There are no failings with a dog. There is simply - and eternally - love. I will always remember the little boy separated from his dog, Snowball, during Hurricane Katrina. The little boy boards the bus, but he howls and howls for Snowball. I knew instinctively that no matter what that little boy went through after that - homelessness or hunger or desperation - the very worst thing that happened was the loss of Snowball. For a long time, I followed the news in hopes that they were reunited. I don't think they ever were.

When the winter is over, I will take my little dog's ashes and scatter them at Green Lake, a place he loved best. Now I don't know that all dogs go to heaven [for one thing, I don't believe in heaven, and for another -what about the dogs that say, bite children? Is there a tribunal on them?] but if there is a place where old dogs go to be happy, then my dog is definitely there. He had no other job in his life than to be a wonderful companion, a trusted friend, the one being that I could always count on to cheer me up and make me smile. Who among us succeeds in their life's work so brilliantly?

Goodbye, my sweet friend. I'll never forget you. As it turns out, I didn't own you after all. You owned me, and in passing, you took my heart.

Why I Write & Other Self-Important Platitudes That Aren't Really Important

So last night an old friend who is an excellent albeit tortured writer sent me an essay by another old friend who is an excellent albeit tortured writer [when you've been to two creative writing graduate programs you tend to know a few], an essay that is making the rounds, and by this I mean shared on Facebook, twitted / tweeted, and for all I know - photocopied and distributed in those Freshman Creative Writing Workshops that seek to instill in young minds the value of Finding Your Voice and Creating an Arc and the Importance of Literature - even when said students are in reality typing the sort of vampire stories that makes Twilight look like Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man.

I won't reproduce the original essay here, but suffice to say it contained many, many paragraphs with many, many words. Let me sum it up: Once you're on your third or fourth or fifth novel, why keep doing it? What's the point? I'm an outsider so I know my experience is valid, but isn't it enough already? Yadda yadda Is it important? Yes, it must be to us but it's so hard and it makes me unhappy So why do we keep putting ourselves through it when it's so hard? Why? Why? Why, God, why?

The essay was followed by comments ranging from "shut up, whiner" to "OMG, that is so beautiful and so true and all that I believe...thank you." In short, they got all fired up, and doubtlessly fired up their Macbooks with new intent and purpose and belief in the healing power of the word and all that.

However, my primary thought was: "Why not? What else do you have to do?" I mean, American Idol is only on a few weeks a year, and despite my best efforts, I just can't get that worried about Project Runway. I'm deeply puzzled by the newly emerging sub-genre of Why I Continue to Write in 5000 Words or Less, as it is merely a tiny piddle from the wide river of Why I Write essays / books/ treatises that has flowed forth from the very gifted Anne Tyler to the stupendously mediocre Stephen King [who, in my opinion, should not be encouraged to add any more crap to his endless and annoying stream of idiotic non-books]. I've seen countless interviews about Why I Sit Down in Front of That Computer Every Day with women writers and men writers and African American writers and Indian American writers and Jewish writers and lapsed Catholics and even one I can recall with a half Brazilian / half Icelandic writer who theorized that she needed to "embrace all of her hot and cold culture." Fair enough, embrace away. But the sad truth is that I don't care why anyone writes. I care about what they write. In the immortal words of a great Nike copywriter who was probably underpaid for this line: Just. Do. It. Why you write is really only important to you.

How do I know this? Because a few years ago I decided to stop writing. Oh I know, earthshaking news! Except not really. There is more to the story, of course, and I'd be happy to retell it but frankly it makes me nod off. You know, failed novel, enviable awards to finish the failed novel, inability to get it right, pressure from teachers, fellow writers, friends - that humorless Death March to Publication that buzzes in your ear like the Great Gazoo: "how's that novel coming?" I hated it but I felt I didn't have a choice. I was an artist, I had to create. They said. They all said. Well pooh on that, I decided. I didn't have to do a thing but pay taxes and die. I moved to Seattle and met my wonderful Hapa Boy. I enjoyed life. I learned about video games. I went to movies in English. That's right, Dear Readers. I shucked the Mantel of Misery from my bowed shoulders and set forth to meet the world as a proud Un-Writer.

But then a funny thing happened. I realized that I was becoming kind of unhappy and restless. I was blogging, for heaven's sakes. What's up with that? I was writing long emails. I was, in short, doing every kind of writing except, uh, writing. Which why was I not doing again? Oh.

So I started working on a book, and I'm about halfway there. I won't say I can see clearly now the rain is gone I can see all obstacles in my way - I mean, I live in Seattle - but I can say why I forge ahead without musing about community and art and culture and what I have to share with humanity or a publisher waiting with baited breath for my incredible debut.

It's simple: I write because I'm happier when I write than when I don't write. That's why all writers write. We like it. I like the little clickity clack of my typing fingers. I love when I get that lift, that energy, that orgasmic buzz that comes from writing a really sharp little sentence. That's cool, I think. I wrote that. Look how cool I am, writing a little sentence like that! Nifty. Then I like taking out a word and then putting it back. It's fun. I imagine when I finish this book - whether I publish it or not - I'll start something else. But first I'll probably enjoy the same feeling of accomplishment that my mountain climber friend had when he summited Everest. I mean, the best thing about a long climb up is when you get there, you're there. And what the hell, it's a pretty nice view.

The New Blog Order

For reasons that are still mysterious to me, my blog - which began as musings on my relocation to Seattle from Santa Fe and all that happened (love) and all that didn't happen (regret) - transformed into musings about something that I regard with - well, let's call it puzzlement. That would be religion - specifically, Fundamentalism (and I use the word to include the Chabad-like Fundamentalist Jews as well. I'm just as aghast at the ideas that spring from the blog of Mrs. Anna T as any Christian. ).

Although, I'll say this: It seems all those women have some mighty clean homes. It's like a modern day version of The Little Flower, my all time favorite Catholic saint. Cleaning for Jesus! Although my vision of Old Jerusalem isn't particularly spotless, what with all those rope sandals. But I digress.

More and more I'm stunned that anyone cares what I think about anything. I'm just a nice Jewish girl & opinionated writer whose dog apparently will be shipping off to Heaven without me. The point is that I'm stopping this train and getting off. My reasoning is that after more than a year of reading pretty much every single Bloggy housewife and Warriors for Christ mommy, I'm resigned that I'll have as much impact on anyone's belief system as a mosquito had at stopping D Day. It's only fair to point out that the reverse is also true: Not a single comment, claim, or religious vision and/or supposition has swayed me one iota to the conclusion that there is a God or that He/She has a "plan for my life." In fact, all my reading has done more to push me from measured Agnostic to enthusiastic Atheist. You know, in my youth, the Moonies tried to recruit me from Civic Center in San Francisco with an invitation to enjoy a lecture with grilled cheese sandwiches and buttered popcorn. I happen to love grilled cheese sandwiches and buttered popcorn. I left their house laughing hysterically at the lecture (okay, I was asked to leave), and this was at the lonely and tender age of eighteen. As a personality, I'm a Brazil nut. I don't crack easily, you see. It was never going to happen, folks. Don't weep over this one.

Also, I can't pretend that homophobia under the banner of righteous isn't stupendously annoying. I don't like the way some of these bloggers talk to each other, let alone me. I don't understand the rigidity that guides them. I don't understand the eternal childhood of religious faith. I really don't, and please dear readers, do not try and explain it to me. Please. I've tried my best to be open-minded, but every time Voddie Baucham opens his mouth, I am once more horrified that people are actually listening to his simple-minded ditherings. Listening! Repeating! Saying Amen! A woman I know to be intelligent warned her readers about a children's book wherein she discovers "two mommies." Well, here's the thing. You are casting aspersions against people I love and respect, people who have suffered a great deal because they happen to be gay. Which is how they are, and if you believe in a God, how God made them. Which is - to be blunt - ain't none of anyone's beeswax. So shut it, Bible Bearing Christians. If it's so easy to decide to be straight, lemme ask you something. If your God decried it, would you go and have sex with the same gender? I mean, who cares if you're attracted or you want to or anything, GOD SAID. No, I didn't think so. Like I said, shut it.

But there is so much more. There's the insistence that there shouldn't be separation between Church and State. That being a Stepford Mommy is the only thing your daughters should become and see how good she is with the babies! We do all come one size fits all, I guess. Or that's a dream killer. (Although it's awfully nice when those FEMALE nurses help you with your birth! I know, it's like using Social Services. It's okay when you need it. I understand.)

My blood curdles when I read that women are encouraged to have painful, dangerous births because the Scripture says we should suffer. Really? Suffer this, beeyotch.

I won't even go into evolution. It's all too much and I don't have the energy to weed through it anymore. Pretty soon I'm going to kick my computer across the room, and I can't afford to kill Mac the Knife. I'm declaring my Great Experiment is over.

We now return this blog to our regularly scheduled blitherings.

NOTE: Okay, so I've obviously stirred the pot here, and I do want to clarify. I had some lovely emails and I will publish those that will allow me to, but I see I've been misunderstood. My post below was about why I decided to stop reading the blogs. I'm not about the hate, folks. It was just raising my blood pressure too much, and I happen to know that there are some percentage of readers who come here to (car wreck, I know) read my rants about those blogs. It seemed fair to warn them that my rants are over. People certainly have a right to public discourse. I really have no problems with different worldviews. It would be a dull world if we all thought alike. But last night I read yet another "keep those dreaded homosexuals away!" post (and it was not on Breathing Grace, by the way), and I kind of snapped. So there you go.

I think Christianity, like any religion, can be a force for good. I'm rather fond of my own (and just for the record, the fact that I'm aghast by some of Mrs. Anna T's beliefs does not mean that I don't find her a terrific and intelligent writer. I do.) But in summation, I think religion can also be a force for the well, not good. And the more I read, the more I fear this. The path narrows and narrows. Fundamentalism is punishingly rigid, and if people choose it, best of luck. But I want you all to know that my sweet and wonderful friend J. cried when he told his mother he was gay, and he still can't tell her large Baptist family. It was painful. I cried with him.

I want you to know that I am lucky enough to count among my friends two lovely and intelligent lesbians who married and hope to have children who will indeed have "two mommies."

So, in short, these are not concepts. These are people. Which is why I'm stepping off.

MOD

From the Mixed Up Files of Ms. Yadda-Yadda BusyBody

I was thinking this week about how the American Public is starting to remind me of those mothers from my childhood who pulled up folding chairs in front of the garage, drank endless cups of coffee, watched the kids bike up and down the street, and picked apart everyone who wasn't sitting on the folding chairs with them. Which is to say, those mothers just knew that Mr. SoandSo-stein was probably fooling around with a secretary in Manhattan * and that Mrs. Soandso-stein never cleaned her kitchen. (No wonder her husband was fooling around with a secretary, a phrase my six year old mind converted into throwing a baseball back and forth with her, as in, "you kids stop fooling around out here, you'll break a window.")

In the interest of full disclosure, my mother frankly sneered on the Koffee Klatch. She wouldn't have been caught dead on one of those incredibly uncomfortable folding chairs. She had better things to do, like say, cleaning the kitchen.

[Dear Readers, the most wonderful words in the world according to my mother was "your house is so clean!" Closely followed by, "My, your children are well-behaved!" There is nothing and I repeat NOTHING my mother wouldn't do to hear those words. She started at the top of the house on Monday, and worked her way down. Every week, even after she went back to work when I was in junior high. To say that I grew up in a clean house and that my current state of lackadaisacal would cause her to turn in her grave is not an exaggeration. I seriously believe she would have sentenced me to ten years in a Federal Penitenary if she could have had a strict promise from the Governor that I would keep that cell really clean. I comfort myself with the knowledge that Hapa Boy is so uber-neat that he once gently chided me about leaving a spoon in the sink. But I digress. ]

Anyway, this week I came across an online poll about that bewildering couple known as Jon & Kate and their plus eight. Now, I have actually never seen this show because frankly, I don't understand why anyone watches this. I mean, they feed the children and change diapers and for a really fun day, go to the water park. Riveting. Look, I'm not above reality TV. I'm many things, but snob is not one of them. I despise when people tell me in that snooty tone that they "don't have television." I'm not injecting it into my vein, folks. I have been known to watch multiple episodes of classics such as What Not to Wear, Project Runway, America's Next Top Model and - when I'm really under the weather or desperate - I Want to Be a Supermodel. [Yes, I'm 5'3". Why do you ask?] But watching a couple fight and feed a passel of admittedly adorable children falls under the category of reading the Christmas Newsletters of complete strangers. I'm stumped.

However, in line with my belief that Hapa children are too cute for words (although they are technically Quapa), there seems to be endless marathons of this fluffernutter stuff, with Kate's bizarre rooster hair on every magazine cover. Which brings me - finally - to the poll I saw this week. It went something like this:

Will Jon and Kate get a divorce? Vote here.

Wait, what? How do we know? And exactly how is it your business if they do? Sure, they're trotting out the squeedorable children and their marriage difficulties. I grant you that. But what is the mileage on voting on this? On having an opinion about someone else's relationship? It's not like being for Obama or McCain you know. Your opinion actually carried some weight there. This is not -not - a situation that calls for a vote. There are only two votes on this issue, and one of them will be cast by a woman with rooster hair.

What's worse is that following the poll is a long, long, long list of comments. Yes, it seems everyone has an opinion on how those "darling little blessed angels from God" should be raised. Everyone wants to weigh in on whether Jon is cheating or Kate is cheating or she's a harpy or he doesn't communicate. Is anyone cognizant of the fact that no one commenting has actually met them? No? Well, you haven't. So shut it.

Seriously, what is this sudden mania for commenting? When did news sites jump the shark and add commenting to them? When Miss California - truly a world class non-event - lost her uh, crown there were something like 786 comments on one blog. 786! Let me ask you something - who cares? It was bad enough seeing her petulant face everywhere, do we have to pull up chairs in front of the garage and comment on her inane little problems with a Beauty Pageant too? Shouldn't we be cleaning our kitchens?

My Hapa Boy has often pointed out to me the obvious fact that it is nearly impossible to change anyone's mind by a post on the internet. True. And yet, for some inexplicable reason, I'm guilty of this myself. I keep thinking that someone actually cares about my opinion in matters that are actually none of my business. [Which is essentially why I blog, and why I love comments on here - even the ones that scold me and tell me that I should mind my own business. It's true. I love them all]. But I can't help feeling this mania for deciding on the lives of celebrities is a harbinger of something else. We have the answers if anyone will just listen. We know the best way to get wax from clothing and we know what teachers should teach. We are such a culture of know it alls that if you're a Christian, you know the right way to be a Christian, and if you're a homeschooler - well, there's a DVD that will help YOUR children. And of course, everyone knows if Brad Pitt is still in love with Angelina Jolie. And boy, do they want to tell you about it.

Is it possible that we could get back to the science of actually living our own lives? And let Miss California get her breast implants or not get her breast implants?

Although Kate should definitely call me. She really should fix that hot mess of hair. I'm just sayin'. :)

* Apparently he was fooling around, because that couple got divorced a few years later. I have no idea why this is relevant.

On Not Being a Christian & Other Tales of Sisterly Love

So after the election last year I noted that I hoped Liberals wouldn't get obnoxious about their victory. It started me thinking about what kind of Liberal I was. And so, Dear Readers, I embarked on my Great Experiment (also known as The Enlightenment). I decided to put aside my typical blog fare, and read the most conservative of blogs in the blogosphere. I'm not talking Michelle Malkin here. (Because I'd rather not under any circumstance.) No, I'm talking real people, real stories. I'm talking declared Christians who go for guidance to the Vision Forum, where they never met a patriarchal sentiment they didn't instantly embrace, and the supremely irritating Voddie Baucham, who has an odd penchant for yelling "Dunkirk!" or "Hitler!" every time he disagrees with something. I can only hope that Jesus in His Infinite Wisdom sees fit to place him in the section of Heaven where those dreaded Sinner Homosexuals always get to pick the music in the Celestial Jukebox. Eternity and techno. Let the punishment fit the crime, right? Here's a taste of Voddie's wisdom - listen up, My Children:

Hence, sodomites, who who are in large part responsible for the introduction and spread of the HIV/AIDS epidemic are praised for responding to this plague in an attempt to avoid annihilation (by the way, I know you don’t have to engage in sodomy to get HIV, but that doesn’t change the facts... see the book, And the Band Played On for an honest look at this issue).

Or let's go look at Africa, shall we, where apparently anal sex is all the rage! Or just, you know, dirty needles.

But I digress.

Yep, I visit with homeschooling Christian moms who don't go in for birth control (apparently it's all about giving God control over your womb as if He didn't have enough to do without worrying about filling billions of wombs - and for some reason, I always think of cream puff factories when this comes up.) And you know, some of those bloggers are pretty interesting people. Some are extremely funny and bright like my personal favorite, Terry at Breathing Grace, who I nearly always disagree with and yet continue to commend her lovely writing and depth of character and intelligence. Or Authenticallyme, who courageously tries to understand how to continue to be devout after her "toxic" church led her astray, or Molly at Adventures in Mercy who has found herself Born Again in an utterly new sense of the phrase, or Elizabeth, who manages to be fervently pro-life and hilariously funny simultaneously. Some of them assure me that they really do have a sense of humor (and they do) like the fabulous Civilla. Some of them I have a strange affection for, like my sweet gummy bear Deanna, who once wrote me this about me - right after she told me what a nasty heathen so-and-so I was:

Perhaps somebody will tell her she has great value and God desires a close and personal relationship with her...He'd like her to actually know the meaning of love. A love that will never and I mean never leave her.
He'd like her to know that she's not an animal, never has been, but she's precious in His sight.
He'd like her to know that she has an eternal soul that needs a touch from Him to complete her.
He'd like her to know that at this time in her life, she's in want and she needs to crawl up into His lap and weep til there are no more tears.
Abba Daddy, tell me about Jesus

Well, this was fascinating. Call me crazy, but I had no idea Abba could tell me about Jesus. I thought they were singing about some dude named Fernando. Are there more secret messages like this? Is Paul dead?

Anyway, after a year of actually reading and considering everything, I can only give myself a B on the Great Experiment. Because a lot of what I read still makes me scream, "dude, you're wrong!" (And I occasionally do in the comments section, although it really is kind of exhausting since not everyone has Civilla's sense of humor):

* "Teaching kids to share is encouraging Socialism." Hey, you learn something new every day. Here I thought it was to make sure they didn't conk each other over the head with the others' toys. Apparently though, it is a demonic plot to bring Socialism to this country:

We believe that the concept of “sharing” is all wrong. The Bible doesn’t tell us to share.

We are teaching our children ownership.... Of course, we then teach kindness also “it would be very kind for you to let your brother play with that because he really wants to." We want it to be a heart thing.

After all, “sharing” is kind of like socialism. And do we “share” our house, our car etc with anyone who decides they like it and want to use it? No, we keep it for our family.

We do go back and forth on the sharing thing because I keep having thoughts from Scripture…”If someone asks you for your cloak, give him your tunic also”…it can be confusing

Why is that confusing? That seems pretty clear, as the scriptures go. I believe this is roughly translated as "give them the shirt off your back." Well, you know, as long as it's a "heart thing." Because Socialism is coming, I tell you what. Right here in River City, in a country, mind you, that thinks nothing of charging an extra $15 to bring a traveling bag on a plane when you're uh...traveling. Or boarding people by dint of being rich ("Welcome aboard, Gold Platinum Card Holding Rich People! We aren't going to let those disgusting faux people back in steerage use your personal bathroom, don't worry!"). But, never mind that, we are rapidly becoming Socialist. Which is bad! Because....you know, it is! We should do away with Medicare and a post office and a library system. But please, Mrs. W., enlighten me as to where this mythical Socialist country is located, that place where your home can be taken from you and given to the State. Is that Sweden or is that Canada? Because I could totally get behind a share on some seaside property.

* "Homosexuality is unnatural and against God's commands." That must be why gay people have to kidnap small children and force them to be gay because that's where gay people come from. No? Maybe gays are just born with that horrific inclination? Yes, they seem to be from all accounts and purposes. But why? Why would God create people that way? (Since he has control of your womb and all.) Well, He has a plan, that's why. We don't know what it is, and we'll never know because who can understand the Great I Am and His plan, but it involves fighting down all your natural urges and replacing them with the unnatural urge to mate with a member of a gender of whom you're not remotely attracted.

There is no Constitutional Right to sodomy. Moreover, homosexuals are not deprived of their Civil Rights in marriage, because they have the same rights in that regard as every American. That’s right... HOMOSEXUALS HAVE THE RIGHT TO MARRY! What they don’t have the right to is same-sex marriage.

Thank you for clarifying that, Voddie. Now I get it. God wants you to live a lie! Let's not be sinners. Let's follow the principles of the Bible Based Marriage:



* Dr. Tiller is like Hitler. Oh, and anyone for abortion is also like Hitler!" Personally, I'm still amazed and appalled that anyone can come up with a good reason to shoot a man in cold blood in a church, no less. And yet they can. I can't tell you how many blogs I went through conflated Obama's words about how this death was a tragedy with "but so were all those tiny dead babies!" Like this:

"Dr. Tiller was no innocent bystander in a driveby shooting. He chose a life to live, by the same free will most of us believe the Bible teaches, and there are consequences for all of us. His murder is as disgusting as his own acts, but the only surprise is how surprised everyone is. Sadly, this man has lost his life, and his murder is going to be exploited in order to encourage more death. I truly hope he’s with God."

Oh, I'm sure you hope he's with God. I think what you mean to say is - he got what he deserved. How about this one:

"They cannot convince me that they had abortions for “life-threatening” reasons. They say they would die if they delivered a baby. BUT…to have a partial birth abortion you HAVE to give birth to the baby, so why kill it once it’s out? They were obviously “medically able” to birth the legs and the body, so birthing the head really wouldn’t have been that much of a big deal. So really, all they wanted to do is kill the baby in the first place."


Come on, you know how it is. Around about the eighth month you just feel fat so it's tempting to do what those danged Liberals tell you to do. Go ahead! Kill that baby. You know you want to!

These sweet Christian sentiments above ignore the fact that Tiller in the face of every threat imaginable continued what he was doing because he felt that giving birth to a severely deformed child and slowly and painfully watching that child die in agony might be kind of a problem for some women. That according to state law in Kansas, it takes two independent doctors to determine if a woman can seek a late term abortion. That in some cases the fetus was already dead or dying and the mother beginning to suffer complications that could prove fatal but they had trouble getting an abortion performed. That it is extremely difficult to be allowed to have a late-term abortion, a feat that is not accomplished by waltzing into Planned Parenthood, twirling your hair around your finger, and asking if you'll be finished before Happy Hour.

Yes, Tiller was totally like Hitler. You can barely tell those two apart, except for the different moustaches. Just read these stories from women who visited his clinic.

You know, let's just say that Roe vs. Wade is overturned (it won't be.) Are you taking in all the crack babies? The ones that aren't so cuddly? The children born who have lifelong difficulties that parents can't afford the lifelong medical expenses associated with them. Are you going to pay for all that? Or are you going to complain that "you pay too many taxes?" Or are you going to say that Socialism is terrible and people should learn to fend for themselves! Although, oddly enough, it's okay in some circumstances, I mean when True Christians really need it and all:

"There is no legitimate argument to be made with regard to physical circumstances. The stigma of single motherhood no longer exists, for better or worse, and social services are hardly drying up. If you need help with that area, please email me. I would be happy to help you get whatever information you need in order to provide stability for your family."

Really? I thought that we wanted them to dry up? You know, bootstraps and all? I guess not, if you listen to the Kelly at Generation Cedar:

"Social services? Not a big fan anymore; but, if you pursue it, it’s there–I know lots of people on it right now, and I used Medicaid when I was [a single mother and] pregnant–hardly had to fill out a paper."

Wait...you did? So it was okay to use Social Services when you needed it, but we should cut out the programs that might decrease the abortion rate? Ah. Now I understand!

I could go on, but I won't. It makes the blood boil at times, but then that's the Internets for you. On the plus side, Terry@Breathing Grace gave me a Blogger Award for being open-minded. Thank you, Terry! So for the most part, I think my Great Experiment has succeeded. I read everything and consider now, nothing kneejerk about it. After all, there are some ideas in those blogs that I do agree with, like giving stay at home mothers more respect, and teaching children discipline. It's possible that the visitors on this blog have also reconsidered their long held beliefs, and embraced them again through my postings.

I guess I've either been an example of how a heathen can be an upstanding moral human being, or I've been an irritating thorn in the rose patch that is Biblical Womanhood.

I'm going to say thorn. ;)

[By the way, my Hapa Boy is truly the most open-minded person I have ever encountered, a man who constantly asks himself "why" he believes what he does - as this continuing conversation attests. Thank you Hapa Boy for modeling this behavior, and of course, for everything. *Smooch*]

My Seattle-versary!

Dear Readers, it's been a year since I arrived in Seattle - and what a wonderful year I've spent in these green pastures. Last night Happa Boy served me salmon on his glorious deck, and we watched the sunset ooh and ahh over Green Lake. Really, what could be bad? So in honor of our rare week of sunshiny goodness, I give you Bobby Sherman serenading our fairish city (Where did they find all that hairspray in the 1800's?):

Your Special(ly Expensive) Day

While I may be a singleton, I have a keen interest in what is usually referred to as the Bridal Industry. The name alone gives me the cold chills. It typically entails a lot of hoopla about The Dress, The Venue, The Flowers, and Registering For Things Like Toaster Ovens You Should Already Have Since You're An Adult, Right? To be followed by tears and fighting between the happy couple and/or the friends and parents of the happy couple and on one memorable occasion my formerly sane friend spent an hour on the phone with me about to never talk to her poor mother ever ever again for the mortal sin of - are you ready for this? - sealing the invitations wrong. Then there are $7000 dresses you seal up and never wear again, and the engraved matches for people who don't smoke and a big formal sit down dinner you'll never eat for the grand total of $20,000. Trust me on this, I've been sashayed down aisles as a bridesmaid wearing a pee-yellow dress and pinchy shoes and ears bearing the Official Pearl Earrings, the only ones sanctioned by the bride after two hours of intense cross-examination.

I just don't get it. Am I missing an X chromosone or two?

Mind you, I was raised by a thrifty French Jew, and I am a thrifty woman. I live value. I like knowing that my dollars are going somewhere. Although I am a self-admitted fashionista, I do not want those dollars to go to a wear-once outfit that is going to make piddling before the ceremony an experience requiring two bridesmaids holding up my train in their own pee-colored dresses. I do not want a giant party that costs as much as a new Honda Accord, or if it means planning endlessly, writing lists on yellow legal pads, and worrying about whether the violets will make it through to Tuesday because the florist is out sick and it's too late to get into the flower mart and everything happens to me. About the only good part as far as I can see is sampling the wedding cakes. Now that I can get behind. I'm sure I speak for Hapa Boy on that one aspect as well. We are both happy to do any tastings necessary.

But I digress.

Nearly every single bride I've ever been around has been some variety of knife-wielding maniac. I grant you, this is sometimes amusing from a distance. Take the spellbinding television show: Say Yes to the Dress. In this brilliant social satire, young and youngish brides go to the ginormous bridal emporium, Kleinfeld's, where they try on dress after expensive dress, helped in this heartstoppingly important endeavor by some heavily accented New Yawk women who seem to have cornered the market on both platitudes and lip liner. You can hardly blame them for going in for the kill, uh I mean sale - the cheapest of the dresses will snap $2500 from your bank account. You know, if I'm going to give someone $2500, I'd like to wear it not once but daily. In fact, it leads to a totally different understanding of why Miss Havisham never took her wedding dress off in Great Expectations - maybe she wasn't psychotic, she was just trying to get her money out of it. Obviously, the women on this show are more concerned with their Special Day and their Happy Ending (and I hope their grooms are getting some Happy Endings because I would not want to spend more than twenty minutes around most of their lovely brides, as witnessed below:



But it isn't really the money that gets me about the Bridal Industry. It's the way it packages happiness and expectations. It's about how being a Beautiful Bride equals making everyone around you miserable and buying dresses that cost the equivalent of six months at a private school and having professional makeup done and your hair all poofed up in a way you'll never wear it again. It's about the effect on a marriage when the inevitable letdown occurs when you are no longer a Princess, you're shuffling along inside your life and your relationship like everyone else. It's about the way America insists that all life events must be marketed and budgeted for and expensive to be memorable. It's not the fault of the brides that they go insane, it's the pressure that comes from living up to society's idea of The Day and all the Save the Date cards and engraved invitations. As my lovely friend A. puts it: What's wrong with an Evite? It's environmentally friendly. I can promise that if Hapa Boy and I tie the proverbial knot, I'm going to supply great bread, some lovely cheeses, and a mess of fruit and cupcakes. That's my favorite food, people. Does anyone really want to eat the chicken? I'm going to put out a few bottles of cheapish wine to toast a lovely outdoor setting and the fact that I'm proud to travel through life with the best man I've ever known. And because it's His Day too, he can have the day that he wants. He can wear dark jeans or an old suit because I would plan to wear the prettiest dress I can find at a price that won't make me gasp or feel pinched at the waist and my normal messy hair and some bright red lipstick.

Unless, of course, my sister gives me her designer wedding dress. That one has already been paid for.