Tuesday, August 28, 2012
The Many Banes of My Existence by Alexis: To Becca's Family
The Many Banes of My Existence by Alexis: To Becca's Family: I've been told by a doctor who has no connection to Becca's case, based on a description of the condition, just how serious her condition is...
To Becca's Family
I've been told by a doctor who has no connection to Becca's case, based on a description of the condition, just how serious her condition is. We're all praying.
Judge Alex asked me if I had Becca's mom's cell phone number. I obviously don't. He may have gotten the number by now. If not, could someone PM him on Twitter or FB with the info? He, too, is most concerned.
I'm so sorry you're all going through such a trying time. I'm praying for a miracle.
Love,
Alexis
Judge Alex asked me if I had Becca's mom's cell phone number. I obviously don't. He may have gotten the number by now. If not, could someone PM him on Twitter or FB with the info? He, too, is most concerned.
I'm so sorry you're all going through such a trying time. I'm praying for a miracle.
Love,
Alexis
Sunday, August 26, 2012
The Many Banes of My Existence by Alexis: Rebecca is sick.
The Many Banes of My Existence by Alexis: Rebecca is sick.: My friend Rebecca has been hospitalized in an ICU for sepsis, the root of which is fungal. Her doctors have been working to identify the sp...
Rebecca is sick.
My friend Rebecca has been hospitalized in an ICU for sepsis, the root of which is fungal. Her doctors have been working to identify the specific fungus responsible for the infection. Please join me in praying for Rebecca. If you don't pray, please send positive thoughts. We miss you, Becca.
Friday, August 24, 2012
The Many Banes of My Existence by Alexis: Macaroni and Cheese
The Many Banes of My Existence by Alexis: Macaroni and Cheese: My mother is on a quest to find the best macaroni and cheese recipe on the planet. If I didn't live in the house, she would probably cook an...
Macaroni and Cheese
My mother is on a quest to find the best macaroni and cheese recipe on the planet. If I didn't live in the house, she would probably cook and serve mac and cheese three nights a week for the cause. Because my low weight is a major source of whiny complaints from every doctor who treats me for any reason including my dentist, my mom does not routinely cook food for dinner that I refuse to eat. For this reason I am spared the ordeal of having to eat mac and cheese more than once a week, but I do have to eat it once a week. No matter what else is happening in either the real world or the culinary world, mac and cheese shows up on my plate every Thursday night
Tonight's version of macaroni and cheese came to us courtesy of a recipe created by Alton Brown, the quintessentially geeky host of Food Network's Good Eats and Iron Chef America. Mr. Brown's version of mac and cheese would rank squarely in the middle as far as go the various mac and cheese genres my mom has dug up and thrown at us. It was neither disgusting enough to be on my Donner Party List of foods that I would decline to eat even if the only other options available to me were certain death by starvation or subsisting on the late Tamsen Donner's (May She Rest In Peace) flesh, nor was it something I would choose to eat if I had a whole lot of choice in the matter. If Alton Brown's interpretation of macaroni and cheese were to appear on a plate in front of me, I would eat it if I were famished, if I didn't feel like fighting with my parents about it, or if I were in a situation, such as being a guest in someone else's home, where it might be socially awkward not to eat it. While this may sound like a less-than-rousing endorsement of Alton Brown's mac and cheese as prepared by my mother, I should go on record as stating that I have had much worse in the three-years-and-change since my mother took up this rather peculiar obsession.
One version of macaroni and cheese that my mother culled from America's Most Vomit-Inducing Recipes or some similarly vile compilation featured, of all things, cottage cheese. Cottage cheese is the number two entry on my Donner Part List [topped only by mayonnaise; for those of you who share my taste, no further clarification is necessary]. I will not eat cottage cheese by itself, buried in a recipe with one thousand other ingredients, in a house, with a mouse, here or there, anywhere: I DO NOT EAT COTTAGE CHEESE, SAM I AM! My mother insisted I only thought I could taste the cottage cheese because I watched her scoop it into the pan, but it was the only freaking cheese in the recipe. She could not have honestly believed I would have mistaken the albino-barf slather for mozzarella.
Another version of macaroni and cheese forced upon us was a recipe created by Bobby Flay for the episode of his television series Throwdown, in which he ambushed mac and cheese diva Delilah Winder (named "Queen of Macaroni and Cheese" either by Oprah or by her minions). Flay's recipe might have escaped Donner Party List status had he not included the particularly abhorrent ingredient pancetta. My dad says that when a food product so obscure as pancetta makes its way onto one's Donner Party List, that is clear evidence in point that the person's Donner Party List has grown too expansive and too unwieldy, and that, for the list to have any relevance or utilitarianism, it needs to be limited to no more than twenty items. To this inane idea, I respond with a wholehearted POPPYCOCK! [Editorial Note: Had I waited precisely one hundred days [[ until the date of my eighteenth birthday]] to author this particular post, the wording of my response would have been more colorful.] It's MY Donner Party List. If I choose for it to contain a single item, or if I choose three hundred items to comprise my list, it is my, and solely my prerogative. For the record, the list presently stops after number sixty-seven. If I'm ever bored and/or desire to burden my three readers with pointless information, I'll present my list in its entirety someday: but back to the topic at hand. Pancetta is greasy, fatty, congealed, utterly dusgusting meat (and I apply the term meat only in the most technical sense of the word) from the belly of a pig. Even regular bacon has to be almost charred in order for me to consider remaining in the same room with it. If cooked to perfection I will actually eat regular bacon. Pancetta, on the other hand. . . . I don't even know where to begin, so I won't.
Incidentally, my mom once started to prepare Paula Deen's version of macaroni and cheese. My dad threatened to have her charged with attempted murder, so she tossed the recipe instead of attempting it.
I've gone on and on about nothing, as seems to be my wont. If anyone has a really good recipe for mac and cheese, please come to my rescue and send it to me. Perhaps it will put an end to this senseless weekly act of culinary violence.
Tonight's version of macaroni and cheese came to us courtesy of a recipe created by Alton Brown, the quintessentially geeky host of Food Network's Good Eats and Iron Chef America. Mr. Brown's version of mac and cheese would rank squarely in the middle as far as go the various mac and cheese genres my mom has dug up and thrown at us. It was neither disgusting enough to be on my Donner Party List of foods that I would decline to eat even if the only other options available to me were certain death by starvation or subsisting on the late Tamsen Donner's (May She Rest In Peace) flesh, nor was it something I would choose to eat if I had a whole lot of choice in the matter. If Alton Brown's interpretation of macaroni and cheese were to appear on a plate in front of me, I would eat it if I were famished, if I didn't feel like fighting with my parents about it, or if I were in a situation, such as being a guest in someone else's home, where it might be socially awkward not to eat it. While this may sound like a less-than-rousing endorsement of Alton Brown's mac and cheese as prepared by my mother, I should go on record as stating that I have had much worse in the three-years-and-change since my mother took up this rather peculiar obsession.
One version of macaroni and cheese that my mother culled from America's Most Vomit-Inducing Recipes or some similarly vile compilation featured, of all things, cottage cheese. Cottage cheese is the number two entry on my Donner Part List [topped only by mayonnaise; for those of you who share my taste, no further clarification is necessary]. I will not eat cottage cheese by itself, buried in a recipe with one thousand other ingredients, in a house, with a mouse, here or there, anywhere: I DO NOT EAT COTTAGE CHEESE, SAM I AM! My mother insisted I only thought I could taste the cottage cheese because I watched her scoop it into the pan, but it was the only freaking cheese in the recipe. She could not have honestly believed I would have mistaken the albino-barf slather for mozzarella.
Another version of macaroni and cheese forced upon us was a recipe created by Bobby Flay for the episode of his television series Throwdown, in which he ambushed mac and cheese diva Delilah Winder (named "Queen of Macaroni and Cheese" either by Oprah or by her minions). Flay's recipe might have escaped Donner Party List status had he not included the particularly abhorrent ingredient pancetta. My dad says that when a food product so obscure as pancetta makes its way onto one's Donner Party List, that is clear evidence in point that the person's Donner Party List has grown too expansive and too unwieldy, and that, for the list to have any relevance or utilitarianism, it needs to be limited to no more than twenty items. To this inane idea, I respond with a wholehearted POPPYCOCK! [Editorial Note: Had I waited precisely one hundred days [[ until the date of my eighteenth birthday]] to author this particular post, the wording of my response would have been more colorful.] It's MY Donner Party List. If I choose for it to contain a single item, or if I choose three hundred items to comprise my list, it is my, and solely my prerogative. For the record, the list presently stops after number sixty-seven. If I'm ever bored and/or desire to burden my three readers with pointless information, I'll present my list in its entirety someday: but back to the topic at hand. Pancetta is greasy, fatty, congealed, utterly dusgusting meat (and I apply the term meat only in the most technical sense of the word) from the belly of a pig. Even regular bacon has to be almost charred in order for me to consider remaining in the same room with it. If cooked to perfection I will actually eat regular bacon. Pancetta, on the other hand. . . . I don't even know where to begin, so I won't.
Incidentally, my mom once started to prepare Paula Deen's version of macaroni and cheese. My dad threatened to have her charged with attempted murder, so she tossed the recipe instead of attempting it.
I've gone on and on about nothing, as seems to be my wont. If anyone has a really good recipe for mac and cheese, please come to my rescue and send it to me. Perhaps it will put an end to this senseless weekly act of culinary violence.
Wednesday, August 22, 2012
The Many Banes of My Existence by Alexis: Dueling Banjos and Misshapen Family Trees
The Many Banes of My Existence by Alexis: Dueling Banjos and Misshapen Family Trees: Far be it from me either to disparage or to have fun at the expense of the genetically weak among us, but I fear that the unesteemed U. S. R...
The Many Banes of My Existence by Alexis: Dueling Banjos and Misshapen Family Trees
The Many Banes of My Existence by Alexis: Dueling Banjos and Misshapen Family Trees: Far be it from me either to disparage or to have fun at the expense of the genetically weak among us, but I fear that the unesteemed U. S. R...
Dueling Banjos and Misshapen Family Trees
Can you say consanguinity, boys and girls?
Far be it from me either to disparage or to have fun at the expense of the genetically weak among us, but I fear that the unesteemed U. S. Representative Paul Akin (R-Missouri, and would-be U.S. Senator) may have major Bigelow blood on both sides of his family tree. I was unsure as to the relationship other than marriage between his parents, but I knew his mother was a Bigelow prior to marriage, and Bigelow is, not coincidentally, also his father's middle name. Further research shown that, unless online genealogical records are incorrect (and everyone knows that if it's on the Internet, it has to be correct) , Todd Akin's mother is his father's first-cousin-once-removed. Wheelock Bigelow, the father of [Todd Akin's mother]Nancy Perry Bigelow Akin , is a brother to Paul Bigelow, who is Paul Akin's [Todd's father's] maternal grandfather. http://bigelowsociety.com/rod8/pau84a71.htm Either the national press has grown very lazy all of a sudden or has equally abruptly grown a sense of tolerance.
I, however, possess no such sense of tolerance for Paul Akin. When Paul Akin made his infamous claim as to the improbability of conception as a result of rape, a statement virtually unparalleled in terms of its simultaneous heinosity (which I looked up, and yes, it really is a word) and stupidity, he opened himself up to public scrutiny. This scrutiny is at least in part for the purpose of determination of precisely what might cause a person to make such a wildly ignorant public statement, as inbreeding has been known to occasionally result in cognitive deficit, Paul Akin's family tree is fair game.
I'm not alleging that Paul Akin suffers from cognitive deficiency as a result of his biological parents' familial relationship to one another. I will allow each reader to make his or her own conclusion in that regard.
Far be it from me either to disparage or to have fun at the expense of the genetically weak among us, but I fear that the unesteemed U. S. Representative Paul Akin (R-Missouri, and would-be U.S. Senator) may have major Bigelow blood on both sides of his family tree. I was unsure as to the relationship other than marriage between his parents, but I knew his mother was a Bigelow prior to marriage, and Bigelow is, not coincidentally, also his father's middle name. Further research shown that, unless online genealogical records are incorrect (and everyone knows that if it's on the Internet, it has to be correct) , Todd Akin's mother is his father's first-cousin-once-removed. Wheelock Bigelow, the father of [Todd Akin's mother]Nancy Perry Bigelow Akin , is a brother to Paul Bigelow, who is Paul Akin's [Todd's father's] maternal grandfather. http://bigelowsociety.com/rod8/pau84a71.htm Either the national press has grown very lazy all of a sudden or has equally abruptly grown a sense of tolerance.
I, however, possess no such sense of tolerance for Paul Akin. When Paul Akin made his infamous claim as to the improbability of conception as a result of rape, a statement virtually unparalleled in terms of its simultaneous heinosity (which I looked up, and yes, it really is a word) and stupidity, he opened himself up to public scrutiny. This scrutiny is at least in part for the purpose of determination of precisely what might cause a person to make such a wildly ignorant public statement, as inbreeding has been known to occasionally result in cognitive deficit, Paul Akin's family tree is fair game.
I'm not alleging that Paul Akin suffers from cognitive deficiency as a result of his biological parents' familial relationship to one another. I will allow each reader to make his or her own conclusion in that regard.
Tuesday, August 21, 2012
The Many Banes of My Existence by Alexis: Does everything happen for a reason?
The Many Banes of My Existence by Alexis: Does everything happen for a reason?: Some people are especially fond of saying that everything happens for a reason. It may be true in the sense that almost nothing is totally r...
Does everything happen for a reason?
Some people are especially fond of saying that everything happens for a reason. It may be true in the sense that almost nothing is totally random. I don't really think that is what is meant by most of the people who say it, though. The implication is, instead, that every occurrence on this Earth is somehow divinely inspired or foreordained. It may make the people who say it feel good in a touchy-feely sort of way, as in God is in control of us all, you know. He's got the whole world in His hands. (Pardon me for a moment while I become ill.)
If one really stops to ponder the world in a deeper, sense, on the other hand, such a philosophy shouldn't be comforting. I, for one, can accept acts of violence or the general bad things that some people do to others with less anguish if I think it's the work of an individual or small group of people motivated by selfishness, greed, or other evil ideas than if I think it's all part of God's plan and that God actually intended for the horrible thing to happen. Why would God want Charles Manson to mastermind murders? Why would he give assent to the killing of a very pregnant Laci Peterson? Why would God be a party to a theater shooting? How could God go along with three preschool teachers organizing, facilitating, and filming a bloody fight between two three-year-olds? What about child molestations? I don't buy God's participation in any of it.
Evil is in the world, whether it's legitimately inspired by Satan or merely exists in the hearts, minds, and actions of people. I personally don't buy the argument of Satan's responsibility for evil much more than I think every evil deed is part of God's plan, but that's just my spin. Even if Satan were alive and thriving, I'm not sure why he'd need to do anything in the name of iniquity. There are enough people in the world willing to commit heinous acts that Satan could just as easily sit by his fire toasting marshmallows and watching it all unfold.
If one really stops to ponder the world in a deeper, sense, on the other hand, such a philosophy shouldn't be comforting. I, for one, can accept acts of violence or the general bad things that some people do to others with less anguish if I think it's the work of an individual or small group of people motivated by selfishness, greed, or other evil ideas than if I think it's all part of God's plan and that God actually intended for the horrible thing to happen. Why would God want Charles Manson to mastermind murders? Why would he give assent to the killing of a very pregnant Laci Peterson? Why would God be a party to a theater shooting? How could God go along with three preschool teachers organizing, facilitating, and filming a bloody fight between two three-year-olds? What about child molestations? I don't buy God's participation in any of it.
Evil is in the world, whether it's legitimately inspired by Satan or merely exists in the hearts, minds, and actions of people. I personally don't buy the argument of Satan's responsibility for evil much more than I think every evil deed is part of God's plan, but that's just my spin. Even if Satan were alive and thriving, I'm not sure why he'd need to do anything in the name of iniquity. There are enough people in the world willing to commit heinous acts that Satan could just as easily sit by his fire toasting marshmallows and watching it all unfold.
Sunday, August 19, 2012
The Many Banes of My Existence by Alexis: The Day the Music Died
The Many Banes of My Existence by Alexis: The Day the Music Died: My mother is in mourning. Scott McKenzie, author/composer/singer of the generational anthem "San Francisco (Be Sure to Wear Flowers in Your...
The Day the Music Died
My mother is in mourning. Scott McKenzie, singer of the generational anthem "San Francisco (Be Sure to Wear Flowers in Your Hair)," has passed. While McKenzie virtually epitomized the one-hit wonder* phenomenon, what a hit it was.
That either the song, or its singer's passing, should matter to my mother is more than just a bit of a curiosity. She was born in 1965, which would have made her no more than two years old at the height of the song's popularity. My mother was a child of the sixties only in the most literal of senses. She didn't reach adulthood until the eighties. How would she even have known of this song in its time, much less have been defined or even influenced by it?
My mother's life, like many others, is a study in contradictions. The daughter of an Air Force Academy graduate, officer, and pilot, she was the youngest of seven children. As such, she was exposed through her older siblings to popular music from infancy, and as a highly precocious child, she picked up on what she heard. My mom was born about sixteen years too late to have been a proper hippie. She should have been living in Haight-Ashbury in 1967, attending anti-war protests and performing in music festivals. Instead she was plucking yellow dandelions from the grass to place in her waist-length two-year-old hair, rendered brushable only through the grace God and liberal application of No More Tangles, and which she steadfastly refused to allow anyone to cut.
According to her older brothers and sisters, my mother used her Milton Bradley watercolor set to paint posters adorned with peace symbols and flowers, bearing the words "Make Love, Not War," when she was not yet three years old, many years before the ramifications of the term "make love" would dawn upon her. This would have been especially ironic, given that even as she painted her watery pastel posters while sitting on sidewalks outside the base housing she occupied with her own mother and six older siblings, her father was across the world, flying bomb-laden Air Force jets over Viet Nam.
In many military families, my mother's actions might have been seen as either rebellious or unpatriotic behavior, and would therefore have been immediately squelched. My grandparents, however, were likewise anomalous, especially considering their time and place. While my mom's father knew that, as having received a military education, he was compelled to put in a requisite number of years to the U. S. Air Force to the extent of fighting a war he did not wholly support, it did not necessarily follow that his children, even the preschoolers among them, would blindly support all military actions. Although my mom and her siblings were expected to be respectful of all adults in their world, including or perhaps especially those in their military communities, their opinions were their own, and they were allowed -- even encouraged -- to respectfully express them. My mom said she had no clue as to just how unusual was her upbringing, and just how blessed she was as a result of her parents' open-mindedness, until she counseled college students brought up in more typically restrictive military environments while completing her graduate studies in psychology.
So my mom, one of the youngest hippies of her time, wore and continues to wear her hair long, though not all the way to her waist anymore. She likewise continues to hold pacifist -- though not to the extreme -- beliefs. One of her fondest memories is of having attended an anti-Gulf-War demonstration with her father, who by that time had retired from the Air Force, gone on to a career as a commercial pilot, and retired from that as well. My grandfather would only live for roughly another year after that day the two of them spent together in the name of peace. He died of pancreatic cancer two years to the day before my twin brother and I were born, which makes me sad. From everything I've heard about my grandfather, he was a person I truly wish I'd known.
For the first time I can recall in many years, my mom wore a flower in her hair today, presumably in memory of the recently departed peace-espousing troubadour. Rest in peace, Scott McKenzie.
* McKenzie followed up his iconic single with "Like an Old Time Movie," which received little air time . More significantly, he wrote the Beach Boys' 1986 hit, "Kokomo." As a solo recording artist, however, the "one-hit wonder" moniker stands.
That either the song, or its singer's passing, should matter to my mother is more than just a bit of a curiosity. She was born in 1965, which would have made her no more than two years old at the height of the song's popularity. My mother was a child of the sixties only in the most literal of senses. She didn't reach adulthood until the eighties. How would she even have known of this song in its time, much less have been defined or even influenced by it?
My mother's life, like many others, is a study in contradictions. The daughter of an Air Force Academy graduate, officer, and pilot, she was the youngest of seven children. As such, she was exposed through her older siblings to popular music from infancy, and as a highly precocious child, she picked up on what she heard. My mom was born about sixteen years too late to have been a proper hippie. She should have been living in Haight-Ashbury in 1967, attending anti-war protests and performing in music festivals. Instead she was plucking yellow dandelions from the grass to place in her waist-length two-year-old hair, rendered brushable only through the grace God and liberal application of No More Tangles, and which she steadfastly refused to allow anyone to cut.
According to her older brothers and sisters, my mother used her Milton Bradley watercolor set to paint posters adorned with peace symbols and flowers, bearing the words "Make Love, Not War," when she was not yet three years old, many years before the ramifications of the term "make love" would dawn upon her. This would have been especially ironic, given that even as she painted her watery pastel posters while sitting on sidewalks outside the base housing she occupied with her own mother and six older siblings, her father was across the world, flying bomb-laden Air Force jets over Viet Nam.
In many military families, my mother's actions might have been seen as either rebellious or unpatriotic behavior, and would therefore have been immediately squelched. My grandparents, however, were likewise anomalous, especially considering their time and place. While my mom's father knew that, as having received a military education, he was compelled to put in a requisite number of years to the U. S. Air Force to the extent of fighting a war he did not wholly support, it did not necessarily follow that his children, even the preschoolers among them, would blindly support all military actions. Although my mom and her siblings were expected to be respectful of all adults in their world, including or perhaps especially those in their military communities, their opinions were their own, and they were allowed -- even encouraged -- to respectfully express them. My mom said she had no clue as to just how unusual was her upbringing, and just how blessed she was as a result of her parents' open-mindedness, until she counseled college students brought up in more typically restrictive military environments while completing her graduate studies in psychology.
So my mom, one of the youngest hippies of her time, wore and continues to wear her hair long, though not all the way to her waist anymore. She likewise continues to hold pacifist -- though not to the extreme -- beliefs. One of her fondest memories is of having attended an anti-Gulf-War demonstration with her father, who by that time had retired from the Air Force, gone on to a career as a commercial pilot, and retired from that as well. My grandfather would only live for roughly another year after that day the two of them spent together in the name of peace. He died of pancreatic cancer two years to the day before my twin brother and I were born, which makes me sad. From everything I've heard about my grandfather, he was a person I truly wish I'd known.
For the first time I can recall in many years, my mom wore a flower in her hair today, presumably in memory of the recently departed peace-espousing troubadour. Rest in peace, Scott McKenzie.
* McKenzie followed up his iconic single with "Like an Old Time Movie," which received little air time . More significantly, he wrote the Beach Boys' 1986 hit, "Kokomo." As a solo recording artist, however, the "one-hit wonder" moniker stands.
The Many Banes of My Existence by Alexis: Aunt Becky of mommywantsvodka.com discusses many p...
The Many Banes of My Existence by Alexis: Aunt Becky of mommywantsvodka.com discusses many p...: Aunt Becky of mommywantsvodka.com discusses many provocative topics on her website. A recently covered topic at her site was life coachin...
A Career for the Disingenuous
Aunt Becky of mommywantsvodka.com discusses many provocative topics on her website. A recently covered topic at her site was life coaching. Life coaching as a profession is not new to our culture. Somewhere around the late 1980's it came into existence in urban areas. Now it seems to be everywhere. Anyone with a few dollars to spare can usually find another person willing to take them off his or her hands.
While life coaching now has various certifying agencies and programs, at this point the term is not protected, and anyone who so desires can declare himself or herself to be a life coach, with or without a self-printed and elaborately embossed certificate. Many have done just that. I personally know two life coaches. in both cases, I am more qualified to dispense advice on how most productively, profitably, ethically, morally, and enjoyably to live one's life than is either one of the two life coaches with whom I am acquainted. Allow me to elaborate.
Life Coach Number One recently moved into her own home. Despite being in her early fifties, it's the first home she has ever owned. For the pst six years, she, her life partner, and her turkey baster-conceived child have moved from home to home, bunking with friends. Life Coach Number One's partner is a dentist, but she is not content to be a conventional dentist. Instead, she treats animals, people, and even babies who do not yet have teeth. It's amazing just what insurance companies can be compelled to cover. unfortunately, insurance carriers typically cannot be persuaded to cover dental treatment for dogs. Equally unfortunately, many human patients are wary of being treated by a dentist who sees feline and canine patients in her office, presumably using the same instruments on both human and pet populations. consequently, Life coach Number One and her dentist partner were, despite at least three college degrees between the two of them, not in a position to buy a house, or even to pay rent on a consistent basis, until recently, when her mother was declared no longer competent to manage her own affairs. Life Coach Number One was granted power of attorney over her mother's finances, and was finally able to purchase her own home. This is a person who should guide others to make financially sound and ethical decisions to impact their future. Right. And Scott Peterson should teach Sunday School.
Life Coach Number Two, who may [or may not] be related to me, has six children. None of these children make a habit of doing what either of their parents or any of their teachers tell them to do. Their parents deliver plates of food to them while they are seated in front of TVs, X-Boxes, or computers at various points around the house, then pick up the plates forty-five minutes or so later. Homework? It doesn't happen. Classwork? It isn't ordinarily done, either. The children sleep a lot in school, because they're up watching TV and playing video games until the wee hours of the morning. Life Coach Number Two has toyed with the idea of home-schooling, but to home-school her children would be not to take advantage of the free babysitting provided by her local public school system. No one in the home cooks dinner, because the children only eat fast food. Life Coach Number Two had some sort of bariatric weight loss surgery about two years ago. While I am normally open-minded and non-judgmental when it comes to things like procedures that allow people to feel better about themselves, I must take issue in the case of Life Coach Number Two. She, as a temple recommend-carrying member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints, is most disparaging of my parents because they enjoy the occasional glass of wine [my mom] or the occasional four-beers-in-one-night binge [my dad]. The same Mormon code that would make my parents’ drinking a sin if they were Mormons, which they are not, also makes it a sin for this woman to eat her way into a much-needed Mercedes engine overhaul for her surgeon, yet she and her almost-four-hundred-pound husband (who would likewise benefit from the services of said bariatric surgeon but has not to date summoned the courage to go under the knife) tell any mutual relatives, acquaintances, or anyone who happens to be close enough to hear them that my parents both are absolute, confirmed, bona fide, for real, card-carrying, no-fooling, honest-to-goodness alcoholics. Life Coach Number Two gives everyone associated with The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints -- even those with only the most remote connections, which would include the Warren Jeffs branch of the fold and other various and sundry polygamists -- a bad name.
Anyone who has legitimate qualifications to tell anyone else how best to manage his or her life typically either is so successful that he or she has no time to devote to life coaching, or else is so successful in a financial sense that he or she does not need the paltry sums paid by clients of life coaches, and provides his or her advice pro bono. Yet still we have life coaches fleecing the unsuspecting population. Does anyone else experience cognitive dissonance with this state of affairs?
While life coaching now has various certifying agencies and programs, at this point the term is not protected, and anyone who so desires can declare himself or herself to be a life coach, with or without a self-printed and elaborately embossed certificate. Many have done just that. I personally know two life coaches. in both cases, I am more qualified to dispense advice on how most productively, profitably, ethically, morally, and enjoyably to live one's life than is either one of the two life coaches with whom I am acquainted. Allow me to elaborate.
Life Coach Number One recently moved into her own home. Despite being in her early fifties, it's the first home she has ever owned. For the pst six years, she, her life partner, and her turkey baster-conceived child have moved from home to home, bunking with friends. Life Coach Number One's partner is a dentist, but she is not content to be a conventional dentist. Instead, she treats animals, people, and even babies who do not yet have teeth. It's amazing just what insurance companies can be compelled to cover. unfortunately, insurance carriers typically cannot be persuaded to cover dental treatment for dogs. Equally unfortunately, many human patients are wary of being treated by a dentist who sees feline and canine patients in her office, presumably using the same instruments on both human and pet populations. consequently, Life coach Number One and her dentist partner were, despite at least three college degrees between the two of them, not in a position to buy a house, or even to pay rent on a consistent basis, until recently, when her mother was declared no longer competent to manage her own affairs. Life Coach Number One was granted power of attorney over her mother's finances, and was finally able to purchase her own home. This is a person who should guide others to make financially sound and ethical decisions to impact their future. Right. And Scott Peterson should teach Sunday School.
Life Coach Number Two, who may [or may not] be related to me, has six children. None of these children make a habit of doing what either of their parents or any of their teachers tell them to do. Their parents deliver plates of food to them while they are seated in front of TVs, X-Boxes, or computers at various points around the house, then pick up the plates forty-five minutes or so later. Homework? It doesn't happen. Classwork? It isn't ordinarily done, either. The children sleep a lot in school, because they're up watching TV and playing video games until the wee hours of the morning. Life Coach Number Two has toyed with the idea of home-schooling, but to home-school her children would be not to take advantage of the free babysitting provided by her local public school system. No one in the home cooks dinner, because the children only eat fast food. Life Coach Number Two had some sort of bariatric weight loss surgery about two years ago. While I am normally open-minded and non-judgmental when it comes to things like procedures that allow people to feel better about themselves, I must take issue in the case of Life Coach Number Two. She, as a temple recommend-carrying member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints, is most disparaging of my parents because they enjoy the occasional glass of wine [my mom] or the occasional four-beers-in-one-night binge [my dad]. The same Mormon code that would make my parents’ drinking a sin if they were Mormons, which they are not, also makes it a sin for this woman to eat her way into a much-needed Mercedes engine overhaul for her surgeon, yet she and her almost-four-hundred-pound husband (who would likewise benefit from the services of said bariatric surgeon but has not to date summoned the courage to go under the knife) tell any mutual relatives, acquaintances, or anyone who happens to be close enough to hear them that my parents both are absolute, confirmed, bona fide, for real, card-carrying, no-fooling, honest-to-goodness alcoholics. Life Coach Number Two gives everyone associated with The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints -- even those with only the most remote connections, which would include the Warren Jeffs branch of the fold and other various and sundry polygamists -- a bad name.
Anyone who has legitimate qualifications to tell anyone else how best to manage his or her life typically either is so successful that he or she has no time to devote to life coaching, or else is so successful in a financial sense that he or she does not need the paltry sums paid by clients of life coaches, and provides his or her advice pro bono. Yet still we have life coaches fleecing the unsuspecting population. Does anyone else experience cognitive dissonance with this state of affairs?
Wednesday, August 15, 2012
The Many Banes of My Existence by Alexis: Toddlers & Tiaras Again
The Many Banes of My Existence by Alexis: Toddlers & Tiaras Again: I'm watching Toddlers and Tiaras , which is sandwiched between the repeat and new episodes of Here Comes Honey Boo Boo . I am by no means an...
Toddlers & Tiaras Again
I'm watching Toddlers and Tiaras, which is sandwiched between the repeat and new episodes of Here Comes Honey Boo Boo. I am by no means an expert on all all things relating to kiddie pageants, and there are aspects of the pageant world that confound me. I understand that pageants not of the "glitz" variety exist that, while still not anything my own parents would ever have allowed me to do even had I been so inclined, aren't nearly as expensive and are decidedly lower-key than are their glitz-variety counterparts. A pertinent sports analogy would be that non-glitz pageants are to glitz pageants as taking a ninety-minute gymnastics class twice each week is to being part of a pre-elite gymnastics program that features some private instruction and team workouts that take twenty hours per week at the very least. Cost-wise, even at over a thousand bucks a month, the pre-elite gymnastics program would be a bargain compared to what it costs to clothe for, transport to, and enter a child in a glitz pageant once or twice a month. Still, the metaphor applies.
The very thing that baffles me most about glitz pageant participation is what goes into the decision-making processes of parents who decide that money spent on the various goods and services essential for serious glitz pageant participation is money well-spent in the cases of their respective children. While I approach the whole scene with fairly extreme anti-pageant bias, I can see, as can anyone with vision that can be corrected to a minimum of 20/400, that some of the children involved in the pageant circuits possess looks that are sub-average at best. What motivates these children's parents, some of whom are strapped for cash even without the added financial burden of pageantry, to squander the family's grocery budget on a new glitz dress? While I wonder why any parent would spend money so foolishly, the concept is even more bizarre and puzzling in the instances of those children whom most of us would agree are less burdened with facial beauty than is the average child. I suppose beauty is in the eye of the beholder. Moreover, while there is no scriptural account of His ever recommending that any parent blow the rent money on spray tans, manicures, and.pedicures, Jesus reportedly thought all children were beautiful; I suppose I could do worse than having a Christ-like outlook in this regard.
Still, if we extend the gymnastics metaphor a bit further, basically anyone can enroll a child in a once- or twice-weekly gymnastics program. The facility or organization offering the class is usually more than happy to accept a parent's money. When one gets to higher-level and more extensive gymnastics training, however, some culling or thinning of the herd usually takes pace. If a gymnast lacks the skill level to benefit from higher-level instruction and team participation, such is usually made clear to the parent, which is not to say that in every case the parent's money would be turned away, but even if the less-skilled gymnast were allowed into a rigorous training program, it would be the athletic equivalent to "against medical advice."
In the world of pageants, no such screening happens except to the degree that parents are perceptive and realistic enough to take their children's repeated mediocre placements as indicators of their children's overall modest-at-best aptitude. Even so, pageant operators, who need the entry fees of contestants to keep their events profitable, are not above throwing an occasional undeserved title in the direction of a contestant in order to keep a family's hopes high, so a parent will continue to invest in at least a few more pageants. It's the old Skinnerian variable ratio reinforcement schedule similar to that provided by a slot machine. A jackpot once in a great while keeps a gambler dropping those coins into a slot or all those dollars into a pageant pipe dream.
The very thing that baffles me most about glitz pageant participation is what goes into the decision-making processes of parents who decide that money spent on the various goods and services essential for serious glitz pageant participation is money well-spent in the cases of their respective children. While I approach the whole scene with fairly extreme anti-pageant bias, I can see, as can anyone with vision that can be corrected to a minimum of 20/400, that some of the children involved in the pageant circuits possess looks that are sub-average at best. What motivates these children's parents, some of whom are strapped for cash even without the added financial burden of pageantry, to squander the family's grocery budget on a new glitz dress? While I wonder why any parent would spend money so foolishly, the concept is even more bizarre and puzzling in the instances of those children whom most of us would agree are less burdened with facial beauty than is the average child. I suppose beauty is in the eye of the beholder. Moreover, while there is no scriptural account of His ever recommending that any parent blow the rent money on spray tans, manicures, and.pedicures, Jesus reportedly thought all children were beautiful; I suppose I could do worse than having a Christ-like outlook in this regard.
Still, if we extend the gymnastics metaphor a bit further, basically anyone can enroll a child in a once- or twice-weekly gymnastics program. The facility or organization offering the class is usually more than happy to accept a parent's money. When one gets to higher-level and more extensive gymnastics training, however, some culling or thinning of the herd usually takes pace. If a gymnast lacks the skill level to benefit from higher-level instruction and team participation, such is usually made clear to the parent, which is not to say that in every case the parent's money would be turned away, but even if the less-skilled gymnast were allowed into a rigorous training program, it would be the athletic equivalent to "against medical advice."
In the world of pageants, no such screening happens except to the degree that parents are perceptive and realistic enough to take their children's repeated mediocre placements as indicators of their children's overall modest-at-best aptitude. Even so, pageant operators, who need the entry fees of contestants to keep their events profitable, are not above throwing an occasional undeserved title in the direction of a contestant in order to keep a family's hopes high, so a parent will continue to invest in at least a few more pageants. It's the old Skinnerian variable ratio reinforcement schedule similar to that provided by a slot machine. A jackpot once in a great while keeps a gambler dropping those coins into a slot or all those dollars into a pageant pipe dream.
The Many Banes of My Existence by Alexis: Here Comes Honey Boo Boo
The Many Banes of My Existence by Alexis: Here Comes Honey Boo Boo: I don't have as much time as I'd like to have to devote to a discussion of the content to which viewers of this motley excursion into rednec...
Here Comes Honey Boo Boo
I don't have as much time as I'd like to have to devote to a discussion of the content to which viewers of this motley excursion into redneck suburbia are treated, but a few salient points stand out in my mind. I found it funny when Honey Boo Boo child's mother, June, commented, "Pageants are an expensive sport." I'd never before heard pageant participation described as a sport. If pageants are a sport, what isn't a sport? Likewise, I was intrigued by June Thompson's comment about her daughters' etiquette instruction: "No one can be proper and etiquettely all the time." Those, ladies and gentlemen, are words by which one can live, and have become my new motto..
I suspect we all know that just because it's called reality TV doesn't make it real. TLC is taking the basic redneck tendencies they've observed in the Thompson family, one would assume, and coaching them on how to crank those basic tendencies up to Deliverance levels of hillbilly white-trashness in order to maximize shock value and ratings. Still, these people are not Hollywood actors, and they couldn't do some of this stuff convincingly for the cameras if they weren't already doing something along the lines of what we've been shown.
As bizarre as this sounds, I find the family oddly endearing. While they epitomize redneck dysfunctionality, they do so in an oddly almost-charming fashion. As glad as I am not to live next door to them, and even more glad that I was fortunate enough not to have been conceived from and born into their debacle of a gene pool, I think the family has at least as much as and probably more working in its favor than the Gosselins ever had. I hope the Thompsons make their inevitable eventual departure from the world of reality television with their relationships as intact as they presently are and with their finances more secure than they would have been without the intrusion of reality television. I wish them the very best life has to offer.
I suspect we all know that just because it's called reality TV doesn't make it real. TLC is taking the basic redneck tendencies they've observed in the Thompson family, one would assume, and coaching them on how to crank those basic tendencies up to Deliverance levels of hillbilly white-trashness in order to maximize shock value and ratings. Still, these people are not Hollywood actors, and they couldn't do some of this stuff convincingly for the cameras if they weren't already doing something along the lines of what we've been shown.
As bizarre as this sounds, I find the family oddly endearing. While they epitomize redneck dysfunctionality, they do so in an oddly almost-charming fashion. As glad as I am not to live next door to them, and even more glad that I was fortunate enough not to have been conceived from and born into their debacle of a gene pool, I think the family has at least as much as and probably more working in its favor than the Gosselins ever had. I hope the Thompsons make their inevitable eventual departure from the world of reality television with their relationships as intact as they presently are and with their finances more secure than they would have been without the intrusion of reality television. I wish them the very best life has to offer.
The Many Banes of My Existence by Alexis: A Headache from Hell
The Many Banes of My Existence by Alexis: A Headache from Hell: I've spent most of the summer in a home with at least one doctor in residence. When I've been at my actual home, for the most part either my...
A Headache from Hell
I've spent most of the summer in a home with at least one doctor in residence. When I've been at my actual home, for the most part either my dad and/or his brother, my Uncle Michael, have been there at night anyway. For about two weeks, my Uncle Michael's wife, my Aunt Joanne, also an MD, was living at our house as well. When I was neither at home nor at the hospital, where I spent a little time following a car accident (not my fault, by the way), i was at the home of my PseudoRelatives. PseudoUncle is an MD. When PseudoUncle was not at home on the nights I was there, either PseudoAunt's father, who is an MD, or her brother, brother, who is a medical school student and a P. A., was there.
Anyway, I''m fairly certain this is the first time all summer that I've spent a night where there wasn't at least a physician's assistance in the house. And, as luck would have it, this happens to be the night I have a killer, barfing-my-insides-out (even through my nose, which is majorly TMI, I know, but that's just how intense it is) headache. I don't like to use the "M" word, but that's what it is this time. In all probability I will survive this massive gong-in-the-brain episode, though not necessarily because I want to live through it.My dad's working out of town. My mom said we can't call my dad because it's utterly pointless to wake him up when there's nothing he can do from hundreds of miles away. my mom won't let me call any of the other relatives or or pseudorelatives, either. She said if the headache is bad enough that I want to go to the ER, she'll take me there.
I understand from where my mom is coming, and I don't really want to wake any of these people up, either, but I feel as though I'm dying. I know I'm not literally dying except in the broad sense that each of us gets roughly twenty-four hours closer to our death every day that we live, but right now that's the way it feels to me.
My mom said she'll call one of my uncles at 7:00 a.m., so I only have about an hour and a half before help is within reach. until then, i may as well go bang my head against a brick wall because it feels as though that's what I'm already doing.
Anyway, I''m fairly certain this is the first time all summer that I've spent a night where there wasn't at least a physician's assistance in the house. And, as luck would have it, this happens to be the night I have a killer, barfing-my-insides-out (even through my nose, which is majorly TMI, I know, but that's just how intense it is) headache. I don't like to use the "M" word, but that's what it is this time. In all probability I will survive this massive gong-in-the-brain episode, though not necessarily because I want to live through it.My dad's working out of town. My mom said we can't call my dad because it's utterly pointless to wake him up when there's nothing he can do from hundreds of miles away. my mom won't let me call any of the other relatives or or pseudorelatives, either. She said if the headache is bad enough that I want to go to the ER, she'll take me there.
I understand from where my mom is coming, and I don't really want to wake any of these people up, either, but I feel as though I'm dying. I know I'm not literally dying except in the broad sense that each of us gets roughly twenty-four hours closer to our death every day that we live, but right now that's the way it feels to me.
My mom said she'll call one of my uncles at 7:00 a.m., so I only have about an hour and a half before help is within reach. until then, i may as well go bang my head against a brick wall because it feels as though that's what I'm already doing.
Sunday, August 12, 2012
The Many Banes of My Existence by Alexis: The Celestial Romneybus
The Many Banes of My Existence by Alexis: The Celestial Romneybus: I may pitch a new series for BYU TV. It could be [but does not have to be] a reality series with cameras inside Willard's campaign bus, pu...
The Celestial Romneybus
I may pitch a new series for BYU TV. It could be [but does not have to be] a reality series with cameras inside Willard's campaign bus, publicizing Willard's penchant for practical jokes. He would be shown circling and disrupting Obama rallies by honking the bus' s horn during the president's speeches. Perhaps Willard could don a police uniform once again and attempt to cite Obama supporters for unlawful assembly. I'm not sure exactly where the celestial part comes in. I just liked the name. One tweeter tweeted that the only Bibles on the Romney/Ryan bus are the Book of Mormon and Atlas Shrugged. Perhaps the candidates could be shown studying their scriptures. Or perhaps not. The possibilities are infinite.
Saturday, August 11, 2012
The Many Banes of My Existence by Alexis: What Should Happen When Parents Split?
The Many Banes of My Existence by Alexis: What Should Happen When Parents Split?: The topic of parents separating doesn't pertain directly to me. My brother and I are old enough at this point that it really wouldn't pertai...
What Should Happen When Parents Split?
The topic of parents separating doesn't pertain directly to me. My brother and I are old enough at this point that it really wouldn't pertain to us even if our parents did divorce; our only issues would be finances and the logistics of holidays and vacations. It does pertain to many people, though, and, in particular, it affects the children of Aunt Becky of Band Back Together and mommywantsvodka.com fame. (Mommy doesn't really want vodka on a regular basis; the blog title is tongue-in-cheek.)
Becky Sherrick Harks (or Becky Harks Sherrick; I can never keep it straight) has made much of her life an open book on her website. Hence, when she announced her divorce, many readers felt free to comment on her childcare and custody arrangements. Aunt Becky and her soon-to-be ex are making what I would consider to be a fairly major sacrifice in that their children will remain in their home. Their parents will come and go as logistics dictate. At least one reader has decided that it will be detrimental to the psychological well-being of the children to see their parents come and go while they, the children, remain in one place. I could not disagree more strongly.
The only instability I've ever experienced in my home life life occurred when my mother was critically ill and my father needed to be with her. My brother and I endured various childcare arrangements during these times. We were mostly under the care of relatives, and usually in their homes. The quality of care, depending upon which relative provided it, ranged for the most part from mediocre to excellent, but still, it mostly occurred in their homes. This was, at least to me, majorly disruptive.
In one particular instance, we were cared for, if you could call it that, by the relative of a relative in our own house. The quality of care probably wouldn't have been a hell of a lot worse if we had been under the guardianship of Charles Manson himself. The "care provider" talked on the phone, watched TV, and slept almost all the time she should have been supervising us. She didn't prepare meals for us. In an infamous incident about which I've already blogged http://alexisar.blogspot.com/2010/05/man-or-woman-or-child-cannot-live-by.html, I chose this time of lax supervision to test my hypothesis that a body can sustain itself in more or less good health on candy alone for an indefinite interval. (My hypothesis did not hold up to testing, and I was eventually transported to a hospital by ambulance.) We had a cleaning lady who came in twice a week and did, among other things, our laundry, or we would have been wearing the same dirty clothes for the entire four months or so that the person was responsible for us. We were five most of the time this took place, and turned six shortly before the "care giver's" employment with our family was discontinued. The only thing that kept me remotely functioning during this time was that I was in my own house, with my very own bed and familiar surroundings.
I grew up among children whose parents were divorced, with a variety of custody arrangements. The arrangements that seemed the most pejorative to the kids were those in which the kids spent half their time in the homes of each of their parents. All of such kids that I happened to know spent half their times with their moms and the remainder of their time with their dads, but neither house was actually theirs. It was a sad arrangement. Those who lived primarily with one parent and visited with the other parent fared better. There was still the disruption of going off to the noncustodial parent, usually without all their stuff, but those kids did at least have a place they called home. One of my friends had a situation where she and her brother stayed in their original home. The parents shared rent on an apartment, and the parent who didn't have custody at a given time stayed at the apartment. Once one parent remarried, the parents then maintained separate residences for their noncustodial times, but the kids still stayed in the house all the time. This must have been a major inconvenience for the parents, but they did it anyway for the good of their kids. Years after the fact, I suspect any added expense they incurred in maintaining the house for their kids will be offset by therapists' bills for their kids that they won't have to pay.
I think Aunt Becky and her prospective ex are doing a very noble thing for their children. Even though I've never lived through a divorce, my own life experiences have taught me that a child can withstand much more if he or she has the stability of familiar surroundings on his or her side.
Becky Sherrick Harks (or Becky Harks Sherrick; I can never keep it straight) has made much of her life an open book on her website. Hence, when she announced her divorce, many readers felt free to comment on her childcare and custody arrangements. Aunt Becky and her soon-to-be ex are making what I would consider to be a fairly major sacrifice in that their children will remain in their home. Their parents will come and go as logistics dictate. At least one reader has decided that it will be detrimental to the psychological well-being of the children to see their parents come and go while they, the children, remain in one place. I could not disagree more strongly.
The only instability I've ever experienced in my home life life occurred when my mother was critically ill and my father needed to be with her. My brother and I endured various childcare arrangements during these times. We were mostly under the care of relatives, and usually in their homes. The quality of care, depending upon which relative provided it, ranged for the most part from mediocre to excellent, but still, it mostly occurred in their homes. This was, at least to me, majorly disruptive.
In one particular instance, we were cared for, if you could call it that, by the relative of a relative in our own house. The quality of care probably wouldn't have been a hell of a lot worse if we had been under the guardianship of Charles Manson himself. The "care provider" talked on the phone, watched TV, and slept almost all the time she should have been supervising us. She didn't prepare meals for us. In an infamous incident about which I've already blogged http://alexisar.blogspot.com/2010/05/man-or-woman-or-child-cannot-live-by.html, I chose this time of lax supervision to test my hypothesis that a body can sustain itself in more or less good health on candy alone for an indefinite interval. (My hypothesis did not hold up to testing, and I was eventually transported to a hospital by ambulance.) We had a cleaning lady who came in twice a week and did, among other things, our laundry, or we would have been wearing the same dirty clothes for the entire four months or so that the person was responsible for us. We were five most of the time this took place, and turned six shortly before the "care giver's" employment with our family was discontinued. The only thing that kept me remotely functioning during this time was that I was in my own house, with my very own bed and familiar surroundings.
I grew up among children whose parents were divorced, with a variety of custody arrangements. The arrangements that seemed the most pejorative to the kids were those in which the kids spent half their time in the homes of each of their parents. All of such kids that I happened to know spent half their times with their moms and the remainder of their time with their dads, but neither house was actually theirs. It was a sad arrangement. Those who lived primarily with one parent and visited with the other parent fared better. There was still the disruption of going off to the noncustodial parent, usually without all their stuff, but those kids did at least have a place they called home. One of my friends had a situation where she and her brother stayed in their original home. The parents shared rent on an apartment, and the parent who didn't have custody at a given time stayed at the apartment. Once one parent remarried, the parents then maintained separate residences for their noncustodial times, but the kids still stayed in the house all the time. This must have been a major inconvenience for the parents, but they did it anyway for the good of their kids. Years after the fact, I suspect any added expense they incurred in maintaining the house for their kids will be offset by therapists' bills for their kids that they won't have to pay.
I think Aunt Becky and her prospective ex are doing a very noble thing for their children. Even though I've never lived through a divorce, my own life experiences have taught me that a child can withstand much more if he or she has the stability of familiar surroundings on his or her side.
Sunday, August 5, 2012
The Many Banes of My Existence by Alexis: Litmus Test of Religion
The Many Banes of My Existence by Alexis: Litmus Test of Religion: What makes a person the religion they are? For many of us, we're born into a particular faith or denomination. we either blindly follow alon...
Litmus Test of Religion
What makes a person the religion they are? For many of us, we're born into a particular faith or denomination. We either blindly follow along, don't follow along, actively choose to believe and practice it, or choose something else.
Sometimes it's more complicated. My father was born Catholic. He attended Catholic schools and went through the Catholic milestones at appropriate times. Then a nasty curve ball was thrown his way in the form of two Mormon missionaries who showed up on his parents' doorstep. His parents were converted to Mormonism and took their large brood of children along with them. What this really accomplished for my father was to take away his belief system without replacing them with anything of substance. You can't take a bright kid who excels in math and science, immerse him in one religion that's not entirely logical, then jerk him out of it and into another one that has even less a foundation in science-based logic, and expect him to emerge with anything resembling an intact conventional religious faith. We're probably lucky that my dad is even as sane as he is. I think he believes in a higher power and that Jesus was one of the good guys. Beyond that, I doubt he has much in the way of religious beliefs. He attends mass with the family and usually even takes communion, but I suspect he does it so that our family can worship together more than any inner sense compels him to do so.
To the outwardly observing person, my father is a Roman Catholic. What is a Catholic, really, or what distinguishes a Catholic from anyone else? In the olden pre-Vatican II days, Catholics could largely be told apart from the non-Catholics by their observance of meatless Fridays. Someone in the know can still tell for the most part during Lent whether or not a person is adherent to Catholic tenets. If one happens to notice a rosary in a person's possession, it's also a pretty good indicator of Catholicism.
Outward manifestations, however, are just that. What really makes a person a Catholic? The bottom line, to my liberal way of thinking, would be whether or not a person considers himself or herself Catholic. Other less subjective markers do exist, however. I heard once that, even more than a belief in the ecclesiastical infallibility of the Pope, which may very well become a moot point for American Catholics in my lifetime, is the issue of transubstantiation. Transubstantiation is the term used to describe the mysterious process by which the bread and wine of communion are literally transformed into the body of Christ while retaining the physical properties of bread and wine. The Protestant churches, as well as a whole lot of Catholics, believe that the representation is symbolic rather than literal. I have no issue with the beliefs of others differing from mine in this regard, as we all need to be free to believe what we believe.
In black and white, even I can say transubstantiation seems a bit far-fetched, but it's OK with me that a very few things I believe cannot be explained scientifically. If a large portion of my belief system were predicated upon things that did not hold up to fact-based inquiry, I would experience major cognitive dissonance. With just a tiny number of beliefs, however, I can write them off as mysteries and probably be happier than I would be if every single thing in my life had to have a logical explanation.
I'm finished for now, but not finished entirely with this topic.
Sometimes it's more complicated. My father was born Catholic. He attended Catholic schools and went through the Catholic milestones at appropriate times. Then a nasty curve ball was thrown his way in the form of two Mormon missionaries who showed up on his parents' doorstep. His parents were converted to Mormonism and took their large brood of children along with them. What this really accomplished for my father was to take away his belief system without replacing them with anything of substance. You can't take a bright kid who excels in math and science, immerse him in one religion that's not entirely logical, then jerk him out of it and into another one that has even less a foundation in science-based logic, and expect him to emerge with anything resembling an intact conventional religious faith. We're probably lucky that my dad is even as sane as he is. I think he believes in a higher power and that Jesus was one of the good guys. Beyond that, I doubt he has much in the way of religious beliefs. He attends mass with the family and usually even takes communion, but I suspect he does it so that our family can worship together more than any inner sense compels him to do so.
To the outwardly observing person, my father is a Roman Catholic. What is a Catholic, really, or what distinguishes a Catholic from anyone else? In the olden pre-Vatican II days, Catholics could largely be told apart from the non-Catholics by their observance of meatless Fridays. Someone in the know can still tell for the most part during Lent whether or not a person is adherent to Catholic tenets. If one happens to notice a rosary in a person's possession, it's also a pretty good indicator of Catholicism.
Outward manifestations, however, are just that. What really makes a person a Catholic? The bottom line, to my liberal way of thinking, would be whether or not a person considers himself or herself Catholic. Other less subjective markers do exist, however. I heard once that, even more than a belief in the ecclesiastical infallibility of the Pope, which may very well become a moot point for American Catholics in my lifetime, is the issue of transubstantiation. Transubstantiation is the term used to describe the mysterious process by which the bread and wine of communion are literally transformed into the body of Christ while retaining the physical properties of bread and wine. The Protestant churches, as well as a whole lot of Catholics, believe that the representation is symbolic rather than literal. I have no issue with the beliefs of others differing from mine in this regard, as we all need to be free to believe what we believe.
In black and white, even I can say transubstantiation seems a bit far-fetched, but it's OK with me that a very few things I believe cannot be explained scientifically. If a large portion of my belief system were predicated upon things that did not hold up to fact-based inquiry, I would experience major cognitive dissonance. With just a tiny number of beliefs, however, I can write them off as mysteries and probably be happier than I would be if every single thing in my life had to have a logical explanation.
I'm finished for now, but not finished entirely with this topic.
Friday, August 3, 2012
The Many Banes of My Existence by Alexis: Should Casey Anthony be on Dancing with the Stars?...
The Many Banes of My Existence by Alexis: Should Casey Anthony be on Dancing with the Stars?...: I've never made a secret of my distaste for Dancing with the Stars , nor have I pretended to like Casey Anthony. What is perhaps unthinkabl...
The Many Banes of My Existence by Alexis: Should Casey Anthony be on Dancing with the Stars?...
The Many Banes of My Existence by Alexis: Should Casey Anthony be on Dancing with the Stars?...: I've never made a secret of my distaste for Dancing with the Stars , nor have I pretended to like Casey Anthony. What is perhaps unthinkabl...
Should Casey Anthony be on Dancing with the Stars?
I've never made a secret of my distaste for Dancing with the Stars, nor have I pretended to like Casey Anthony. What is perhaps unthinkable to others makes perfect sense to me. Why not combine two of my least favorite people/TV programs? Yes, you read correctly. Casey Anthony should be featured on Dancing with the Stars.
I can already hear the arguments against my proposition. the first one will probably be Casey Anthony isn't a great dancer. That may very well be true, but chances are that she isn't noticeably worse than Kate Gosselin or Bristol Palin. Argument #2, unless it's presented as the first argument, will be that Casey Anthony isn't a star, which is the absolute truth. Then again, such logic didn't stop the network from inviting either Kate Gosselin or Bristol Palin to participate. Argument #3 -- that the American public doesn't like Casey Anthony: I once again invoke my Kate Gosselin/Bristol Palin defense.
The only drawback to inviting Casey Anthony to participate in DWTS is that the show will need to jump the shark in a big way to keep Casey Anthony from being voted or judged off right away, because she can't impact the rating if she's kicked off after the very first dance.
Just think about it. It's not quite as stupid as it sounds.
I can already hear the arguments against my proposition. the first one will probably be Casey Anthony isn't a great dancer. That may very well be true, but chances are that she isn't noticeably worse than Kate Gosselin or Bristol Palin. Argument #2, unless it's presented as the first argument, will be that Casey Anthony isn't a star, which is the absolute truth. Then again, such logic didn't stop the network from inviting either Kate Gosselin or Bristol Palin to participate. Argument #3 -- that the American public doesn't like Casey Anthony: I once again invoke my Kate Gosselin/Bristol Palin defense.
The only drawback to inviting Casey Anthony to participate in DWTS is that the show will need to jump the shark in a big way to keep Casey Anthony from being voted or judged off right away, because she can't impact the rating if she's kicked off after the very first dance.
Just think about it. It's not quite as stupid as it sounds.
Wednesday, August 1, 2012
The Many Banes of My Existence by Alexis: USA Women's Olympic Gymnasts Rule!
The Many Banes of My Existence by Alexis: USA Women's Olympic Gymnasts Rule!: The Olympic Women's Gymnastics team competition happened today and was televised tonight. The U. S. gymnasts wore red leotards tonight, whi...
USA Women's Olympic Gymnasts Rule!
The Olympic Women's Gymnastics team competition happened today and was televised tonight. The U. S. gymnasts wore red leotards tonight, which were not as gorgeous as the pink ones I saw them wearing earlier, but were still nice. The blue ones worn in a previous appearance were lovely as well. If the leotards were manufactured in China as was reported, the people in China who made them have every right to be proud of themselves.
The team's performance was impressive. Watching the vaulting and floor exercises made me particularly nostalgic. Those were my favorite events. I wasn't bad on the uneven bars, either, but it was such hard work that I didn't enjoy it all that much. In my opinion, the uneven bars are much more fun to watch than to actually do. They can be honest-to-goodness painful. The event at which I sucked the most, though, was the balance beam. I shouldn't, in theory, have been so weak on the beam, but practice sometimes defeats theory. In theory, one's balance beam routine is a floor routine performed on a strip 3.93701 inches (10 centimeters) wide, 500 centimeters (a little over 16 feet) long, and 124 centimeters (just over four feet) off the ground. Maybe some gymnasts are able to convince themselves not to be bothered by the narrow width, the height, and the hardness of the beam, but the frequent bumps and bruises made those issues all too impossible for me to ignore. I'm not now, nor have I ever been, a masochist.
While the entire team is superb, my favorite of the gymnasts among the Fab Five is Gabby Douglas. She's so gutsy, so graceful, and just so great. I could watch her all day. She has a long-limbed build (even though she's not tall; I think she may be the shortest on the current Olympic gymnastics team) that makes aspects of gymnastics more difficult, but if a long-legged gymnast can control her legs, it gives the gymnast a more elegant look. Gabby Douglas is a most elegant gymnast.
As a side note, I parasailed for the second time in my life this morning. Because my PseudoAunt is almost as light as I am, the two of us went up together. We got a slightly longer ride that way, which was sick beyond belief. My PseudoAunt describes the experience as being just like the dreams in which you can fly. If you've never parasailed, you should seriously consider trying it sometime. My own personal bias is that it's probably safest to do it in either the U.S. or in Australia. I've heard there are more regulations and more surprise inspections. I can't absolutely vouch for the accuracy of this information, but I personally haven't heard of any injuries occurring either from faulty equipment or faulty operation in the U. S. or in Australia. Obviously such could have happened without my necessarily being aware of it.
The team's performance was impressive. Watching the vaulting and floor exercises made me particularly nostalgic. Those were my favorite events. I wasn't bad on the uneven bars, either, but it was such hard work that I didn't enjoy it all that much. In my opinion, the uneven bars are much more fun to watch than to actually do. They can be honest-to-goodness painful. The event at which I sucked the most, though, was the balance beam. I shouldn't, in theory, have been so weak on the beam, but practice sometimes defeats theory. In theory, one's balance beam routine is a floor routine performed on a strip 3.93701 inches (10 centimeters) wide, 500 centimeters (a little over 16 feet) long, and 124 centimeters (just over four feet) off the ground. Maybe some gymnasts are able to convince themselves not to be bothered by the narrow width, the height, and the hardness of the beam, but the frequent bumps and bruises made those issues all too impossible for me to ignore. I'm not now, nor have I ever been, a masochist.
While the entire team is superb, my favorite of the gymnasts among the Fab Five is Gabby Douglas. She's so gutsy, so graceful, and just so great. I could watch her all day. She has a long-limbed build (even though she's not tall; I think she may be the shortest on the current Olympic gymnastics team) that makes aspects of gymnastics more difficult, but if a long-legged gymnast can control her legs, it gives the gymnast a more elegant look. Gabby Douglas is a most elegant gymnast.
As a side note, I parasailed for the second time in my life this morning. Because my PseudoAunt is almost as light as I am, the two of us went up together. We got a slightly longer ride that way, which was sick beyond belief. My PseudoAunt describes the experience as being just like the dreams in which you can fly. If you've never parasailed, you should seriously consider trying it sometime. My own personal bias is that it's probably safest to do it in either the U.S. or in Australia. I've heard there are more regulations and more surprise inspections. I can't absolutely vouch for the accuracy of this information, but I personally haven't heard of any injuries occurring either from faulty equipment or faulty operation in the U. S. or in Australia. Obviously such could have happened without my necessarily being aware of it.
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