Author: simchajfisher

My goober valentines

As requested, here are pictures of the finished valentines my kids prepared to give out today(although it turned out to be yet another snow day):

 

And here is the valentine mailbox my son made:

I’m so proud.  Yes, we carefully screen and censor the few episodes of Futuramathey’re allowed to watch!  I’m not altogether thrilled that Bender is such a captivating role model for them; but at least they laugh when my husband says, “OK, kids. It’s 9:00.  You know what that means: Daddy’s sick of looking at you, so go to bed..”

As for the adult plans, we are (as I mentioned) watching House of Cards and eating the rest of the chocolate I bought. He likes the gross gooey ones, and I like the gross fruity ones. And that’s why you need two people in a marriage.

House of Cards – Which version hits harder?

For the first time I can remember ever, I am looking forward to Valentine’s Day.  Netflix will be releasing season two of House of Cards, hooray!  I didn’t like every single thing about this series, but it was always interesting, and sometimes brilliant. It was juicy. I liked it.

After we binge-watched season one, we went ahead and found the original, British version, and enjoyed that, too — although, predictably, in a different way.  James Fallows at The Atlantic (who hastens to reassure us that he’s “not a subscriber to the ‘Oh, the Brits do it all so much more suavely’ school”) thinks that the British version edges out the American one:

There are lots of tough breaks in Kevin Spacey’s House of Cards, but in the end there is a kind of jauntiness to it. People kill themselves; politicians lie and traduce; no one can be trusted — and still, somewhere deep it has a kind of American optimism. That’s us (and me). USA! USA!

It’s different in the UK version. Richardson’s Francis Urquhart reminds us that his is the nation whose imagination produced Iago, and Uriah Heep, and Kingsley Amis’s “Lucky Jim” Dixon. This comedy here is truly cruel — and, one layer down, even bleaker and more squalid than it seems at first. It’s like the contrast between Rickey Gervais in the original UK version of The Office and Steve Carell in the knock-off role. Steve Carell is ultimately lovable; Gervais, not. Michael Dobbs, whose novel was the inspiration for both series, has told the BBC that the U.S. version was “much darker” than the British original. He is wrong — or cynically sarcastic, like Urquhart himself.

I’m not so sure “optimism” is the right word for the American version; and I think I agree with Michael Dobbs that the American version is darker.

The British version is most certainly more naked.

You know how British TV and movies are allowed to use actors who have real faces like real human beings, rather than the uniformly plasticized sparkle people that populate American casts.  Oh, that dry British hair! Oh, those British pores! The story is presented the same way:  one vile action after another, right there on screen.  You are fairly sure that when Francis speaks directly to the camera, he means every word he says.  Maybe I’m just too dumb to catch on (and maybe I’m missing some nuance, not knowing anything about British politics) but the British version often appeared strangely artless to me, with its constant replaying of the scream “Daddyyyyyyy!”  On the other hand, when you watch the final episode, you see that the whole series has been building, with very British patience and reserve, to . . . well, the final episode. You gotta watch it.

The American version

has more ambiguity — characters are more in flux, and their motivations are more confused — which leaves the viewer in a much more precarious place.  When Francis speaks to us, we are really not sure that he’s telling us, or even himself, the truth.  At the same time, the show aims for a level of purely entertaining stylization, signaled with the blood-and-thunder opening sequence and the bombastic theme music. It is clearly setting out to relish every last sleek, cynical second, and occasionally seems a little taken aback (yes, the show itself. Look, I watch TV when I’m tired) when it dips into true horror — which makes those moments all the more horrible. Oh, I was so glad when that awful little reporter suddenly decided to clean up her apartment. That was good.

Anyway, very interesting stuff, right up my alley.  Have you seen both? What do you think?

At the Register: What Planned Parenthood Needs

News flash, Cecile:  Abortion is not and never has been #WhatWomenNeed.

(Our pipes have been frozen for a few days, and my hair is in desperate need of washing; so my vanity won’t let me post a picture of myself holding a #WhatWomenNeed placard.  But if you want to join in the fun with New Wave Feminists, where you can find a template for the placard, my suggestion for What Women Need is “PEACE IN THE WOMB.”)

 

Is there a story in Sochi’s gay bar? Up to a point, Lord Copper . . .

Sochi’s only gay bar is overrun by reporters, who won’t let Russians just sit down and have a damn drink while gay.

Deadspin quotes eight different major news outlets who’ve dispatched reporters to Mayak, where the town’s LGBT community goes to drink and dance. From a reporter at The New Republic:

On Saturday night, I decided to check it out, along with friends who work for The Guardian, TIME, and The Independent. A flock of AP reporters was already there, enjoying mojitos. In the hallway, a TV reporter was interviewing two girls in leopardware on camera. Nearby, a Danish TV reporter named Matilda told me she was interested in doing a story “that isn’t victimized.” It was an important story because “gay rights are a big issue in Europe.” The bar owner, she said, was busy giving interviews in a private room. “We called last week to schedule an interview and we got 15 minutes between the Finns and the Swiss.” Her local fixer tapped me on the shoulder. “There are three more journalists sitting next to her,” he said. But, he explained, they were Russian correspondents. “They’re confused,” he said. “They don’t know what to do, professionally.”

“We’ve given over 200 interviews in the last month,” says Mayak owner Andrey Tanichev. Every country has sent its correspondents, he says, “except the Spanish, God bless them.” The Americans have sent the most reporters, but the BBC has set a record: they came by four times.

Where have I head this before?  Oh, yes . . . in Ishmaelia:

 The bunch now overflowed the hotel.  There were close on fifty of them.  All over the lounge and dining-room they sat and stood and leaned; some whispered to one another in what they took to be secrecy; others exchanged chaff and gin …

“What are you all here for?” asked Corker petulantly of a newcomer. “What’s come over them at home? What’s supposed to be going on, anyway?”

“It’s ideological. And we’re only half of it. There’s twenty more at the coast who couldn’t get on the train.  Weren’t they sick at seeing us go?  It’s lousy on the coast.”

“It’s lousy here.”

“Yes, I see what you mean . . . “

From Evelyn Waugh’s monstrously hilarious, not-entirely-brutal satirical novel Scoop, wherein the wrong John Boot accidentally gets sent to the front lines of what may or may not be an important war, depending on where the all the reporters end up.

Unproceed Sochiward, folks. And take your cleft sticks with you.

At the Register: Death of a Giraffe

Human are more important than animals; but caring about animals is part of what makes us human.

Are you using the right method of NFP?

If you are all done finding out which character from The Hunger Games you are, which character from Downton Abbey you are, and which character from pornoDownton Abbey you are, you might be ready for a quiz that actually helps:  Which Method of NFP Is Right for Me?

For a lot of couples, NFP is even more of a hassle than it needs to be because they’re not using the best method for them.  We happened to stumble into Creighton just because our local hospital offered classes on it; and it turned out to be a good fit for us (although it wasn’t truly tolerable until I discovered OTC progesterone cream.  I think I will write a separate post about that, because it was such a game-changer).

Anyway, try the test from IuseNFP.com and see if maybe you could find a better fit for your personality, your physical situation, and your needs.  It’s not a flawlessly precise quiz, of course, but it may point you in a better direction if you’re really struggling. Sometimes changing methods makes all the difference!

And poke around the IuseNFP site while you’re at it. Lots and lots of useful information there, all in one spot — plus cheeky graphics like this:

And of course, if you are already using NFP and are struggling, or you don’t understand why NFP-users struggle, or you know a couple who’s insterested, or you would just like a shoulder to cry on, you should buy my book, The Sinner’s Guide to NFP.

 

In which my kids make Valentine’s Day weird and creepy

We’ve been doing 3-D lollipop valentines for the last few years. Here is how it turns out when a normal family does this project:

PIC 3D lollipop valentine

 

Cute, eh? It is easy:

1. Take a picture of your kid extending a fist toward the camera.  Leave some blank space in the background for the lollipop and message.

2. If you like, photoshop a greeting onto the image.  If you are alert, you will remember how to paste things in with a transparent background; and if you care, you will be able to talk your kids out of choosing tacky images.  (This year, I was neither alert nor did I care.)

3. Print out enough photos for the class.  We use Walmart’s photo service – turns out fine.

4. Using an Exacto knife, make a slit above and below (or on both sides of) the fist.  Insert a Dum-Dum or other lollipop through the slits, so it looks like the kid is holding a giant lollipop, and tape the stick in place on the back of the photo.

Here is what we have so far this year (before getting prints and inserting lollipops):
one standard (?) lollipop holder:

 

one kid who wants to have the dog holding the lollipop in his mouth:

one kid who is just a crumb:

and one kid who wants to have the lollipop going in one ear and out the other:

I’m sure the school misses the old days, when we were new and paranoid and sure that everyone would be judging us, so we tried extra hard to seem like decent people.

There’s nothing funny about race, sex, religion, handicaps, or ANYTHING, EVER.

The other day, I got taken to task for giggling a bit over this story: a transgendered woman is running against an openly gay man for public office in Maryland.  My comment was, “Boy, it gets harder and harder to stand out.”  This was, according to my critic, an unacceptably unchristian way of mocking a human person who struggles with a heavy cross.

And I thought I was just having a larf.  The funny thing is, even the people involved thought it was kind of funny, too:

“It’s strange and comical at the same time that I happen to be living in a district with a gay senator,” Beyer said. “The fact that both of us are LBGT probably neutralizes the issue completely. I think it says a lot about how far America has come.”

Well, we can debate that. But I see no reason that, in order to be Christians, we have to take a cheese grater to our sense of humor — just shear it right off until we’re smooth and harmless.  Can we treat people like they’re subhuman, just because they’re different?  Heck no.  But funny stuff is funny stuff.  People are funny, life is weird, and when we’re not free to notice that and have a laugh, it’s harder to find a reason to live.

So, that was last week. What’s the latest from the world of exquisitely sensitive metajournalists?  Stop laughing at Sochi!  Just stop it, you insensitive meanies!

#SochiProblems Is More of An Embarrassment For America Than It Is For Russia

Taking pictures of horrifying, orange drinking water in a country that is trying to pass itself off as civilized?  And giggling over lousy accommodations in hotels that are only halfway built?  Oh, the humanity!  It would be so much more humane, in some way which I will figure out later, if people pretended there is nothing bizarre about stumbling across this lugubrious grove of undistributed coat racks.

According to hey are supposed to avert their eyes and think about suffering . . . always, always think about suffering.

Under pressure to quickly build a glorious Olympic village from a patch of mud, Russian corporations ended up denying their 70,000 workers wages, sanitary accommodations and, in many cases, basic human rights. As Ukrainian worker Maxim told Human Rights Watch about his experience in construction for the Olympics: “People work, they don’t get paid, and leave. Then a bus comes and unloads a fresh group of workers to repeat the cycle.”

If you worked under such conditions, would you take the time to distribute the coat racks?

She goes on to explain that other funny stuff is also not funny, because something something shame on you.

Note to recent journalism graduate:  this stuff is funny.  It’s okay to laugh at funny stuff. Nobody is making the case that Russians are subhuman, or that they deserve to live in such a backassward country, one that is willing shell out billions on ritzy, pretentious Potempkin hotels, but is so mired in corruption, it can’t supply clean water or basic utilities.  Nobody is taking pictures of starving people and going “wacka wacka!”  Nobody is saying, “Ukranian worker Maxim is so stupid, he doesn’t even know how to put coat racks away!”  The joke is on the Russian government, who had years and years to prepare — and on the Olympic commitee, who, for some reason, picked Russia.  Russia.

Man, I am pretty, pretty tired of this “don’t ever laugh at anything ever ever ever” stuff.  Geez, the Russians laugh at themselves. That’s part of what makes them Russian.  Finger-wagging joke stompers with their Masters in journalism, though, are a hell of a lot less appealing.

Seven Quick Reasons the author of SGNFP is one classy dame

–1–

When I first submitted the ebook manuscript to Amazon, I got this message:

The book “The Sinner’s Guide to Natural Family Planning” you recently submitted to KDP has possible spelling errors in your converted file. Consider correcting these and resubmitting.

Here are the errors we recommend you address by correcting your manuscript:

judgey
providentialism
caritas
intercoursal
coitalicious

That advice, I did not take.

 

–2–

If you order it new, full price, from Amazon, Barnes and Noble, or from the publisher, you can get it for under $10.  But if you are really into taking advantage of those special financing offers, you might want to snap up this deal:

My cart is eligible! I feel so privileged.

 

–3–

At no point in any part of this book do I suggest that a typical example of someone who has a legitimate reason to avoid pregnancy is someone who is in a concentration camp.

–4–

The Sinner’s Guide to Natural Family Planning was written by someone who feels comfortable quoting Pope Pius XII’s Address to Italian Midwives, and then backing it up with a picture of thumbs-up Garfield.  New Evangelization FTW!*  Woooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo!

PIC thumbs-up Garfield

–5–

If you read it, you will become qualified to weigh in on the debate of the century:  who sounds more uncomfortable?  The priest interviewer trying to delicately ask why a woman who had nine children in sixteen years is qualified to speak about family planning?  Or me, trying to answer that question while ignoring the child wailing, “Mamaaaaaaa, Boomer frew up on the tweadmiwwwwwwwwww!” outside the bedroom door?

 

–6–

Unlike the cover of the Kindle version, the cover of the print version no longer includes sideboob, such as this:

Instead, it includes a lock of hair the exact shape of sideboob, like this:

 

Simcha Fisher in print:  now a classy dame.

 

–7–

Alice von Hildebrand

PIC A v H before reading SGNFP

read it and said it changed her forever

PIC A v H after reading SGNFP

 

Simcha Fisher:  no longer a classy dame.

 

*For the Whatever

****

 

 Much classier dames at  Conversion Diary! Check it out.

At the Register: Speaking of Empty Promises

I don’t trust you to save me from sin if you can’t even bring yourself to say “sin.”