Poetry Monday – UPDATED

Hamburger Washer Sleep Blog, Or:

Will Okra Slime Hurt Me?

. . .

Mad Jesus

Laughing Jesus

people choking

Jew site

Snappy kid talk

What is spillcock

baby powder help with lice

I have sit

I must sit down

Ha ha suckers

toilets blog

Mark Shea butter football

baby shower old wise tales

How to wet sitting down

Sit down joke

I need sit down

frog brothers

pasty vampires

Hallie Lord the jerk

. . .

Dear everyone,

Well, I did it again. I thought the joke was really obvious, but it turns out that it was just me being a big weirdo again. I hope no one was offended, disgusted, or, you know, weirded out. This poem was made up of search terms for my blog. Each line was an exact quote of a phrase that someone entered into a search engine, and then ended up at my blog.

“Hallie Lord the jerk,” for instance, is not a statement of opinion — it’s just a sad statement that Hallie Lord is now inextricably linked (at least as far as Google is concerned) with people like me.

Sorry!

The blessings keep rolling in.

So I was sitting there, refusing to get up. My six-year-old wanted a glass instead of a cup, the eight-year-old kept doing his evil laugh even though it makes him throw up, and the four-year-old wanted to tell me a story about how first, see, she forgot to flush, but then she suddenly remembered to flush, but then. . .

And remember, I have five other kids, too.

My husband is back at work after eight months of unemployment (and may I say: heckova job, Barry), and I miss him. It’s not just that suddenly, everything that needs to be done, said, investigated, cleaned up, controlled, and decided by an adult has to be done by me, me, all me. I just miss having him around. And I’m back to being surrounded by kids in a way that I wasn’t surrounded when there were two parents around. The days are so long!

So despite my relief that he’s working again, I was feeling pretty mopey and despondent. The kids were eating their stupid supper (in the fridge, waiting for husband, was ziti with chicken sautéed in olive oil with fresh garlic and basil. The kids were eating naked noodles and poached chicken chunks. That is a stupid supper) and I just wanted to sit down and feel sorry for myself, because I cut my toe on one of the plates the baby smashed while I was sautéing.

While I was fending off the needy ones, I read this little article from The Daily Beast(via Slate’s XX Factor blog): I Refuse to Freeze My Eggs! (UPDATE: Ooh, looks likeZoe beat me to it, and she chose the same quotes, too!)

The author is single and childless at 35–the age when, as she says, “all the petals fall off [your] vagina and dozens of cats suddenly park themselves in a circle around [your] cobwebby old hope chest.” She’s enduring a gynecological exam, and her doctor starts harassing her to start freezing her eggs, just in case.

It’s super easy, she said. All you have to do is inject yourself with hormones a couple of times a day for about fourteen days, then you go to the doctor, and they scrape your eggs out of your body! Hopefully a few will be ripe enough to make a baby. They put those in the freezer. The rest are thrown into the river. I think that’s what she said. Something like that.

My doctor, who I adore, asked if I wanted to take home some “literature” about the procedure. (I never understand why these medical pamphlets are called literature, as if Faulkner was up all night feverishly writing about NuvaRing.) And in that moment, I made a decision. A decision about how I’m going to handle the fact that I’m thirty five (today!) and I don’t have kids and a kid-making partner isn’t currently on the scene. I decided I didn’t want the literature. And I don’t ever want the literature about anything related to the world of Fertility. It’s my big thirty-fifth birthday present to myself.

I’m sharing this story with you for two reasons: first, because it’s refreshing to hear a (presumably) secular woman say what she says:

[W]hen I think about my uterus (which is rare) I don’t have any desire to bully it into doing something it may not naturally feel like doing. In vitro fertilization, artificial insemination, egg transplants, surrogacy, fallopian Xeroxing—I have no interest.

Hear, hear!

The second reason is to share with you my delight at an unexpected benefit of having all these little kids around. I mean, I’m used to all the regular blessings: always surrounded by love, the peace and serenity of being open to God’s precious gift of life, the constant howling, and so on.

But it never occurred to me that there’s something else: even though I, too am 35 years old, no doctor ever, ever tries to push me into freezing my eggs. I think I have my twenty-seven children to thank for that.

Also, around about the time you have your fifth baby, the doctor stops trying to sneak a plain cardboard box of condoms into your hospital bag. They’ve given up. They think you’re an idiot; you know you’re an idiot. Everyone’s happy, and no one tries to talk you into anything when you already have your feet up in stirrups and can’t fight back.

See what I mean? Children are a blessing, and the blessings keep rolling in.

I’m just going to complain about my alarm clock.

Our alarm clock finally just went fatally berzerk. It already had some issues, but yesterday it started advancing a minute for every actual second that passes. This is a disconcerting but accurate depiction of the way our summer is going. Happily, it gives me an excuse to buy a new clock. I hate this clock. Someone gave it to us, back when we got caught in the wrong end of a current of well-meaning charity from a group of elderly church ladies. They saw we had a lot of kids, and drew the only obvious conclusion: that I would be overjoyed to receive large quantities of random junk they didn’t want in their garages anymore. I gave away most of it, but we kept the clock, because — well, because we had a lot of kids, and couldn’t afford a clock on our own. (Even a charitable old church lady is right twice a day.) Does anyone else have such trouble with alarm clocks? I really don’t ask a lot out of technology, but it seems to me that it shouldn’t be so hard to find a clock which will reliably (a) show the time and (b) go off when I tell it to. Our clocks do this for a month or so. Then they don’t. Maybe! The main problem is that, when an alarm clock goes bad, you only become aware of the problem when you’re half asleep. It’s sort of like going to the doctor, and by the time he finally shows up, you’ve so nervous and tense, you actually do have high blood pressure: You just can’t make an accurate diagnosis in conditions like this. You set the alarm for 7 a.m. and drift off to sleep. A few hours later, you’re right in the middle of a sweet and gentle dream about being a nice little fish that makes cookies, and YAAAAAAAAAA! the alarm goes off, and it’s only 2:30. What? What? Did you set the alarm wrong? Or is the clock broken? And if you’re the one who made the mistake, did you actually fix it? Wait, did you press the button at the right time? Oh, you went past 7– now you have to go all the way around again! Is that dot for a.m. or p.m.? Do you dare to fall back asleep and trust that will wake up at 7? Or would it be more fun to crouch on your bed like a feral cat, unable to slow your heart rate back to normal? Until it’s 6:15, at which point you finally lose consciousness, and sleep through the alarm. Or did you just dream the whole thing? This particular terrible clock had some kind of fancy system with two different alarms, each with a choice of different sound effects, and it was nearly impossible to figure out which one you had actually set. Especially after some kid ripped the plastic face off, which meant that the various lights signifying “am,” “pm,” alarm 1″ and “alarm 2″ were nothing more than bald, unlabeled dots, signifying, “I mean something, and I’m on!” The only work-around was to set both alarms for the same time. So you would wake up in the morning, turn off the alarm, start to get up and think about what you–DAMMIT, turn off the alarm again. Or, if you’re my husband, you get up and turn it off in your sleep and lay yourself peacefully down again. Now, according to everything that is rational, and everything that I know about this man, he does this because he’s a heavy sleeper. It’s unintentional, unfixable, and actually kind of cute. But according to everything I know when I get woken up by his alarm and must lie there poking him until he grumpily rolls out of bed and I’m too annoyed to go back to sleep, even though I had only truly fallen sleep two hours ago because I had just accomplished several pre-dawn hours of worrying about school clothes, he does this because . . . well, let’s just stick with unintentional. Anyway, what this all goes to show is that we are in big trouble this coming school year, with actual schedules and all. Why did we home school all those years? Why did my husband get into journalism? Well, the secret’s out now! We’ve arranged our lives around not getting up in the morning. Sure, so there was a dash of planning, a smattering of the determined pursuit of our desires and the cultivation of our talents. Maybe a whisper of answering our divinely-ordained vocations in life. But mostly, we are where we are because we can’t figure out our alarm clock.

7 Quick Takes: “Fair’s Fair” Edition

Don’t worry, it’s not another scholarly fisk of the cultural significance of Billy Jean. I’m talking about the county fair! The fair! Who doesn’t love the fair?

If you’re taking your kids to the fair for the first time, you are going to hate it.

–

It will be, second only to the birth itself, the most miserable, sticky, disappointing, and ludicrously expensive day of your life as parents. You will go home wondering why you just paid hundreds of dollars to make your kids this dirty and unhappy.

–

Also, you’re fairly sure you had eight children when you left the house, and now you only have six.

–

But it doesn’t have to be that way. We kept trying and failing to have fun at the fair, and eventually we worked out some guidelines. And this year, it finally happened: we actually had a good time! All of us, even the wimp, the show-off, the escape artist, the malcontent, the spoilsport, the worrier, and everyone.

Well, the baby actually hated it, but she kind of hates everything right now.

–

So here is how we managed:

–1–

MONEY

Start saving money last year. I’m serious — this is an expensive day. You have to just accept that it costs what it costs, and there is really no point in making the effort if you’re not going to go whole hog. Be prepared to shell out for admission (and possibly parking), ride tickets or passes, food, souvenirs, and possibly for special rides or shows — plus emergency cash for something unexpected, like bug spray or a bail bond.

–

And do some research. There are usually a few cheaper days and a few expensive days, so work out exactly how much it will cost to do everything you want to do. I recommend going on an unlimited pass or bracelet day. We tried individual tickets, and it was not only more expensive, but made us very anxious, because we had to pace ourselves and conserve tickets.

–

–2–

WEATHER

Check the weather report! A wonderful day can be ruined by clothes that are too hot or too cold. Once we went on a rainy day, and lost a whole hour off our unlimited ride time. And once we went on such a hot day, everyone just wanted to sit on a bench and suck down lemonade. Which we could have done at home for much cheaper, with slightly less of that nauseating barnyard smell.

–

Bring sunblock and lots and lots of drinks. The screaming, walking around, and the general excitement will make your kids even thirstier than they normally would be after a day outdoors. There will be drinks for sale, but they will be EXPENSIVE. Have I mentioned this? It’s not because I’m a cheapskate; it’s because I don’t want you to have to tell a weeping 7-year-old girl, “I know I said you could ride the pony, but Mama spent her last $6 on your fourth lemonade!”

–

–3–

GETTING LOST

Make sure your kids know what to do if they get lost. We tell them to first yell and yell (in case the rest of the family is right around the corner) and then they can go to a policeman, someone behind a counter, or someone who looks like a nice mother, and say, “I’m lost – can you help me find my parents?”

–

Make sure your kids know their parents’ actual names (a surprising number assume Daddy’s name is “Daddy”), and what their parents are wearing (my daughter once described me as “the one with the haircut”). Dress your kids in distinctive clothing and write down descriptions of everyone (“black sweatpants, a Jack Kemp T-shirt, and a homemade haircut”) in case you need other people to help you find them, and are too flustered to remember what they look like.

–

The earlier in the day you go, the smaller the crowds will be. Know which kids are likely to bolt or wander away, and give them a special lecture beforehand. (We didn’t need one of these until kid #7 could walk, and then we needed it desperately.)

–

–4–

PACING

Plan for variety, especially if you need to stretch your money. Do something thrilling, then something where you sit down, then something where you wander around, then a snack, then something for the older kids, then something for the younger kids, etc. Save something primo for last, so when it’s almost time to go, you can say, “Okay, the fair is over . . . but not before we do such-and-such!” Makes your exit much happier.

–

Bring the roomiest stroller you have. The fair is completely exhausting for little ones, so kids who’ve outgrown the stroller might need a ride. Also, it’s helpful to have somewhere to stash all those drinks.

–5–

FOOD

In order to make the effort and expense worthwhile, you will want to be there for several hours — which means you will be there during a meal time. I recommend packing a picnic for the meal, and spending your money on snacks, instead. Kids don’t appreciate an $8 steak sub, but they will always remember getting a cloud of cotton candy or a caramel apple with rainbow sprinkles.

–

What we do is arrive at lunch time, but then go on rides right away before eating. The kids would have been too excited to eat at first, and would have just pecked at the meal, and then begged for snacks later. After a few rides, they were happy to take a break for sandwiches and chips.

–

–6–

STICKINESS

Succumb to the stickiness. Your kids will be just disgusting by the end of the day: sweaty, sugary, dusty, and, yes, possibly throw-uppy (although that never happened to us, miraculously). It’s a good idea to have them wear clothes you don’t care about. Be smart about timing: they can ride the Neck Snapper, but not right after eating one of Doody’s Famous Fried Pickles.

–

Bring a change of clothes for the youngest kids, and plastic bags. Trust me on this. Sooner or later, you will be stuck holding something that desperately needs to be wrapped up in a plastic bag.

–7–

EXPECTATIONS

Discuss expectations ahead of time. Before you even enter the grounds, let them know what they will be doing, and what they will not — and stick to it. How many rides can they expect to go on? Will you be playing games, buying a meal, buying snacks, buying balloons, buying toys, riding the pony, seeing a show, seeing the animals? Especially if you have lots of kids with various desires, just winging it will lead to someone feeling disappointed. (We skip the games of chance altogether, and just let them pick out a souvenir. Not as exciting, but cheaper, and less heartache.)

–

My husband and I discuss our expectations, too: we remind each other that our #1 goal is to give the kids a super fun day, and that we will both try our hardest to be patient and generous, and do our best to give the kids what they want (within reason). A day of fun is no time to teach lessons. It’s okay to be over-indulgent once in a while, as long as you’re doing a good job on most other days.

–

Also, this may sound silly, but unless you’re getting home late at night, it’s a good idea to have some mild treat waiting for them at home — lollipops or a special movie. Kids are tricky, especially if they’ve been looking forward to something for weeks– and now it’s over. You will expect them to be grateful and satisfied, but they will likely feel exhausted, let down, and cranky.

–

So go easy on them. Tomorrow, you can go back to the old routine, but it’s nice to do whatever you need to do to keep things pleasant today. And once the kiddies are in bed, you can have a nice little drink and put your feet up.

–

And for goodness’ sake, take better pictures than I did. Never before have so many knees, ears, and backs of heads been captured for posterity.

–

Oh, before I forget: check out the other 7 Quick Takes hosted by Jen at Conversion Diary, and leave a link of your own! Or, wait, it’s actually at Betty Beguiles this week, I forgot!

Simcha’s guide to financial empowerment

Does your library give out copious prizes just for checking out books in the summer? Ours does: ice cream and pizza coupons, tickets to sports events, T-shirts and toys, games, stickers, etc.

But the prize that thrilled my kids the most was something new this year: ten dollars! Their enthusiasm was only slightly dampened when we explained that no one was actually going to hand them a ten-dollar bill–they’d have to open an account at a local bank, which would credit them $10.

Daddy was glad to help. He would bring the happy little misers to the bank, sign them up for accounts, go home, and then truck them right back to the bank again as soon as humanly possible to close out their accounts. They would then zip on over to the Dollar Tree to blow their glorious cash on sticky hands, expanding dinosaurs, and expired Laffy Taffy. You know, the American dream.

Not so fast.

Don’t ask me why I didn’t see this coming, but there was a catch. Of course there was a catch! Sure, they’ll deposit $10 in your Young Saver account. They’ll even waive the $4 monthly fee, as long as you’re age 18 or under. All you have to do, kids, is keep a minimum monthly balance of $250.

$250! Stupid jerks. What kid has $250 seed money to start a Young Saver account? No one. Okay, maybe some enterprising Eagle Scout mowed enough lawns to save up $250, but I guarantee that all the other Young Savers got their minimum deposits straight from mom or dad’s wallet. Bah.

When I was a kid, our local bank that gave out little cardboard boxes for collecting quarters to put in your junior savings account. There were no minimums or monthly fees–it was all about teaching you that money doesn’t just materialize out of nowhere. If you don’t spend it, you’ll still have it; if you keep spending it, eventually it will be gone. But the most you could possibly save up was maybe $20 before the box fell apart.

I really don’t want my kids to have a meaningful financial portfolio. That’s the idea of being a kid: you learn the lessons, but you don’t get any of the actual benefits. You don’t need benefits, because you parents are taking care of you.

When you get older, then you learn how money really works. In a nutshell, adults have two choices. You can turn over your finances to a ravening monolith that will (1) warn you by mail that, four days ago, they charged you a monthly fee for your overdraft protection plan, which will (2) hit you at a bad time and make your balance dip below zero, at which point the bank will (3) charge you an overdraft fee for letting your balance dip below zero, and then (4) charge you a second overdraft fee because you didn’t have sufficient funds to cover the first overdraft fee.

This is called “customer service.”

Your other choice is to keep a wad of cash in the freezer. This is a bad strategy if you are an avid collector of half-empty cartons of old, drippy ice cream. In that case, a workable counter-strategy is to invest in the really high quality brands of Ziplock baggies, which really keep your money dry.

Our financial adviser (who speaks directly into my ear at 4 a.m. She has a querulous voice tinged with panic, and sounds just like me) has counseled us to diversify our portfolio. So now we keep our Regular Money in the bank, and our Frivolous Whim/Horrible Emergency Money in the freezer.

For an even niftier fiscal maneuver, try letting your prudent, thrifty super-ego save money, while allowing your idiot, scatterbrained id to forget all about it. Then, one day, your ego (who is in charge of cooking) will be gloomily surveying the dark landscape of Dinners Yet to Come, and in between the freezer-burned pork chops and the eleven chicken carcasses that never will be soup, you will see something. Something . . .

Could it be? Yes, yes, it’s a Ziplock bag! And inside it is . . .

Aw, you thought I was going to say $250. No, it’s only $42. The label on the bag says $250, but you had to spend part of it on a new spinner thing for the washing machine, and part of it on the great Tooth Fairy Amnesty Pay-Off, in which each child aged 5 to 12 got $5 and was counseled to move on with their lives.

But that leaves $42! Enough to settle either your bank fees or your library fines, with some left over to buy some brand new ice cream for the freezer.

Isn’t that a good system? God bless America.

Dear Justine

Today’s guest post is written by a fine woman who more or less strong-armed me into being her friend. Like so many fabled relationships, it all began online. And, if a restraining order means anything at all anymore, it’ll stay there.

However, I want it known that this post was published entirely of my own free will, and has nothing to do with blackmail, coercion, or any kind of weird, contagious, free-floating Italian guilt (is that a thing?). We both like to tease, but deep down are decent people; and so most of our correspondence begins: “Um, you know that was just a joke, right? I like your hair!” or “Stay away from my husband, homewrecker!”

Again, for the record: Justine Schmiesing is the kindest, bravest, warmest, most wonderful human being I’ve ever known in my life, and that is the reason she’s writing this guest post today. That and that she’s damn funny, and should probably stop being a blog hog and open up her writing for public consumption again.

One more thing: if you have a question for Dear Justine, send it to me at simchafisher [at] gmail [dot] com and I will be sure to forward it to her.

Enjoy!

_______________________________________

DEAR JUSTINE: When a Spoonful of Sugar Just Isn’t Enough

Dear Justine,

School’s out for the year, and now my kids are complaining about having to help around the house. I’ve read parenting articles that encourage turning chores into games, but the games are never ones my kids want to play. Any suggestions?

Signed,

Doubting Mary Poppins

Dear DMP,

Ah summer! Those crazy, lazy days when everyone stops eating, using the bathrooms, and wearing clothes.

No wait, that’s heaven.

So unless you LIKE being the only one stuck slaving away inside during the pool party, it’s perfectly reasonable to mobilize your troops and make them pitch in to clean up the mess that they are, very likely, responsible for.

My kids hate chores, but they are always up for a game. Of course, MY favorite housecleaning games are based on movies I don’t allow the little tykes to watch (likeAliens and Predator), but here are a few of my kids’ picks that are almost equally fun and effective.

Hot potato

(One player)

Player is handed an object by parent and instructed to put it away where it belongs. Player then pretends the object is too hot to carry all the way and shoves it in the first available hiding spot. Player loses if parent finds the object before they forget who they told to put it away.

Unfreeze Tag

(Single or multiple players)

Game begins with parent assigning a chore (like clearing the table or picking up toys). Players perform assigned duties until parent steps out of the room, then players freeze in place and do not move again until parent returns.

Players win if chore takes three times longer to complete than it should have.

Town Cryer

(Multiplayer)

Players are assigned a task that involves them working at a slight distance from parent, anywhere from the next room over to the backyard. Players take turns shouting at the top of their lungs, “So-and-so, why aren’t you HELPING?” “So-and-so, GET UP and HELP!” Game is won if parent shows up and spanks So-and-so. Game is lost if parent shows up and spanks everyone. (Town Cryer can be played in conjunction with Unfreeze Tag for double the fun.)

Telephone

(Two player)

Game begins with parent giving a message to one player assigning a chore to the second player. First player delivers the message, with the option to add their own embellishments (like, “Ha-Ha”, and “I don’t haaave to”). Second player may choose to obey the messenger, ignore the messenger, or shoot the messenger. If messenger is ignored or shot, they may choose to tattle on the second player or shoot back. Game ends when both players are separated and assigned double chores.

Blind Man’s Bluff

(Single player version)

Player cleans their bedroom in such a manner that parent can’t tell whether or not a blind man did it.

The Blame Game

(Two or more players)

Game begins when parent (preferably Mom) questions why an assigned group chore has not been completed. Players take turns blaming each other and saying “Nah-AHH!” while parent tries to sort out the truth through all the confusion. Game is won if Mom starts crying. Game is over if Dad comes home.

Last, but not least, Daddy’s favorite…

Concentration

(As many players as necessary)

Players who are have lost their focus and motivation to do chores properly use paper and pencil to hand copy Pope John Paul II’s encylical Laborem exercens, (On Human Work) until they are found again.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

So the next time you pull out the vacuum and hear a loud whining sound before it’s even plugged in, just remember that even though Julie Andrews’s charges were only kid actors who cheerfully did what they were told because they got paid a lot of money, she sure got it right when she sang, “Find the fun and SNAP! the job’s a game!”

The Perils of Excessive Modesty

Today I’m over at The Inside Blog, talking about a new take on modesty. The blogging wife of a protestant minister at Musings of a Young Mom (don’t worry, her writing is much better than the title of her blog) argues that excessive modesty objectifies women (which reminds of me of gluttonous thin people).

And we’re off to the fair! That’s not an expression – we really are off to the fair, and expect to be half-dead by early afternoon.

Seven Quick Takes: “Isn’t It Holy?” Edition

It’s so linky around here today, I can hardly stand it! I’m doing Seven Quick Takes with Jen from Conversion Diary, and responding to a rare tagging from The Anchoress.

She lists her five favorite Catholic devotions, and she wants to know what mine (and yours) are.

Now, I’m in kind of a spot here.

On one hand, the last six months or so have seen me practicing Catholic devotions in the same way as my three-year-old has been practicing personal hygiene: whining and screaming and making things so miserable for everyone that, more often than not, we just skip it and walk away disgusted.

On the other hand, whatever Lizzie wants, Lizzie gets.

Just to make things harder on myself, I’m going to list seven, not five, so I can do Seven Quick Takes. Maybe the extra two will count as doing mortification. That’s a devotional, right?

Seven Favorite Catholic Devotions

–1–

Novenas

I think of novenas as spritual interventions — not “We pray for divine intervention,” but like: “Well, do you think it might help if we held an intervention?” A nine-step program, if you will. You don’t set these things up for everyday problems. Nobody enjoys it, and we’d all rather be somewhere else, but if this doesn’t work, then nothing will. I kind of imagine the Holy Spirit slumping resignedly in a folding chair, drinking tepid coffee and willing at least to hear us out.

–2–

Adoration

It’s been a long, long time. I’ve made dozens of resolves to sign up again, but I keep putting it off. But when we were going, my husband and I signed up as a couple, and each went on alternate weeks. Just two hours a month each, but it Made A Difference.

Sometimes when you go into the chapel, you feel wonderful. You feel like you’re coming home from a long and miserable trip, when everyone missed you terribly and is so glad to see you.

And sometimes you feel like a bored, itchy hypocrite who has no business taking up space in this weird, demanding religion. But I heard someone compare Adoration to standing in the sun: you may not notice it happening, but it will surely change you.

–3–

Scriptural Rosary

This is not so much a favorite devotion as an inescapable one. It’s kind of like taking your vitamins: it’s so easy, and it couldn’t hurt, so you might as well just do it every night. Gulp.

My kids enjoy it (we only do one decade a night) because eventually they will get to lead us in praying The Ascension. The little rats read “‘Baptize them in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit,’” and then they deliberately pausebefore continuing with “Hail Mary . . .” so they can make one or two inattentive people think we’re up to the Glory Be already. They also like to trap house guests that way. Isn’t that nice? They’re wonderful children.

–4–

The Chaplet of Transition in Labor

When I’m in labor, I offer up the pain for people who suffer infertility. That sounds a lot more pious than it really is. Really, the only good thing about delivering babies is that, for once, you have something truly horrible to offer up–but, unlike other sacrifices, such as fasting or doing good works, you can’t get out of it. So you might as well try and get something out of it (besides the baby, I mean). Also “For the sake of his sorrowful passion, have mercy on us, and on the whole world” is nice and rhythmic, and helps you breathe steadily.

–5–

ברוך אתה ה’ א‑לוהינו מלך העולם, שהכל נהיה בדברו.‏

Ha ha, got you there! When I was little, we used to say the Hebrew blessing before meals (later, I found out it was Hebrew with a Brooklyn accent), and then we’d say it in English: “Blessed art Thou, o Lord our God, King of the universe, by Whose word all things exist.” It has such a wonderful rhythm of certainty at the end: “By Whose word All. Things. Exist.” I don’t know how to read Hebrew (although I did once advise someone on whether or not her mezuzah was upside down, so I know that much), but here is a transliteration of the prayer: Barukh ata Adonai Eloheinu Melekh ha‑olam, she‑hakol nih’ye bidvaro; and here is someone saying it.

There are actually several different prayers before meals, depending on what kind of food you will be eating. This may very well be technically the wrong prayer to use every day, but, you know, there’s a New Covenant and all. You’re covered.

–6–

Palming it Off On Someone Else

I thought it was hilarious when Mark Shea recently explained that he started posting prayer requests on his blog

largely because I feel inept as an intercessory pray-er, and so had a hope that maybe somebody out there in the audience might have the charism I lack when it comes to having a clue how to pray. I thought I was being very clever fobbing this off on others; but, of course, what I stupidly failed to foresee was that this would inevitably result in lots more prayer requests for everything under the sun. I continue to post them, along with my fumbling two cents in the courts of the Almighty, advising Him on how to proceed. I haven’t the slightest clue whether my prayers do a lick of good for the person making the prayer request. But I figure that if I mix my prayers in with others who are closer to the Throne, then maybe they’ll get lost in the pack and I will look like I know what I’m doing.

I’m lazy enough to pass along a prayer request before actually praying about it myself, but scrupulous enough to feel bad about it; so generally, the act of making it public is enough to help me to remember to say at least a quickie prayer myself. Whereas if I only realize I should be praying for something, I’m all too prone to mistaking “I should pray about this” for actually praying. Maybe God, in his generosity, accepts even good intentions as prayer, but I’m not counting on it.

–7–

Act of Contrition

I love the Church so much. She knows that we’re so lame, so stupid, so weak and lazy that not only do we have to be required to go to confession once a year, but we need help figuring out how to say “I’m sorry.” Isn’t it great to have those words? They say it all — everything you’re thinking, and everything you ought to be thinking — and it feels so good to say them.

O my god, I am truly sorry for having offended Thee. I detest all my sins because I dread the loss of Heaven and the pains of Hell, but most of all because they offend Thee, my God, who art all good and deserving of all my love. I firmly resolve, with the help of Thy grace, to sin no more and to avoid the near occasion of sin.

Whew. I mean, Amen.

Oh, wait! Here’s a bonus one.

–8–

A Strange Child’s Prayer

When my oldest daughter was about four, she wrote a prayer of her own. She understood the gerneral lingo, if nothing else. I wish I could find the baby book for this General Act of Praying, but the ended with: “Holy, holy, holy. Isn’t it holy?”

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Okay, so now I’m tagging Hallie from Betty Beguiles, Megan from Sorta Crunchy, Lisa from Sweet Family Times, Kristen from St. Monica’s Bridge, and Becca from The Hollow.

And don’t forget to check out Conversion Diary for other Seven Quick Takes, and link up if you’re doing your own!

Thursday Throwback: COEXIST

No one asked for it, but today I’m reprinting something from my old blog. It has special meaning for me, because it marks the day that an entire branch of my extended family stopped speaking to me.

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In the “I’m Too Late For a Dentist Appointment To Key Your Car Right Now, But I’ll Get You Later” department, we have this bumper sticker:

which has been cropping up all over our area.

I live near a college town, which makes me, by definition, fatter, slower, less hip, and more endarkened than 60% of the population. Bumper stickers abound: mostly of the “I heart peace/let’s behead Bush” variety.

The cars so intelligently adorned seem to congregate outside a store called “The Hemporium.” I always enjoy passing by this place, because it has a huge banner over the door, proclaiming: “Come in and educate yourself!” irresistibly bringing to mind the Lilo and Stitch alien Pleakley,

an Earth enthusiast who devotes himself to the preservation of the mosquito food chain.

Anyway, as a claustrophobic, misanthropic, misogynistic, pediphobic, clutter-hating mother of twenty-seven who lives in a self-storage unit, I’m all for coexisting. I’ve even been known to . . . are you ready for this? . . . tolerate people who aren’t exactly like me. Mainly because everyone I know has managed, through twelve step programs and extensive plastic surgery, to avoid being exactly like me.

If by “coexist” you mean “don’t kill people who don’t agree with you,” I am all for that (although I’m not sure who worries that this message is going unheard in rural Southern New Hampshire). Or if there are people who do need to hear this message . . . you really think a bumper sticker will change their minds? Do me a favor and go nag yourselves, if you know what I mean.

I guess it wouldn’t be so grating if it just spelled out its little one-word sermon in regular letters, although I realize the message would lost some of its putative punch that way. I see what they’re trying to do by using symbols as letters: they’re trying to say that all of these ideas–Christianity, Judaism, Peace (which is separate from Christianity, dontcha know), Yin Yangitude, etc.– all fit together into one large, overarching shelter called “coexistence.”

It’s terribly fashionable to take important, very specific ideas and paste them into a collage demonstrating Everythingness. They’re trying to say, “Can’t we all just get along?” without sounding like a punchline.

Well, this is worse than using a picture of child’s face as a mouse pad, which is unseemly. This is worse than using the American flag as boxer shorts or dish towels, which is disrespectful. By using meaningful symbols as mere letters in a word, this bumper sticker subsumes the significant and specific into a suffocating mass of indiscriminate acceptance.

Don’t use the cross as a T, okay? And don’t use the star of David as an X. They’re not, like, logos for “Jesus Brand” and “Judaism, Inc.” Don’t tell me “it’s just a design” or “we were going for the visual impact — don’t read too much into it.” You should be glad someone’s paying attention to your message.

I don’t think it’s blasphemous; I just think it’s dangerously careless. Are you sure you want to just swallow down that soup without checking out the ingredients first? A few of those symbols look awfully prickly.

And fish that cross out for me! I need it.

“I’m not a homosexual. I’m a man.”

Come on over and see me at Faith and Family today (for real this time!), where I have a short interview with a young, gay, faithful Catholic man. You’ll like him — he’s so clean and articulate! But something tells me Joe Biden would not be impressed.

And hello and welcome to Faith and Family and Creative Minority Report readers. Stick around for tomorrow, when we will . . . okay, I have no idea what we will be doing tomorrow. The Jerk, who usually reviews movies on Thursdays, is taking a few days off. I think he found himself singing along with Pat Benetar during the big climax in The Legend of Billy Jean,

and is going on a retreat to reassess his life goals. But he will be back!

Vaya con Dios, The Jerk.

Hamburger Washer Sleep Blog, Or:

Will Okra Slime Hurt Me?

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