Today, in a devastating loss of respect for a planetary body, I found out one of the most interesting planets in the solar system was originally named George.
Well, technically it was called Georgium Sidus (The Georgian Planet), but it was totally in honor of King George, and NASA's website apparently thinks calling it George is funny.
So, to William Herschel I say, How dare you name the seventh planet George! That name does no honor to it's beautiful blue color, or its sideways axis. It does nothing for the 30+ moons that orbit it! "George" is a truly fascinating planet, and no mortal king's name can do it justice!
I'm so glad astronomers changed its name. It's new name is so much better.
Heh. Heh heh. Uranus. Heh.
Thursday, December 11, 2014
Monday, November 24, 2014
Nighty Night. Sleep Tight.
Clarke and I were like twins. We were, in fact, "Irish twins," which is a set of siblings born within twelve months of each other. Not only that, he was January and I was December, meaning we were both born in 1985, and therefore always in each others' Primary classes at church (until he decided he'd about had it with being in Primary with his annoying little sister, and just pretended he was supposed to be in the 1984 class).
He was 11 months, 18 days, and 3 minutes older than me.
And yes, as the little sister, I reminded him of that EVERY time he tried to claim he was a year older than me.
There was another aspect of being the annoying little sister I played very well: bed time torture routine.
When I was somewhere around 7 years old, we shared a room. He was on the top bunk, and I was on the bottom. I honestly loved it. It was great having my bestest big brother so close to me. We could talk and play, and I could mercilessly tickle his feet every time he tried to climb the ladder into his bed.
Every. Night.
I never let up.
It was hilarious! He would try to climb the ladder, and I was lying in wait on the lower bed. The instant his feet got within reach of my fingers, I would attack, and he would jump off, yelling various protests or threats of telling our mom. After the fifth or sixth failed attempt to get past my fingers, his complaints got increasingly more whiny and desperate, and one of our parents would finally come in and tell me to knock it off.
I would lay back and smile angelically, while still giggling furiously.
Now, with age comes wisdom, and with wisdom comes maturity, so you'd think I'd grow out of this, right?
Nope.
I just got a little wiser about it.
See, when you do crap like that every night, the humor wears off pretty fast.
But, if you only do it once in a while, you still get that furious giggle every time you do.
Sometime in my early twenties, my best friend and apartment-mate made the mistake of deciding that instead of just sharing an apartment, we should share a room too. Initially, I thought this was a terrible idea, because we were best friends, and we had a horrible habit of staying up until 3:00 AM talking when we really should have been sleeping.
She asked me to switch into her room like 5 times before I finally relented, and I found out my fears were for naught. Being in that close of quarters all the time actually solved the 3:00 AM problem, and I ended up getting more sleep sharing a room with her than not.
And finally, I was sharing my room with my best friend. I'd only done that once before, and it only lasted a semester. This time, we were in the same room for like 3 years.
And she was on the top bunk.
Now, I was a bit past feet-tickling. The humor of that particular brand of irritation had definitely worn off, maybe a decade before.
No, now my singular goal was to make her heart race at roughly 173 bpm just as she was trying to settle down and go to sleep.
See, Lynnae had this habit of watching Netflix on her laptop until the wee hours of the morning. She would sit at her desk with headphones in, and go through a tale of fantasy and magic, or possibly crime-solving and butt kicking. Then, she'd put her headphones away, shut down her laptop, and go to bed.
Sometimes I was asleep.
Sometimes I wasn't.
She never knew.
She also never wisened up and started using the ladder. She always just climbed onto the top bunk up by the opening to her blanket, which also happened to be right by my head.
Now, most nights I deliberately let her get into her bed untouched. Like I said, if you do it every night, the humor wears off.
But every now and then, I'd lay as quietly as possible, breathing evenly, waiting. Then, just as she put her feet on the edge of the bed to hoist herself up, I'd let out my very best raptor snarl and fling myself out, clutching her around the waist.
And yes, her little yelp of terror was freaking hilarious. Every. Time.
Then, I got married. Marriage requires a lot of maturity, you know.
Carl frequently stays up until the wee hours of the morning studying anatomy or molecular biology or organic chemistry, or whatever the homework happens to be. We'll read scriptures and say prayers together, he'll kiss me goodnight, and then I'll go to sleep while he goes to get stuff done. Usually, I don't even hear him come back in, and I just wake up next to him in the morning.
Last night, I had a horrible case of insomnia. Right around 3:00 in the morning, I was still wide awake, and frankly, a bit bored. As I laid there, trying to force myself to sleep, I heard the door handle turn quietly. Carl stepped lightly, trying not to disturb what he thought was my slumber.
And, oh. I couldn't resist. It had been years.
I laid quietly, waiting.
He took off his glasses and set them on the nightstand.
I didn't move.
He took off his pants.
I kept my breathing even and calm.
He knelt by the bed, and said his prayers.
I remained still.
He climbed into bed, and got under the covers.
As soon as he had settled and stopped moving, out came the raptor snarl, and I launched myself onto his chest. His whole body jolted, and he grabbed me, his body rocking with stunned laughter. While giggling to an appropriate degree, I snuggled into his chest affectionately, and listened to his heart begin to slow. Ever the good sport, he hugged me and admitted that yes, I'd scared the crap out of him.
So, what can we learn from this?
My bestest big brother, my bff in college, and my awesome husband/person I'm all mushy about.
Basically, if I really, truly love you, with all my heart, you probably don't want to share a room with me.
He was 11 months, 18 days, and 3 minutes older than me.
And yes, as the little sister, I reminded him of that EVERY time he tried to claim he was a year older than me.
There was another aspect of being the annoying little sister I played very well: bed time torture routine.
When I was somewhere around 7 years old, we shared a room. He was on the top bunk, and I was on the bottom. I honestly loved it. It was great having my bestest big brother so close to me. We could talk and play, and I could mercilessly tickle his feet every time he tried to climb the ladder into his bed.
Every. Night.
I never let up.
It was hilarious! He would try to climb the ladder, and I was lying in wait on the lower bed. The instant his feet got within reach of my fingers, I would attack, and he would jump off, yelling various protests or threats of telling our mom. After the fifth or sixth failed attempt to get past my fingers, his complaints got increasingly more whiny and desperate, and one of our parents would finally come in and tell me to knock it off.
I would lay back and smile angelically, while still giggling furiously.
Now, with age comes wisdom, and with wisdom comes maturity, so you'd think I'd grow out of this, right?
Nope.
I just got a little wiser about it.
See, when you do crap like that every night, the humor wears off pretty fast.
But, if you only do it once in a while, you still get that furious giggle every time you do.
Sometime in my early twenties, my best friend and apartment-mate made the mistake of deciding that instead of just sharing an apartment, we should share a room too. Initially, I thought this was a terrible idea, because we were best friends, and we had a horrible habit of staying up until 3:00 AM talking when we really should have been sleeping.
She asked me to switch into her room like 5 times before I finally relented, and I found out my fears were for naught. Being in that close of quarters all the time actually solved the 3:00 AM problem, and I ended up getting more sleep sharing a room with her than not.
And finally, I was sharing my room with my best friend. I'd only done that once before, and it only lasted a semester. This time, we were in the same room for like 3 years.
And she was on the top bunk.
Now, I was a bit past feet-tickling. The humor of that particular brand of irritation had definitely worn off, maybe a decade before.
No, now my singular goal was to make her heart race at roughly 173 bpm just as she was trying to settle down and go to sleep.
See, Lynnae had this habit of watching Netflix on her laptop until the wee hours of the morning. She would sit at her desk with headphones in, and go through a tale of fantasy and magic, or possibly crime-solving and butt kicking. Then, she'd put her headphones away, shut down her laptop, and go to bed.
Sometimes I was asleep.
Sometimes I wasn't.
She never knew.
She also never wisened up and started using the ladder. She always just climbed onto the top bunk up by the opening to her blanket, which also happened to be right by my head.
Now, most nights I deliberately let her get into her bed untouched. Like I said, if you do it every night, the humor wears off.
But every now and then, I'd lay as quietly as possible, breathing evenly, waiting. Then, just as she put her feet on the edge of the bed to hoist herself up, I'd let out my very best raptor snarl and fling myself out, clutching her around the waist.
And yes, her little yelp of terror was freaking hilarious. Every. Time.
Then, I got married. Marriage requires a lot of maturity, you know.
Carl frequently stays up until the wee hours of the morning studying anatomy or molecular biology or organic chemistry, or whatever the homework happens to be. We'll read scriptures and say prayers together, he'll kiss me goodnight, and then I'll go to sleep while he goes to get stuff done. Usually, I don't even hear him come back in, and I just wake up next to him in the morning.
Last night, I had a horrible case of insomnia. Right around 3:00 in the morning, I was still wide awake, and frankly, a bit bored. As I laid there, trying to force myself to sleep, I heard the door handle turn quietly. Carl stepped lightly, trying not to disturb what he thought was my slumber.
And, oh. I couldn't resist. It had been years.
I laid quietly, waiting.
He took off his glasses and set them on the nightstand.
I didn't move.
He took off his pants.
I kept my breathing even and calm.
He knelt by the bed, and said his prayers.
I remained still.
He climbed into bed, and got under the covers.
As soon as he had settled and stopped moving, out came the raptor snarl, and I launched myself onto his chest. His whole body jolted, and he grabbed me, his body rocking with stunned laughter. While giggling to an appropriate degree, I snuggled into his chest affectionately, and listened to his heart begin to slow. Ever the good sport, he hugged me and admitted that yes, I'd scared the crap out of him.
So, what can we learn from this?
My bestest big brother, my bff in college, and my awesome husband/person I'm all mushy about.
Basically, if I really, truly love you, with all my heart, you probably don't want to share a room with me.
Saturday, November 15, 2014
An Open Letter to the President of Turkey
Dear President of Turkey,
You keep showing up on my Facebook "trending" feed today. Apparently the news cares very much about what you have to say.
I was interested, so I read the article, in which you claim that in 1178, Muslims discovered America, thereby unseating the claim that the discovery was made by Columbus. In the article you sounded very smug about this. While I can't expect Yahoo news to provide primary sources or anything, some evidence supporting that claim might have been nice. Instead, the only thing listed to back it up is a journal entry of Columbus's, in which he mentions a mosque that is widely understood to be a metaphorical description of the landscape.
But let's say - as is very possible - the news is simply being lazy and not bothering to fact check. Let's say you're right, and in 1178, some Muslims did show up in Cuba.
Dude... if you're gonna count that, you've gotta count Leif Erikson, the viking who landed in Newfoundland around the year 1000, and even left some shred of archaeological evidence that he was there (something the news article did, in fact, mention was lacking from the Muslim account).
So, hate to break it to you, but even if you can claim Muslims were here before Columbus, Western Europeans still discovered America. Leif was even a Christian on top of that. He first saw it (and rescued two shipwrecked castaways from it) after being blown off course while sailing to bring Christianity to Greenland. After that experience, he went back to Greenland, did some research, and then set out to explore. He found it again, named it Vinland, and hung out there for a while.
So, sorry, President Erdogan. If you're gonna be smug about something, at least get your facts straight.
Sincerely,
An Overly Opinionated Person Who Studied History at Some Point in Her Life
You keep showing up on my Facebook "trending" feed today. Apparently the news cares very much about what you have to say.
I was interested, so I read the article, in which you claim that in 1178, Muslims discovered America, thereby unseating the claim that the discovery was made by Columbus. In the article you sounded very smug about this. While I can't expect Yahoo news to provide primary sources or anything, some evidence supporting that claim might have been nice. Instead, the only thing listed to back it up is a journal entry of Columbus's, in which he mentions a mosque that is widely understood to be a metaphorical description of the landscape.
But let's say - as is very possible - the news is simply being lazy and not bothering to fact check. Let's say you're right, and in 1178, some Muslims did show up in Cuba.
Dude... if you're gonna count that, you've gotta count Leif Erikson, the viking who landed in Newfoundland around the year 1000, and even left some shred of archaeological evidence that he was there (something the news article did, in fact, mention was lacking from the Muslim account).
So, hate to break it to you, but even if you can claim Muslims were here before Columbus, Western Europeans still discovered America. Leif was even a Christian on top of that. He first saw it (and rescued two shipwrecked castaways from it) after being blown off course while sailing to bring Christianity to Greenland. After that experience, he went back to Greenland, did some research, and then set out to explore. He found it again, named it Vinland, and hung out there for a while.
So, sorry, President Erdogan. If you're gonna be smug about something, at least get your facts straight.
Sincerely,
An Overly Opinionated Person Who Studied History at Some Point in Her Life
Thursday, November 13, 2014
Savannah found an online blog title generator, and what happened next will BLOW YOUR MIND!!!
Ladies and Gentleman, humans of the human race, we have done it.
Congratulations.
In what will confuse alien explorers and scientists for millennia, we have placed evidence of human civilization on a flying comet.
Everybody say, "Yay!"
Everybody: "Um, that was yesterday's news. You're a little behind the times, sweetie."
No no no, I'm not done.
Today's news is that the lander, Philae, has now sent back the first ever photo of a comet, taken from the surface of a comet!!!
Everybody: "YAY!!!"
That's right, ladies and gentlemen, straight from 28 light minutes away, we have a picture of - you'll never believe it - a ROCK!
I'm sure scientists may already have had an inkling that comets were not, in fact, made of gumdrops, crystallized dragon turds, or actual Comet. But Philae has confirmed it; comets are actually made of rock.
Nevertheless, being equipped with sample collection equipment, as well as a processing lab, Philae will soon be double checking, by performing chemical analysis on the rock, to make sure it isn't actually fossilized dragon turd.
I look forward to finding out the results.
Don't you?
Congratulations.
In what will confuse alien explorers and scientists for millennia, we have placed evidence of human civilization on a flying comet.
Everybody say, "Yay!"
Everybody: "Um, that was yesterday's news. You're a little behind the times, sweetie."
No no no, I'm not done.
Today's news is that the lander, Philae, has now sent back the first ever photo of a comet, taken from the surface of a comet!!!
Everybody: "YAY!!!"
That's right, ladies and gentlemen, straight from 28 light minutes away, we have a picture of - you'll never believe it - a ROCK!
I'm sure scientists may already have had an inkling that comets were not, in fact, made of gumdrops, crystallized dragon turds, or actual Comet. But Philae has confirmed it; comets are actually made of rock.
Nevertheless, being equipped with sample collection equipment, as well as a processing lab, Philae will soon be double checking, by performing chemical analysis on the rock, to make sure it isn't actually fossilized dragon turd.
I look forward to finding out the results.
Don't you?
Wednesday, November 5, 2014
For the Love of Eggs
Dear Healthy Cholesterol Levels,
I GAVE UP EGG YOLKS FOR YOU!!!
What's this "Above Optimal" crap? 107? What kind of number is 107??? I've spent a full year not eating egg yolks, and you want to know what else I've been doing?
EX-ER-CIS-ING.
That's right; I've spent six weeks on an exercise regimen, consistently. I haven't done that since I was 17. I've even lost weight, so clearly all this exercise is helpful, right??? So why aren't you in the optimal range???
Also, I spent a couple months consuming fish oil pills until I couldn't hack the fishy burps anymore. That should count for something.
Sincerely,
Me.
In case anyone is wondering, I got my annual blood draw results back today. My cholesterol, while 21 points lower than last year, is still high.
Seriously, what do they want from me? I miss my egg yolks.
I GAVE UP EGG YOLKS FOR YOU!!!
What's this "Above Optimal" crap? 107? What kind of number is 107??? I've spent a full year not eating egg yolks, and you want to know what else I've been doing?
EX-ER-CIS-ING.
That's right; I've spent six weeks on an exercise regimen, consistently. I haven't done that since I was 17. I've even lost weight, so clearly all this exercise is helpful, right??? So why aren't you in the optimal range???
Also, I spent a couple months consuming fish oil pills until I couldn't hack the fishy burps anymore. That should count for something.
Sincerely,
Me.
In case anyone is wondering, I got my annual blood draw results back today. My cholesterol, while 21 points lower than last year, is still high.
Seriously, what do they want from me? I miss my egg yolks.
Wednesday, October 29, 2014
Science and Religion Finally Stop Pulling Each Other's Hair on the Playground.
I'm fairly well proud of the Catholic Church right this second. Yesterday Pope Francis made a statement that Evolution and the Big Bang were consistent with the doctrine that the Lord created the world and humankind. The Pope finally said what Mormons have been saying for years and years and years - science and religion are not at odds with each other.
It's funny, though. When religion is involved (and not just conservative Christianity - pretty much any religious belief counts for this), it takes SO MUCH longer to change ideas that are wrong. That, of course, has its pros and cons.
Pro: Religious adherents are less susceptible to social fads and trends, especially when those trends go against their religious beliefs.
Con: Religious adherents get stuck in fads and trends that their religion adopted 150 years ago.
Pro: When a long held belief does change, there is ample irrefutable evidence for the fact, so beliefs are rarely changed mistakenly.
Con: It takes ample irrefutable evidence to change a wrong, long held belief.
It's funny, beliefs that God certainly didn't introduce into the church (like, for example, a geocentric solar system/universe) get used to teach true principles, and are heard so often that they become sacred. And then, when you present evidence to the contrary, the Spanish Inquisition comes around and starts yelling heresy.
Or the doctrine of "circles." That's one of my favorites. (I heard it from my astronomy professor, but I haven't been able to verify it via quick Google search. Hmmm... Anyway, if it's true, it's still a good example.) Early Christians adopted the Greek notion that circles were sacred, and when people started getting into astronomy they realized that everything moved in basically circular motions - in fact, from what they could see, entirely circular motions. Therefore, the heavens operated on this sacred concept of circles. Then Johannes Kepler comes along and says, "Actually, planets move in elliptical orbits. They're not perfect circles by any stretch of the imagination," and everybody freaks out. "NOOO! DON'T GET RID OF OUR CIRCLES!!!"
Now, as you would expect, Christianity had a rough time when science started threatening the literal interpretations of their mythology. There was a lot in Christian mythology that didn't go well with scientific observation. For example, the most famous conflict, God created the Earth in 7 days.
Now, I really doubt God is going to tell Moses - a man who needed to teach an ancient people with very little knowledge of physics and astronomy - something like, "And in the first billion years, I did direct the gravitational pulls of interstellar dust into a mass of hydrogen large enough to fuse into helium in the center. In order that I might provide adequate heat for the developing Earth, but not too much heat, I did divide out just enough hydrogen to make the sun slightly on the green side of yellow on the light spectrum. But, due to the scattering of particles by the atmosphere, the sun will appear completely yellow to your eyes. And I did direct the gravitational orbit of the Earth to be in what shall be known as the 'Goldilocks Zone' where it is not too hot, and not too cold. And then, later in the first billion years, I did cause planetary differentiation to occur, with the heavier elements sinking to the planet's core, and the lighter elements rising to the surface. And in the second billion years, I did cause simple organisms to develop the ability to photosynthesize, creating an abundance of oxygen through the conversion of carbon dioxide in their chloroplasts, thereby giving developing animal life the need to evolve in such a way that they will use oxygen to their benefit."
Et cetera.
Imagine Moses trying to explain that to the children of Israel. They'd be like, "Um... This is really complicated. Can we just worship our calf now?"
So yes, 3500 years ago, we got a creation mythology. It was pretty simple. "On the first day, I said, 'Let there be light,' and there was light."
And frankly, that worked really well for three millennia. The Western World didn't really need a better explanation than that.
Then science started getting into the nitty gritty details (okay... the very basic details) of exactly how the world was created, and we as a general population became more educated and better able to understand the technicalities of planetary development. "God said it and it happened" wasn't really a good enough explanation anymore.
But, unfortunately...
"God doesn't need gravitational pulls! All He needs is the power of His word! This is heresy!!!"
(Point - nowhere in the Bible does it say that God didn't use gravity and basic principles of physics in the creation of the world. The fact that he did it with nothing more than a word and *poof!* is one of those incorrect doctrines previously mentioned.)
The church resisted scientific discovery to an intense degree during the period of the Spanish Inquisition. Galileo is the most famous scientist who got persecuted by the church for his (totally correct) beliefs, but he was - by far - not the only one. It established a pretty nasty precedent for science and religion being at odds with each other.
And, fortunately, in that battle - science won. Religion was forced to change its deeply held, incorrect beliefs about a lot of things.
The thing is, in my head, science and religion are completely compatible with each other. There were too many "coincidences" in the formation of the world for me to believe there wasn't some intelligent direction going on there, and I can't imagine God not using scientific principles when He designs a world. I've been saying it for years, and the majority of the Christians I've discussed it with totally agree.
But the Catholic Church has been really hesitant to say anything against those traditional views. Emperor Palpati... um... I mean... Pope Benedict XVI made some statements that felt like grudgingly acknowledging the scientific explanation might have some merit, while simultaneously saying, "But they could still be wrong!" Then yesterday happened. Pope Francis acknowledged that the Big Bang and Evolution were completely compatible with the Christian view of the Creation, and the two actually went hand in hand.
So, thank you, Catholic Church, for that concession. Science and religion don't need to be at odds with each other - they compliment each other quite nicely. Religion just ... well... needs to redefine some of their doctrines without as much kicking and screaming. Use science - don't fight it. And also, science, stop calling religion stupid. It's not remotely stupid, and if you two can't get along, you'll be in timeout for the rest of the century.
Oh, but religion? Stay away from those social trends and fads. Those are trouble.
It's funny, though. When religion is involved (and not just conservative Christianity - pretty much any religious belief counts for this), it takes SO MUCH longer to change ideas that are wrong. That, of course, has its pros and cons.
Pro: Religious adherents are less susceptible to social fads and trends, especially when those trends go against their religious beliefs.
Con: Religious adherents get stuck in fads and trends that their religion adopted 150 years ago.
Pro: When a long held belief does change, there is ample irrefutable evidence for the fact, so beliefs are rarely changed mistakenly.
Con: It takes ample irrefutable evidence to change a wrong, long held belief.
It's funny, beliefs that God certainly didn't introduce into the church (like, for example, a geocentric solar system/universe) get used to teach true principles, and are heard so often that they become sacred. And then, when you present evidence to the contrary, the Spanish Inquisition comes around and starts yelling heresy.
Or the doctrine of "circles." That's one of my favorites. (I heard it from my astronomy professor, but I haven't been able to verify it via quick Google search. Hmmm... Anyway, if it's true, it's still a good example.) Early Christians adopted the Greek notion that circles were sacred, and when people started getting into astronomy they realized that everything moved in basically circular motions - in fact, from what they could see, entirely circular motions. Therefore, the heavens operated on this sacred concept of circles. Then Johannes Kepler comes along and says, "Actually, planets move in elliptical orbits. They're not perfect circles by any stretch of the imagination," and everybody freaks out. "NOOO! DON'T GET RID OF OUR CIRCLES!!!"
Now, as you would expect, Christianity had a rough time when science started threatening the literal interpretations of their mythology. There was a lot in Christian mythology that didn't go well with scientific observation. For example, the most famous conflict, God created the Earth in 7 days.
Now, I really doubt God is going to tell Moses - a man who needed to teach an ancient people with very little knowledge of physics and astronomy - something like, "And in the first billion years, I did direct the gravitational pulls of interstellar dust into a mass of hydrogen large enough to fuse into helium in the center. In order that I might provide adequate heat for the developing Earth, but not too much heat, I did divide out just enough hydrogen to make the sun slightly on the green side of yellow on the light spectrum. But, due to the scattering of particles by the atmosphere, the sun will appear completely yellow to your eyes. And I did direct the gravitational orbit of the Earth to be in what shall be known as the 'Goldilocks Zone' where it is not too hot, and not too cold. And then, later in the first billion years, I did cause planetary differentiation to occur, with the heavier elements sinking to the planet's core, and the lighter elements rising to the surface. And in the second billion years, I did cause simple organisms to develop the ability to photosynthesize, creating an abundance of oxygen through the conversion of carbon dioxide in their chloroplasts, thereby giving developing animal life the need to evolve in such a way that they will use oxygen to their benefit."
Et cetera.
Imagine Moses trying to explain that to the children of Israel. They'd be like, "Um... This is really complicated. Can we just worship our calf now?"
So yes, 3500 years ago, we got a creation mythology. It was pretty simple. "On the first day, I said, 'Let there be light,' and there was light."
And frankly, that worked really well for three millennia. The Western World didn't really need a better explanation than that.
Then science started getting into the nitty gritty details (okay... the very basic details) of exactly how the world was created, and we as a general population became more educated and better able to understand the technicalities of planetary development. "God said it and it happened" wasn't really a good enough explanation anymore.
But, unfortunately...
"God doesn't need gravitational pulls! All He needs is the power of His word! This is heresy!!!"
(Point - nowhere in the Bible does it say that God didn't use gravity and basic principles of physics in the creation of the world. The fact that he did it with nothing more than a word and *poof!* is one of those incorrect doctrines previously mentioned.)
The church resisted scientific discovery to an intense degree during the period of the Spanish Inquisition. Galileo is the most famous scientist who got persecuted by the church for his (totally correct) beliefs, but he was - by far - not the only one. It established a pretty nasty precedent for science and religion being at odds with each other.
And, fortunately, in that battle - science won. Religion was forced to change its deeply held, incorrect beliefs about a lot of things.
The thing is, in my head, science and religion are completely compatible with each other. There were too many "coincidences" in the formation of the world for me to believe there wasn't some intelligent direction going on there, and I can't imagine God not using scientific principles when He designs a world. I've been saying it for years, and the majority of the Christians I've discussed it with totally agree.
But the Catholic Church has been really hesitant to say anything against those traditional views. Emperor Palpati... um... I mean... Pope Benedict XVI made some statements that felt like grudgingly acknowledging the scientific explanation might have some merit, while simultaneously saying, "But they could still be wrong!" Then yesterday happened. Pope Francis acknowledged that the Big Bang and Evolution were completely compatible with the Christian view of the Creation, and the two actually went hand in hand.
So, thank you, Catholic Church, for that concession. Science and religion don't need to be at odds with each other - they compliment each other quite nicely. Religion just ... well... needs to redefine some of their doctrines without as much kicking and screaming. Use science - don't fight it. And also, science, stop calling religion stupid. It's not remotely stupid, and if you two can't get along, you'll be in timeout for the rest of the century.
Oh, but religion? Stay away from those social trends and fads. Those are trouble.
Monday, October 27, 2014
Reason #483 Why I Need Kids
I love Halloween.
Well... minus the part where people saturate the world with pictures of spiders. Come on, people! There are so many options. Why spiders???
But, I've always loved the traditions that go along with it, especially the part where you dress up in the most ridiculous and/or creative and/or fangirliest outfit you can concoct, and go door to door gathering enough candy to make Willy Wonka vomit.
I trick-or-treated until I was 18 or 19 and my dad started giving me crap about being too old for it. But honestly, I didn't consider myself too old. I still thoroughly enjoyed every moment of it, and could see no reason why I should stop enjoying myself. Besides, at the age of 18 I still looked like a 12 or 13 year old, and on top of that, I was accompanying my 11 and 14 year old brothers, which made me look even younger. Nobody had to know!
But, I caved to the peer pressure. Some time around or before my 20th birthday, I gave up on the glorious institution that is trick-or-treating.
It was a devastating loss. As I went to college, Halloween was nothing more than parties that weren't based around candy and therefore not fun, & church dances where I was usually ready to go home after 30 minutes of not having anyone to dance with. I did enjoy dressing up, and I did quite a lot of that, but I still wished the kids in student housing would figure out what life was really about and keep bowls of candy in their apartments for me to come raid.
And somehow, buying all the 50% off candy on November 1st, while a great deal on individually wrapped diabetes, just wasn't the same.
Last year I got to spend Halloween with kids again. I was home to help my mom with her surgery, and two of my nieces were there. I went with them to the church trunk-or-treat activity, where I handed out candy to swarms of hyperactive ninjas, Avengers, princesses, and Batmen. It was a LOT of fun, and as I watched the kids assault my candy bowl with vigor and enthusiasm, I told myself I was happy in my new role. I could do nothing more than hand out candy and be perfectly content.
And that was a blatant lie to myself. Yes, I could hand out candy and enjoy myself, but truth be told, I want to be out there on the streets, gathering the booty and bringing home my spoils.
The instant I have a baby, I don't care if he or she is 3 weeks old, we are spending baby's first Halloween trick-or-treating. I will dress my mini-me up in the cutest baby costume I can concoct - so cute no one will DARE to ask, "Aren't you a little young for trick-or-treating?" - and I will hit up all the good houses, loading up my bucket of candy for that baby.
And, of course, there's only one way for a nursing baby to eat candy...
*sigh*
Some day.
Halloween was not made for adults.
Wednesday, October 22, 2014
There is no purpose to this blog post.
No, really.
2014 just hasn't been that good of a year for blogging, and I still have nothing to blog about. So, I'm typing a random entry to make it look like I've blogged more than 12 times this year. That's right, blog. I've written in you THIRTEEN times! BWAHAHAHAHA!
But seriously.
I need something to write about.
2014 just hasn't been that good of a year for blogging, and I still have nothing to blog about. So, I'm typing a random entry to make it look like I've blogged more than 12 times this year. That's right, blog. I've written in you THIRTEEN times! BWAHAHAHAHA!
But seriously.
I need something to write about.
Sunday, October 12, 2014
O Foul Subconscious!
There are different levels of rude awakening.
MILD:
There's waking up to your spouse talking in their sleep. Now, personally, I'd rate this a 2 on the 1-10 scale of rude awakenings. Honestly, I think it's cute. And, if you can understand what they're saying, it can be downright hilarious. And if it bothers you, you can simply rub their arm a couple times, and they'll settle down.
MODERATE:
The next level would be waking up because your spouse is over on your side of the bed. Now, if you're really charitable, you can look at this as unexpected cuddle time, but more than likely you're going to prefer sleep. This requires actually waking your spouse up and telling them to please roll their butt back over to their own side of the bed. I'd give this a 4.
SEVERE:
After that we have waking up to your spouse yelling, "OH, SH**! SH**! SH**!" in their sleep while violently throwing themselves onto your side of the bed (and on top of you). This is definitely a 9.
I QUIT:
The only ruder awakening than the above scenario is waking up to a vision of spiders crawling all over your legs and sheets, under your blankets, causing you to create the above scenario for your spouse. This, and only this, is a 10.
My husband had an abundance of charity for me tonight, and wrapped his arm protectively around me, asking, "Are you alright? What happened?"
I was still gasping. "Spiders! Spiders! Lots and lots! In the bed!"
He was still a tad disoriented from being violently jumped on by a swearing she-devil. "Spiders?"
"No... wait..." My brain was starting to come back. "I think some of them might have been a dream."
He squeezed me tightly and settled back into his pillow. "Yeah, I think all of them were a dream."
All of them?
I tentatively kicked my leg back over to my side of the bed, feeling the sheets. Smooth fabric - not a single spider.
I indulged in the snuggle for another second before realizing the words I had dreamed upon discovering spiders in my sheets. "Um... Carl? Did I swear?"
Was he laughing? I was still too asleep to tell.
"Yes. Yes, you did."
Oops. Sorry.
And this is why I'm up at 5:30 AM on a weekend, therapy blogging.
Subconscious, just... stop.
MILD:
There's waking up to your spouse talking in their sleep. Now, personally, I'd rate this a 2 on the 1-10 scale of rude awakenings. Honestly, I think it's cute. And, if you can understand what they're saying, it can be downright hilarious. And if it bothers you, you can simply rub their arm a couple times, and they'll settle down.
MODERATE:
The next level would be waking up because your spouse is over on your side of the bed. Now, if you're really charitable, you can look at this as unexpected cuddle time, but more than likely you're going to prefer sleep. This requires actually waking your spouse up and telling them to please roll their butt back over to their own side of the bed. I'd give this a 4.
SEVERE:
After that we have waking up to your spouse yelling, "OH, SH**! SH**! SH**!" in their sleep while violently throwing themselves onto your side of the bed (and on top of you). This is definitely a 9.
I QUIT:
The only ruder awakening than the above scenario is waking up to a vision of spiders crawling all over your legs and sheets, under your blankets, causing you to create the above scenario for your spouse. This, and only this, is a 10.
My husband had an abundance of charity for me tonight, and wrapped his arm protectively around me, asking, "Are you alright? What happened?"
I was still gasping. "Spiders! Spiders! Lots and lots! In the bed!"
He was still a tad disoriented from being violently jumped on by a swearing she-devil. "Spiders?"
"No... wait..." My brain was starting to come back. "I think some of them might have been a dream."
He squeezed me tightly and settled back into his pillow. "Yeah, I think all of them were a dream."
All of them?
I tentatively kicked my leg back over to my side of the bed, feeling the sheets. Smooth fabric - not a single spider.
I indulged in the snuggle for another second before realizing the words I had dreamed upon discovering spiders in my sheets. "Um... Carl? Did I swear?"
Was he laughing? I was still too asleep to tell.
"Yes. Yes, you did."
Oops. Sorry.
And this is why I'm up at 5:30 AM on a weekend, therapy blogging.
Subconscious, just... stop.
Wednesday, October 1, 2014
And Now I Take on the Apocalypse
I'm a wimp.
I used to think I was strong, mighty, epic, could take on a raging allosaurus with naught but a raw steak and a small pocket knife, et cetera.
And then I went on a hike with my little brother and his family.
We hiked up Menan Butte in Rexburg, Idaho. It's almost a mile to the top, and extremely steep. Not quite must-climb-using-your-hands steep, but in parts it was about as steep as you can get without using your hands.
I was the last one to the top. Now, I could blame it on stopping to take pictures, which I did quite a bit of, but I know for a fact that wasn't it. I was stopping to take those pictures in just about every patch of shade along the trail while my gentlemanly husband stood between me and the sun because sage bushes don't really offer that much shade. My face was flame-red, sweat poured down my cheeks, and at times my breath came in labored gasps.
Meanwhile, my baby brother could have done jumping jacks clear to the top - with his 1 1/2 year old daughter on his shoulders - and been perfectly fine. His wife took it a little slower, and he stayed back to help her with that, but she still made it to the top a good 5 or 10 minutes before I did.
Okay, so my little brother is a big kid. He's 6'4", muscular, and country through and through to his bones. His wife is a tad shorter than me, averagely sized, but equally country. I grew up in the country every bit as much as my brother, and I love it desperately, but I don't even compare to either of them for incorporating it into my daily life. Maybe I should give myself some credit for that.
But here's the thing. My sister in law, who very thoroughly beat me to the top of that butte, was EIGHT MONTHS PREGNANT.
I was there in Idaho for her baby shower, because the woman was 3 weeks away from popping a freaking human being out of her uterus. And she dominated me.
Now, I know it wasn't a competition, and I don't feel the sting of competitive loss at all, but when you're sitting there in the shade of your husband's flexing torso, watching your sister in law disappear over the horizon as she lugs her 8.25 month fetus up a butte, and you can barely breathe, you kinda have to take a moment to step back and ask yourself the hard questions.
Like, if the apocalypse hit, would I be one of the survivors, or one of the statistics?
I mean, seriously. If an 8 months pregnant woman can beat me to the top of a butte, how would I fare against a horde of zombies?
If Yellowstone erupted, sending waves of bison and grizzly bears running south for their lives while simultaneously knocking out power, food, transportation means, and every other bit of modern life in the entire Western half of the United States, how would I hunt a buffalo while fighting off a grizzly bear?
If ISIS hit our nation with a set of EMPs, wiping out the electric grid, rendering cars useless, and frying every electronic device within range of the pulse (my personal favorite scenario), how would I walk/bike/ride a horse the 1,000 miles to home and safety? How would I fight off desperate/starving other people also trying to escape the city who want the provisions I'm really not strong enough to be carrying? How would I get past that pesky mountain range that stands between me and home?
I was raised with emergency prep. It's a favorite pastime of my mom's, and I grew up weeding the garden, helping can peaches, inventorying our food storage, and staying up late passing around various apocalyptic scenarios that could possibly cause us to actually need these skills we were acquiring.
I know how to purify water. I know how to grow food. I know how to keep stored food fresh. I know first aide. I know fire. I know how to travel via horseback. I know how to work with a family to use teamwork to survive.
And in all that survival training, it never dawned on me that I might need to include physical fitness in emergency prep. I always just sort of assumed that when I needed to do something physical, I'd just do it. The words "physically incapable" never really occurred to me.
Flash forward a couple weeks.
Carl won a Pulse at work. This device is a pedometer, altitude meter, heart rate monitor, and sleep monitor all in one that also syncs with your smart phone.
Carl doesn't have a smart phone, so he gave it to me. It was a pretty effective slap on the butt.
The WHO recommends that to be healthy, you need to take a minimum of 10,000 steps per day.
Do you know how many steps I take on an average day?
3,000.
That's right, ladies and gentleman, I am 1/3 as active as I should be just for basic health. No wonder I couldn't beat an unborn child to the top of a hill.
This is unacceptable. If I only ever walk a mile or two each day, how can I be expected to hike the Rocky Mountains on my 1,000 mile trek to safety?
So, since I'm wearing a pedometer all day, I set some goals.
To start with, bare minimum, 10,000 steps per day. That's roughly 5 miles. Also, I have to gain a minimum of 100 feet in altitude by taking the stairs or walking uphill.
I've done it for two days now.
My legs and butt are killing me.
But just you wait. I will dominate this apocalypse thing!!!
I used to think I was strong, mighty, epic, could take on a raging allosaurus with naught but a raw steak and a small pocket knife, et cetera.
And then I went on a hike with my little brother and his family.
We hiked up Menan Butte in Rexburg, Idaho. It's almost a mile to the top, and extremely steep. Not quite must-climb-using-your-hands steep, but in parts it was about as steep as you can get without using your hands.
I was the last one to the top. Now, I could blame it on stopping to take pictures, which I did quite a bit of, but I know for a fact that wasn't it. I was stopping to take those pictures in just about every patch of shade along the trail while my gentlemanly husband stood between me and the sun because sage bushes don't really offer that much shade. My face was flame-red, sweat poured down my cheeks, and at times my breath came in labored gasps.
Meanwhile, my baby brother could have done jumping jacks clear to the top - with his 1 1/2 year old daughter on his shoulders - and been perfectly fine. His wife took it a little slower, and he stayed back to help her with that, but she still made it to the top a good 5 or 10 minutes before I did.
Okay, so my little brother is a big kid. He's 6'4", muscular, and country through and through to his bones. His wife is a tad shorter than me, averagely sized, but equally country. I grew up in the country every bit as much as my brother, and I love it desperately, but I don't even compare to either of them for incorporating it into my daily life. Maybe I should give myself some credit for that.
But here's the thing. My sister in law, who very thoroughly beat me to the top of that butte, was EIGHT MONTHS PREGNANT.
I was there in Idaho for her baby shower, because the woman was 3 weeks away from popping a freaking human being out of her uterus. And she dominated me.
Now, I know it wasn't a competition, and I don't feel the sting of competitive loss at all, but when you're sitting there in the shade of your husband's flexing torso, watching your sister in law disappear over the horizon as she lugs her 8.25 month fetus up a butte, and you can barely breathe, you kinda have to take a moment to step back and ask yourself the hard questions.
Like, if the apocalypse hit, would I be one of the survivors, or one of the statistics?
I mean, seriously. If an 8 months pregnant woman can beat me to the top of a butte, how would I fare against a horde of zombies?
If Yellowstone erupted, sending waves of bison and grizzly bears running south for their lives while simultaneously knocking out power, food, transportation means, and every other bit of modern life in the entire Western half of the United States, how would I hunt a buffalo while fighting off a grizzly bear?
If ISIS hit our nation with a set of EMPs, wiping out the electric grid, rendering cars useless, and frying every electronic device within range of the pulse (my personal favorite scenario), how would I walk/bike/ride a horse the 1,000 miles to home and safety? How would I fight off desperate/starving other people also trying to escape the city who want the provisions I'm really not strong enough to be carrying? How would I get past that pesky mountain range that stands between me and home?
I was raised with emergency prep. It's a favorite pastime of my mom's, and I grew up weeding the garden, helping can peaches, inventorying our food storage, and staying up late passing around various apocalyptic scenarios that could possibly cause us to actually need these skills we were acquiring.
I know how to purify water. I know how to grow food. I know how to keep stored food fresh. I know first aide. I know fire. I know how to travel via horseback. I know how to work with a family to use teamwork to survive.
And in all that survival training, it never dawned on me that I might need to include physical fitness in emergency prep. I always just sort of assumed that when I needed to do something physical, I'd just do it. The words "physically incapable" never really occurred to me.
Flash forward a couple weeks.
Carl won a Pulse at work. This device is a pedometer, altitude meter, heart rate monitor, and sleep monitor all in one that also syncs with your smart phone.
Carl doesn't have a smart phone, so he gave it to me. It was a pretty effective slap on the butt.
The WHO recommends that to be healthy, you need to take a minimum of 10,000 steps per day.
Do you know how many steps I take on an average day?
3,000.
That's right, ladies and gentleman, I am 1/3 as active as I should be just for basic health. No wonder I couldn't beat an unborn child to the top of a hill.
This is unacceptable. If I only ever walk a mile or two each day, how can I be expected to hike the Rocky Mountains on my 1,000 mile trek to safety?
So, since I'm wearing a pedometer all day, I set some goals.
To start with, bare minimum, 10,000 steps per day. That's roughly 5 miles. Also, I have to gain a minimum of 100 feet in altitude by taking the stairs or walking uphill.
I've done it for two days now.
My legs and butt are killing me.
But just you wait. I will dominate this apocalypse thing!!!
Tuesday, September 30, 2014
Oh horror of horrors.
So, I'm just sitting there in my fluffy rocking chair, all innocent like. Eating my burrito, you know. Minding my own business.
Suddenly, from the space between my elbow and my stomach, and onto the plate that sits on my lap, crawls a massive, black, spindly-legged spider.
This may be the first time in the last 25 years that I deliberately threw the entirety of my lunch into the air, and onto the floor.
[shudder] Uuuuuugh. [/shudder]
Tuesday, September 23, 2014
You may play me bagpipes, and call me, "Your Highnessness."
Perhaps it was inspired by the recent Scottish vote for independence, perhaps not. I don't really know what brought it on, but something inspired my mother to compile my family's Scottish lineage, up through the royal Stuart clan.
Let me tell you a little bit about my Scottish connections.
I've known for years that I had Scottish blood in me - Stuart clan at that - but there was never much to do with it. I liked the movie, "Brave." My little brother plays the bagpipes. I have a soft spot in my heart for Celtic music, and a desperate love for their knots and other art motifs.
That was about the extent of it.
Then I married an Armstrong.
Not just any Armstrong, of course. I married one with a strong "clan" mentality to their family. They love their Scottish heritage, and proudly display their coat of arms, while wearing their blue and green tartan on their ties.
See, there's this thing about the Armstrongs, though. Way back in the whenever ago, they rebelled against the ruling clan of their day. Which was - you guessed it - the Stuart clan. (Or Stewart... multiple spellings there, but it's the same family, and I think it looks better with a "u.")
Back in 1530 there was this little incident where King James V may or may not have promised safe passage to this guy named John Armstrong (aka, Gilnockie Johnnie), and then captured and hanged him. But see, Johnnie was a border reiver, which meant he plundered and raided and stuff. That was a thing back then. There were tensions between England and Scotland, so a bunch of English and Scottish people would raid the England/Scotland border. The thing is, they didn't really care if you were English or Scottish. If you lived in the borderlands, you either raided, or got raided.
And the Armstrongs were a very powerful clan that lived near the border.
Now, Gilnockie Johnnie was one of the most notorious border reivers of his day. According to the all-wise, all-knowing Wikipedia, he led a band of 160 guys around, burning stuff down. Like Netherby. He did that one. And then some dude named William Dacre burned the village of Canonbie, where he was living.
So, around 15 years after James V came to power, he decided he'd about had enough of these stinking Armstrongs. He got in touch with Johnnie and told him, "Oh, yeah. You can totally walk through this area where my guys are definitely not waiting to capture you. Not a problem! Totally safe passage!"
And Johnnie did it.
And got captured.
And got hanged, along with 36 of his reiver guys.
Now, I'm not sure how this was supposed to solve the king's problems with the Armstrong clan in general, since it just pissed them off, but it stopped the Johnnie problem.
Then James went to battle against the English in the Armstrongs' home turf. It was 1542, the Battle of Solway Moss, which took place in a bunch of bogs and eerie stuff like that. The Armstrongs loved all this creepy bog stuff, but the king's army kinda fell in and a few of them drowned.
Being subjects of the Scottish crown, the Armstrongs were called in to help the king win his battle. And they totally could have kicked English butt, knowing the bogs so well as they did. But, well, they were still a bit sore over the whole Gilnockie Johnnie incident of 12 years prior, and they just sort of shrugged and said, "Nah. We'll just stay here and soak in the bog. Have fun with your English buddies."
And the Scottish lost. Dismally.
So, the Armstrongs and the Stuarts. Not really friends.
Tonight, my mom sent me my Stuart lineage. I'd always wondered how it connected into the royal line, and now I know. We go up through Charles II of England, son of James I of England, who was also James VI of Scotland. (You can thank Elizabeth I for naming the Scottish heir as her heir as well, finally uniting England and Scotland, and ending their wars... sort of...) This leads us to James' mother, Mary, Queen of Scots. (No, that is not bloody Mary, for those people back in my freshman year who tried to convince me I was descended from a blood-soaked, homicidal maniac slaughtering innocent civilians in the name of the Catholic Church. That was Mary I of England, daughter of Henry VIII. And for the record, Bloody Mary never had any kids for me to be descended from anyway, though she did have a raging case of stomach cancer that she thought was a pregnancy.)
Mary, Queen of Scots, was the daughter of James V, of Gilnockie Johnnie fame. So it was definitely my direct ancestor who broke his oath to a notorious raider and got his butt whooped by the English in retaliation.
After getting the entire line traced from myself, up through each generation, to Mary (my mom stopped there, but a quick Wikipedia search told me my family's history with the Armstrong clan), I spent dinner time referring to my Armstrong husband as "traitor," and requesting such things as bowing before me, and referring to me as "Your Majesty."
Cause, I mean, I am royal blood here.
He refused to acknowledge my royal authority. Those dang Armstrongs just haven't gotten over the whole Gilnockie Johnnie thing. I mean, come on. It was five hundred years ago. Let it go, already. And then worship me.
But then, while I may be royal, the Armstrongs do have the cooler tartan.
And I'll have to live with that.
Yay, Stuarts!
Let me tell you a little bit about my Scottish connections.
I've known for years that I had Scottish blood in me - Stuart clan at that - but there was never much to do with it. I liked the movie, "Brave." My little brother plays the bagpipes. I have a soft spot in my heart for Celtic music, and a desperate love for their knots and other art motifs.
That was about the extent of it.
Then I married an Armstrong.
See, there's this thing about the Armstrongs, though. Way back in the whenever ago, they rebelled against the ruling clan of their day. Which was - you guessed it - the Stuart clan. (Or Stewart... multiple spellings there, but it's the same family, and I think it looks better with a "u.")
Back in 1530 there was this little incident where King James V may or may not have promised safe passage to this guy named John Armstrong (aka, Gilnockie Johnnie), and then captured and hanged him. But see, Johnnie was a border reiver, which meant he plundered and raided and stuff. That was a thing back then. There were tensions between England and Scotland, so a bunch of English and Scottish people would raid the England/Scotland border. The thing is, they didn't really care if you were English or Scottish. If you lived in the borderlands, you either raided, or got raided.
And the Armstrongs were a very powerful clan that lived near the border.
Now, Gilnockie Johnnie was one of the most notorious border reivers of his day. According to the all-wise, all-knowing Wikipedia, he led a band of 160 guys around, burning stuff down. Like Netherby. He did that one. And then some dude named William Dacre burned the village of Canonbie, where he was living.
So, around 15 years after James V came to power, he decided he'd about had enough of these stinking Armstrongs. He got in touch with Johnnie and told him, "Oh, yeah. You can totally walk through this area where my guys are definitely not waiting to capture you. Not a problem! Totally safe passage!"
And Johnnie did it.
And got captured.
And got hanged, along with 36 of his reiver guys.
Now, I'm not sure how this was supposed to solve the king's problems with the Armstrong clan in general, since it just pissed them off, but it stopped the Johnnie problem.
Then James went to battle against the English in the Armstrongs' home turf. It was 1542, the Battle of Solway Moss, which took place in a bunch of bogs and eerie stuff like that. The Armstrongs loved all this creepy bog stuff, but the king's army kinda fell in and a few of them drowned.
Being subjects of the Scottish crown, the Armstrongs were called in to help the king win his battle. And they totally could have kicked English butt, knowing the bogs so well as they did. But, well, they were still a bit sore over the whole Gilnockie Johnnie incident of 12 years prior, and they just sort of shrugged and said, "Nah. We'll just stay here and soak in the bog. Have fun with your English buddies."
And the Scottish lost. Dismally.
So, the Armstrongs and the Stuarts. Not really friends.
Tonight, my mom sent me my Stuart lineage. I'd always wondered how it connected into the royal line, and now I know. We go up through Charles II of England, son of James I of England, who was also James VI of Scotland. (You can thank Elizabeth I for naming the Scottish heir as her heir as well, finally uniting England and Scotland, and ending their wars... sort of...) This leads us to James' mother, Mary, Queen of Scots. (No, that is not bloody Mary, for those people back in my freshman year who tried to convince me I was descended from a blood-soaked, homicidal maniac slaughtering innocent civilians in the name of the Catholic Church. That was Mary I of England, daughter of Henry VIII. And for the record, Bloody Mary never had any kids for me to be descended from anyway, though she did have a raging case of stomach cancer that she thought was a pregnancy.)
Mary, Queen of Scots, was the daughter of James V, of Gilnockie Johnnie fame. So it was definitely my direct ancestor who broke his oath to a notorious raider and got his butt whooped by the English in retaliation.
After getting the entire line traced from myself, up through each generation, to Mary (my mom stopped there, but a quick Wikipedia search told me my family's history with the Armstrong clan), I spent dinner time referring to my Armstrong husband as "traitor," and requesting such things as bowing before me, and referring to me as "Your Majesty."
Cause, I mean, I am royal blood here.
He refused to acknowledge my royal authority. Those dang Armstrongs just haven't gotten over the whole Gilnockie Johnnie thing. I mean, come on. It was five hundred years ago. Let it go, already. And then worship me.
But then, while I may be royal, the Armstrongs do have the cooler tartan.
And I'll have to live with that.
Wednesday, September 17, 2014
My Little Soapbox of the Day
It's a tiny rant. I promise. No long winded examples, or crushing guilt, or anything like that.
I was just thinking about how opening doors and pulling out chairs for women has kind of become one of those things women - specifically the ones who have feminist leanings - have used to show us all that men still consider us the weaker sex.
I hear it a lot.
"When men open the door for me, it really upsets me, because they're telling me I'm too weak to do it myself."
Okay, first point I'd like to make, it's a door. Not even a raging chauvinist truly believes a woman is too weak to open a freaking door.
Ah, but it's the symbol! Because this originated as a symbolic gesture indicating that women were weak and needed men to assist them in life. Or, another explanation I've seen is that it's because women were restricted from doing a lot of things, and were compensated by having doors held open for them.
Right?
Ummm...
Probably not, in fact.
I don't actually know where it originated, and I don't care enough about this gesture's history to go back and do actual research. But, if I were to throw out a guess, I'd say it probably had something to do with the ridiculous outfits women used to wear (hoop skirts, anyone?), and the fact that there have been periods in history when opening a door in those getups really was a trial.
That's just a guess, of course. But what really matters, is why do people do it today?
I've known a lot of men - really decent men who definitely didn't see women as "the weaker sex" - who made a point of opening doors for us. And why did they do this?
Because their momma's told them to. And they respected women.
No, seriously.
Without fail, every last one of the guys I've known who hold to traditional ways of treating women (opening car/building doors, walking on the outside of the sidewalk, holding chairs, taking coats, etc.) did it because their mothers taught them that was how men acted when they respected women. It wasn't about "protecting" us, or "doing things we couldn't." It was straight up respect.
These aren't "symbolic gestures indicating the woman needs help." They're small acts of kindness.
And maybe we should start treating them as that: a man showing us kindness, because he respects us.
Assuming that a man is a chauvinist because he opened a door for you seems like an awfully bigoted assumption, don't you think?
I was just thinking about how opening doors and pulling out chairs for women has kind of become one of those things women - specifically the ones who have feminist leanings - have used to show us all that men still consider us the weaker sex.
I hear it a lot.
"When men open the door for me, it really upsets me, because they're telling me I'm too weak to do it myself."
Okay, first point I'd like to make, it's a door. Not even a raging chauvinist truly believes a woman is too weak to open a freaking door.
Ah, but it's the symbol! Because this originated as a symbolic gesture indicating that women were weak and needed men to assist them in life. Or, another explanation I've seen is that it's because women were restricted from doing a lot of things, and were compensated by having doors held open for them.
Right?
Ummm...
Probably not, in fact.
I don't actually know where it originated, and I don't care enough about this gesture's history to go back and do actual research. But, if I were to throw out a guess, I'd say it probably had something to do with the ridiculous outfits women used to wear (hoop skirts, anyone?), and the fact that there have been periods in history when opening a door in those getups really was a trial.
That's just a guess, of course. But what really matters, is why do people do it today?
I've known a lot of men - really decent men who definitely didn't see women as "the weaker sex" - who made a point of opening doors for us. And why did they do this?
Because their momma's told them to. And they respected women.
No, seriously.
Without fail, every last one of the guys I've known who hold to traditional ways of treating women (opening car/building doors, walking on the outside of the sidewalk, holding chairs, taking coats, etc.) did it because their mothers taught them that was how men acted when they respected women. It wasn't about "protecting" us, or "doing things we couldn't." It was straight up respect.
These aren't "symbolic gestures indicating the woman needs help." They're small acts of kindness.
And maybe we should start treating them as that: a man showing us kindness, because he respects us.
Assuming that a man is a chauvinist because he opened a door for you seems like an awfully bigoted assumption, don't you think?
Tuesday, September 16, 2014
I changed my blog's name, and other indications I may have become old.
It's funny - I'm almost embarrassed to post on my blog anymore.
And I'm definitely embarrassed to post my blog entries on Facebook.
Why?
Well... I appear to have outgrown my blog title.
Way back in the olden days, I thought "Hippos are Stampeding Through My Brain" was the most hilarious thing ever. It was off the wall, made very little sense, and accurately described my life at the time (I think I came up with that during finals week, or at least midterms). Before that I had changed my blog title anywhere from 1-10 times per week, and was thoroughly enjoying the new world of the blogosphere.
But, well... my life moved on.
Finals were years ago. Off the wall humor doesn't make me giggle half as hard as it used to. And I **horrified gasp** read the NEWS now!!! Consistently. And frequently, I have something to say about it.
But see, when I post something along the lines of "Why going into Iraq was a terrible idea, and whether or not we need to be in there now," or, "Here are the inspirational thoughts I had while enduring a heart-wrenching trial," those thoughts are carried to you, dear universe, by a herd of stampeding hippos.
Thanks a lot, college-kid self.
So, I just didn't write those thoughts.
And now, I'm addressing the problem - those dang hippos.
They have been fired from my blog, no longer carrying to you my thoughts and dreams and crap like that.
So, since you're quite obviously already hanging around in the swirling vortex of Chaos we like to call the Internet, welcome to my little piece of it. My blog will hereafter be known as "My Speck of the Maelstrom."
And, in case you're suddenly struck with the horrifying thought that I might have become too mature, you can comfort yourself with the thought that I still think farts are hilarious.
And I'm definitely embarrassed to post my blog entries on Facebook.
Why?
Well... I appear to have outgrown my blog title.
Way back in the olden days, I thought "Hippos are Stampeding Through My Brain" was the most hilarious thing ever. It was off the wall, made very little sense, and accurately described my life at the time (I think I came up with that during finals week, or at least midterms). Before that I had changed my blog title anywhere from 1-10 times per week, and was thoroughly enjoying the new world of the blogosphere.
But, well... my life moved on.
Finals were years ago. Off the wall humor doesn't make me giggle half as hard as it used to. And I **horrified gasp** read the NEWS now!!! Consistently. And frequently, I have something to say about it.
But see, when I post something along the lines of "Why going into Iraq was a terrible idea, and whether or not we need to be in there now," or, "Here are the inspirational thoughts I had while enduring a heart-wrenching trial," those thoughts are carried to you, dear universe, by a herd of stampeding hippos.
Thanks a lot, college-kid self.
So, I just didn't write those thoughts.
And now, I'm addressing the problem - those dang hippos.
They have been fired from my blog, no longer carrying to you my thoughts and dreams and crap like that.
So, since you're quite obviously already hanging around in the swirling vortex of Chaos we like to call the Internet, welcome to my little piece of it. My blog will hereafter be known as "My Speck of the Maelstrom."
And, in case you're suddenly struck with the horrifying thought that I might have become too mature, you can comfort yourself with the thought that I still think farts are hilarious.
Sunday, September 7, 2014
I am the Doctor. So are like 278 other people.
My thoughts on my first ever Comic Con:
- Fun
- Glad I went
- I'm not going back.
It was a fun experience, but for me it was a one-timer. There were just plain too. many. people!!! It took us an hour just to get in, and we were given the impression we were very lucky to get in so incredibly quickly. That said, the long wait in line gave us a chance to see a LOT of really cool costumes. I was dressed as the 10th Doctor, and I saw (and took a picture with) a girl in a TARDIS dress that totally made my whole life. She had a Police box cloak, and her dress inside looked like the TARDIS console. Her hair was white, and she even had white contacts in her eyes.
As the 10th Doctor, I was pleased to see that most other "Doctors" were decked out in fezzes and bow ties (one fun-looking guy even had the mop), meaning I wasn't one of a million 10's. While in line, I only saw one other 10, which made me feel ever so slightly special. (I think the final count of 10's I saw while there was about half a dozen.)
As we walked through the doors we were told to show our bracelets, and the sea of people all held their hands high in fists. I felt like I was part of some kind of revolution against the line. It was pretty awesome.
Once inside, we were walking at a turtle's pace (fitting, since Carl went as an actual Ninja Turtle...), trying to find the artist booth of one of our friends. The crowds were so packed together that "standing room only" doesn't cut it. There were thousands and thousands of people there. After navigating through the thronging masses, we found Thomas's booth. We hung out and talked to him for a bit, then went in search of the TARDIS prop.
Okay, I'm sorry, but I went as one of my favorite characters from all of Nerdom. And if I'm going as the 10th Doctor, I'm GOING to take a picture of myself in front of the TARDIS.
Or... since it's me... about 357 pictures of myself in front of the TARDIS.
We found a TARDIS prop, but it turns out it wasn't the TARDIS prop. It was just a small one for fun. The guy in charge of it let us take about 10 pictures each (snapsnapsnapsnapsnap - okay, hurry up, guys. People are waiting), with about 3 shots of both of us together.
A little later we met up with an old friend of mine, who pointed out that there were actually two TARDISes, and we were at the lame one. So, we scoured the area until we found the big one, and once there, I was (after waiting in line for about 30 minutes) able to take as many pictures as I wanted... sort of. As many pictures as I could squeeze into the 45 second window you get before people in the atrociously long line start getting annoyed with you.
I also got in trouble for "attempting to take a picture of Hulk Hogan."
No. No, I wasn't.
Seriously, why the heck would I care about Hulk Hogan?
No, what I was trying to do was take a picture of the guy standing near Hulk Hogan, holding a sign that said, "No Pictures." I might start a fan club for him. Because now I have a picture. I can sell that online and make millions, apparently.
We went to a couple of panels, but honestly, I was pretty unimpressed with them. Having attended writing conventions for quite a few years now, I really felt like there was no new information. Carl and I got bored and left part way through both of them.
Around 2:00 PM, after being there for about 5 hours, we went looking for food. My new shoes were hurting my feet, my pants were uncomfortable, and I was exhausted. I really wanted a good slice of pizza. Carl was getting fed up with the lines and the waiting, and when we got to the food court, the lines were hundreds of people long. We went looking for another food stand, and found every. single. one. to be exactly the same. Hundreds and hundreds of people, in line, waiting to pay $6.50 for a single slice of pizza, and $3.50 for a cup of Dr. Pepper.
I suggested that I was pretty much done - I'd seen and done everything I'd wanted to do. And maybe we could at least take a break and go get food outside Comic Con.
But, after slogging through the crowds at little more than a shuffle, we found a line to a pizza stand that was only about 50 people long. The stand was tucked WAY in the back, behind all the displays, where nobody ever goes. We joined the line, but after about 5 minutes, that was enough. We were done. There was a back door (that was probably just a maintenance and/or fire exit) right there, and we popped out of it.
Once out in the open air, it was wonderful to be able to walk unobstructed, at a normal pace. I shed my jacket and my tie, untucked my shirt, and loosened my pants, all before we'd gone more than a few steps. A half-mile walk later, we were back at the car, a/c blasting, and I couldn't help sighing in relief.
There was a lot to see and a lot of fun, and there's no way I regret going. I went to Comic Con as the Doctor, accompanied by a Ninja Turtle, and it was awesome.
But that's a check on the bucket list, not something I plan to do over and over. In the future, I want to go to less well-attended cons. I was told Comic Con had tens of thousands of people, and until I got there, I didn't see how that was possible. After spending a day among them, I can't imagine how it's any less than that. A couple hours among them was fun - all those people were really creative, and I saw some truly epic costumes.
And now, after lunch, a hot shower, and a 3 hour nap, I'm settled into my big, fluffy rocking chair, watching Carl play Assassin's Creed III (talk about awesome costumes - I saw about a dozen Assassins there today). And I feel quite content.
- Fun
- Glad I went
- I'm not going back.
It was a fun experience, but for me it was a one-timer. There were just plain too. many. people!!! It took us an hour just to get in, and we were given the impression we were very lucky to get in so incredibly quickly. That said, the long wait in line gave us a chance to see a LOT of really cool costumes. I was dressed as the 10th Doctor, and I saw (and took a picture with) a girl in a TARDIS dress that totally made my whole life. She had a Police box cloak, and her dress inside looked like the TARDIS console. Her hair was white, and she even had white contacts in her eyes.
As the 10th Doctor, I was pleased to see that most other "Doctors" were decked out in fezzes and bow ties (one fun-looking guy even had the mop), meaning I wasn't one of a million 10's. While in line, I only saw one other 10, which made me feel ever so slightly special. (I think the final count of 10's I saw while there was about half a dozen.)
As we walked through the doors we were told to show our bracelets, and the sea of people all held their hands high in fists. I felt like I was part of some kind of revolution against the line. It was pretty awesome.
Once inside, we were walking at a turtle's pace (fitting, since Carl went as an actual Ninja Turtle...), trying to find the artist booth of one of our friends. The crowds were so packed together that "standing room only" doesn't cut it. There were thousands and thousands of people there. After navigating through the thronging masses, we found Thomas's booth. We hung out and talked to him for a bit, then went in search of the TARDIS prop.
Okay, I'm sorry, but I went as one of my favorite characters from all of Nerdom. And if I'm going as the 10th Doctor, I'm GOING to take a picture of myself in front of the TARDIS.
Or... since it's me... about 357 pictures of myself in front of the TARDIS.
We found a TARDIS prop, but it turns out it wasn't the TARDIS prop. It was just a small one for fun. The guy in charge of it let us take about 10 pictures each (snapsnapsnapsnapsnap - okay, hurry up, guys. People are waiting), with about 3 shots of both of us together.
A little later we met up with an old friend of mine, who pointed out that there were actually two TARDISes, and we were at the lame one. So, we scoured the area until we found the big one, and once there, I was (after waiting in line for about 30 minutes) able to take as many pictures as I wanted... sort of. As many pictures as I could squeeze into the 45 second window you get before people in the atrociously long line start getting annoyed with you.
I also got in trouble for "attempting to take a picture of Hulk Hogan."
No. No, I wasn't.
Seriously, why the heck would I care about Hulk Hogan?
No, what I was trying to do was take a picture of the guy standing near Hulk Hogan, holding a sign that said, "No Pictures." I might start a fan club for him. Because now I have a picture. I can sell that online and make millions, apparently.
We went to a couple of panels, but honestly, I was pretty unimpressed with them. Having attended writing conventions for quite a few years now, I really felt like there was no new information. Carl and I got bored and left part way through both of them.
Around 2:00 PM, after being there for about 5 hours, we went looking for food. My new shoes were hurting my feet, my pants were uncomfortable, and I was exhausted. I really wanted a good slice of pizza. Carl was getting fed up with the lines and the waiting, and when we got to the food court, the lines were hundreds of people long. We went looking for another food stand, and found every. single. one. to be exactly the same. Hundreds and hundreds of people, in line, waiting to pay $6.50 for a single slice of pizza, and $3.50 for a cup of Dr. Pepper.
I suggested that I was pretty much done - I'd seen and done everything I'd wanted to do. And maybe we could at least take a break and go get food outside Comic Con.
But, after slogging through the crowds at little more than a shuffle, we found a line to a pizza stand that was only about 50 people long. The stand was tucked WAY in the back, behind all the displays, where nobody ever goes. We joined the line, but after about 5 minutes, that was enough. We were done. There was a back door (that was probably just a maintenance and/or fire exit) right there, and we popped out of it.
Once out in the open air, it was wonderful to be able to walk unobstructed, at a normal pace. I shed my jacket and my tie, untucked my shirt, and loosened my pants, all before we'd gone more than a few steps. A half-mile walk later, we were back at the car, a/c blasting, and I couldn't help sighing in relief.
There was a lot to see and a lot of fun, and there's no way I regret going. I went to Comic Con as the Doctor, accompanied by a Ninja Turtle, and it was awesome.
But that's a check on the bucket list, not something I plan to do over and over. In the future, I want to go to less well-attended cons. I was told Comic Con had tens of thousands of people, and until I got there, I didn't see how that was possible. After spending a day among them, I can't imagine how it's any less than that. A couple hours among them was fun - all those people were really creative, and I saw some truly epic costumes.
And now, after lunch, a hot shower, and a 3 hour nap, I'm settled into my big, fluffy rocking chair, watching Carl play Assassin's Creed III (talk about awesome costumes - I saw about a dozen Assassins there today). And I feel quite content.
Wednesday, August 13, 2014
A History Question
So, the Callanish Standing Stones in Scotland are in the shape of a Celtic Cross.
They were put in that shape, near as I can tell, absolutely no later than 2600 BC.
Every source on the Celtic Cross that I can find talks about its Christian symbolism.
Obviously, this predates Christianity.
This also predates the use of the cross as a Christian symbol by even more (I believe it was in the 4th century AD).
So, if the Celtic Cross was in existence as a symbol three millennia before it was used by Christians in the British Isles, what was its initial symbolism?
I have no idea...
They were put in that shape, near as I can tell, absolutely no later than 2600 BC.
Every source on the Celtic Cross that I can find talks about its Christian symbolism.
Obviously, this predates Christianity.
This also predates the use of the cross as a Christian symbol by even more (I believe it was in the 4th century AD).
So, if the Celtic Cross was in existence as a symbol three millennia before it was used by Christians in the British Isles, what was its initial symbolism?
I have no idea...
Thursday, June 26, 2014
Ordain Women and Kate Kelly: An Addition to the Discussion
It's been interesting to see my church at the center of a gender equality controversy. Especially one I've struggled with in the past. Since it's something I've put a lot of thought into over the last few years, I'd like to add my thoughts on it to the conversation. (If any of my non-member friends and family read this, I apologize. Without the context there will be some bits that make little or no sense.)
So, for those not in the know, the LDS church recently came under fire by the activist group, Ordain Women, who are claiming the LDS church is oppressive to women, and this can be (at least partially) rectified by allowing women to be ordained to the Priesthood, and hold the offices that come with that. The LDS church recently excommunicated the leader of that organization, Kate Kelly, for her aggressive preaching and media campaign, after requesting she cease and desist.
Here are my thoughts, organized by topic, which will hopefully make them more clear, concise, and easy to follow.
The Arguments of O.W.: Is the LDS Church oppressive to women?
Should Women have the Priesthood?
Okay, just personally speaking, I want the opportunity to be a bishop about as much as I want the opportunity to be drafted. But I know this is just my personal opinion, and there are women who would like to be bishop.
But then, the best bishops I've ever had were the ones who flat out cried from desperation when the call came to them, consumed with the stress of that calling, and their own sense of inadequacy.
Let me make one thing very clear. Priesthood offices and callings are not "opportunities." They are not a career path to a higher spiritual plane; they are a chance to serve the Lord. If you feel like your Spiritual growth is stunted because you are not allowed to be a bishop, you can ask the Lord for more opportunities for growth. Trust me, that is a righteous desire, and He will give them to you.
If what you're looking for is recognition and "position" in the Church, you're very most definitely missing the whole point.
My experiences with the "oppression."
During my time in college, I came face to face with the reality that women are frequently marginalized. Before I get into the particulars of that experience, I need to make one resounding clarification:
God. Does. Not. Marginalize. Women.
In an ultimate perfect world that is the model of heaven, this wouldn't even be an issue. But there is a reason Church policies and culture change: we are not perfect. We find - and are led to - better ways, a little at a time. Sometimes we take a step back, only to learn from that, and then we move forward to something better. What I experienced was not a reflection on the nature of God, or His desires for women.
That said, let's get into what I faced during the aforementioned time. In particular, I experienced:
-In General Conference, I looked up to see a sea of suits and ties, with a very occasional colored dot, marking where a woman sat. Clearly, women could not be our public face.
-In my ward (which I later found out was unique to my ward), there were always 3 speakers in sacrament meeting: 2 men, and a woman sandwiched between them. It felt like the woman was not allowed to offer beginning or ending thoughts, and women couldn't possibly outnumber the men when doctrine was being taught.
-Then we have Relief Society culture - oh, how many times have I ranted on that! Essentially, I have been assured time and time again in Relief Society that I don't need to be insecure, because, despite how I may feel about myself, I really do have intrinsic worth. As someone who has never doubted my intrinsic worth, this is quite off putting, and I believe it is due to our male-dominated clergy, and an attempt to compensate for that without actually addressing the issue.
-And finally, the biggest one for me, the video in the temple ceremony (and I know I'm getting into touchy ground by getting near this, but please bear with me) includes a female role that is very near to silent. She has one part where she gets to speak, and the rest of the spiritual instruction is carried out by the male characters.This is ultimately what kicked off the feeling of being marginalized as a woman. I related to that character - as I should in the case of being instructed by her - and to see her so silent sent me into a couple years of stewing over this issue.
The ordination thing never really bothered me, partially because I never really wanted the responsibilities and stress that come with it, and partially because of the revelation back in the 1970's that blacks could hold the Priesthood. I understand that the policies regarding who holds the Priesthood can change, and all that is required is a revelation from the Lord, followed by the announcement from the prophet. I firmly believe such a revelation, if it is to come, will not come until it is best suited for the benefit of the Church as a whole. (And yes, I have a long rant prepared - which I will not give here - on the nature of religion and how long it takes to change human beliefs that are not correct, when they are deeply seeded in religion.)
The Definition of Oppression:
Now, I just described 4 issues I've experienced with the LDS church, and one that I'm aware of but don't personally have a problem with. Are these oppression?
I'm not going to insult anyone's intelligence by quoting the dictionary here. We all know what oppression is, and it doesn't matter how the writers of the OED have chosen to phrase what we all know.
Let me instead offer a bit of perspective. While all of this has been swimming around the news and in LDS circles, another story has been making national headlines. It's the case of Meriam Ibrahim, a Christian woman in Sudan who was arrested for apostasy and adultery. If you're not familiar with the story you can read about it here and here. The condensed version is that she was born to a Christian mother and a Muslim father, and her father abandoned the family when she was little. She was then raised a Christian. However, according to Sudan law, children are their father's religion. So, when she married a Christian man, she was abandoning Islam (apostasy), in a marriage that was illegal and therefore made her guilty of adultery. She was sentenced to 100 lashes and death by hanging. (Good news, a court of appeals got her released. Bad news, she was rearrested trying to leave the country. Saga still playing out.)
That's right, a technically-legally-Muslim who was raised Christian was sentenced to die because she married a Christian and had children with him.
With that perspective in mind, let's take a look at my four personal grievances.
1.) Lack of female public representation. Now, bear in mind, this isn't a lack of female representation in decision making. In Ward Council Meeting and the like, you have the Bishop, etc., and you also have the Relief Society President, the Young Women's President, and the Primary President, all of whom are female. Everyone affected by the decisions has a voice in making them. These women don't sit on the stand and receive the public recognition, but they are by no means silent. And if you're concerned about public visibility, I reiterate what I said about being bishop - you're missing the point.
2.) My BYU ward's format for public speakers. Again, this was unique to the ward I was in, and is by no means representative of the entire church. Finding that out was a huge help in allowing me to look past it. While I didn't agree with the personal preferences of my bishop in picking speakers, I'll admit I was being quite hyper-sensitive about it, and it didn't change the fact that the same doctrine was taught, regardless of how many women got to be the ones teaching it.
3.) Relief Society culture of insecurity. Getting pissed off by the subtext of a Relief Society lesson, while a perfectly valid emotional response, is not going to shatter my testimony or make me go home and cry because I now believe I am worthless. It isn't a "deep wound piercing my delicate heart." It is just a major annoyance.
4.) Marginalization of the female character in the temple video. Again, I'll apologize to anyone who feels this shouldn't even be mentioned, since it's temple ceremony related. Since it doesn't even come near the things we covenant to keep sacred, I do believe it's fair to discuss, if done so respectfully and moderately. Personally, I believe the female character's script is a relic from the older scripts of this instruction video, written before feminism was even an issue. And, frankly, it does make sense in context of the story for the male character to do almost all of the speaking. In the most recent videos they made, they did try to give her more of a presence, even if they didn't change the spoken lines, and I greatly appreciated that. Either way, the doctrine taught in the film is not remotely affected or rendered untrue by the force of presence held by the female character. This makes it, once again, a matter of visibility.
So, when we look at all of these things for what they really are, our lives are not being threatened. We are not imprisoned. We are not subject to physical beatings. We are free to leave at any point. What we have are petty annoyances and a lack of public recognition.
This. Is. Not. Oppression.
Kate Kelly's Excommunication: Unjust silencing or the right course of action?
This brings us away from my stance on the O.W. arguments, and onto the actual events of recent days.
What Happened:
This past Sunday, Kate Kelly was asked to attend a disciplinary hearing via video chat (her home ward is in Virginia, but she was in Salt Lake City). Rather than do so, she instead organized a candle light vigil outside the church office building, so her supporters could pray for her. She piled letters from her supporters and handkerchiefs outside, and awaited the response.
The response came in a letter telling her she was officially excommunicated, listing the reasons why, and steps she would need to take to come back into full fellowship, if that's what she chose to do.
How appropriate was this measure?
Well, I'm not her bishop, so that's not my call to make (thankfully... see? So glad I'll never have to make a decision like that). But, looking at the situation, here's what I think about it.
She started her movement by using protest to ask the leadership of the Church to prayerfully consider the option of giving women the priesthood.
A few months ago, shortly before the last General Conference, she received a formal answer from the Church. The answer was that, after prayerful consideration, the answer was no. Women would not receive priesthood ordination. Also, please stop protesting.
Her request for prayerful consideration was granted. But she continued fighting about it. She held more protests, preached regularly on her website, and continued to reject the answer she was given as "wrong."
Protest as a Chanel of Religious Reform
Protest is wonderful in matters of government. Government is something we don't get a choice in whether or not to be a part of. We're born in a specific geographic location, and with that comes citizenship (or membership, to use Church terminology), and certain responsibilities like paying taxes and obeying the law. We have every right in this universe to speak out as loudly as we need to be heard. Opting out of government (at least, in an ethical manner) requires leaving your home, giving up proximity to your loved ones, and relocating to deal with a whole new government, if they allow you to do so, and filling out a full headache's worth of paperwork, paying exorbitant amounts of money in fees. And in most cases you don't have the option to separate and form your own country that does things the way you like.
Church is not government. Participation is 100% voluntary, and guess what - you can also be kicked out. If you think the leadership of the church is wrong, you have the option to start a break off group that does things the way you feel they should be done.
As for asking questions, YES, ask them! We hear this nearly every Sunday in one of our 3 sessions of church. "You can't rely on other people's testimonies. You need to find out for yourself." From the simple statements and the anecdotes to the deep-seeded feeling we all have to know truth for ourselves and to not just accept what we're told, our church thrives on questions. And please, by all means, ask the hard ones! Ask why women are marginalized sometimes. Ask why it took until 1978 for blacks to receive the Priesthood.
But, and here's the key, ask God. And ask with humility. Ask with a willingness to accept the answer God gives you as His will, even if it's exactly the opposite of what you wanted, or even expected.
Conclusion:
Kate Kelly asked the Church leadership - which is perfectly fine. And she was given an answer. But she didn't get the answer she wanted, and her response was certainly not humble. She lit a fire, taking it to the media and crying oppression, smearing the Church's name and reputation.
The Church is not oppressing women, and Kate Kelly's actions against it were grossly exaggerating petty annoyances. The Church asked her to stop, and at her blatant refusal to do so, they removed her membership. This is well within their rights, and perfectly justified. I can't think of another organization that, upon being blatantly badmouthed by one of their members to the media, would not remove that member's standing in their organization.
Removing her was also done in the interest of the Church membership as a whole, due to her avid preaching of false doctrine. There is a really good blog with an opinion on that here. I couldn't state it better, so if you're interested, I recommend going and reading that blog post.
As a woman in the LDS church, I have felt the marginalization that sparked the O.W. movement. I understand it, and I wish it wasn't there. But, when I realized how very little it affects my every day life, those annoyances became so tiny.
I have access to the Priesthood. I have an honorable, good husband, and before that my brother, and before that - when I didn't live 900 miles away from my parents - my father. If I didn't have them, I would have had home teachers, a bishop, and a myriad of other options, should I need inspired counsel or a blessing. I don't need the official ordination to use it.
There is SO much more to being LDS than how I feel affected as a woman, and my identity as a woman does not rely on the culture of the Church. All those things that the Church is really about, from the sense of community and service to the stack of scriptures to the teachings on being kind and loving that we receive every week, builds the "pile of good things" in my life. The LDS church gives us chances to grow, a sense of optimism, and a real purpose to life. And yes, it gives us hard questions, and tells us to ask them.
A while ago, I asked the really hard question - is this Church (or any church for that matter) really approved by God? And I got an answer - a resounding yes. And that yes was specific to this church, not just churches in general. I don't believe God marginalizes women. Only the mortals we work with do that. But God does approve of the LDS church, and I can't let the petty things pull me away from all the good things it does in my life.
So, for those not in the know, the LDS church recently came under fire by the activist group, Ordain Women, who are claiming the LDS church is oppressive to women, and this can be (at least partially) rectified by allowing women to be ordained to the Priesthood, and hold the offices that come with that. The LDS church recently excommunicated the leader of that organization, Kate Kelly, for her aggressive preaching and media campaign, after requesting she cease and desist.
Here are my thoughts, organized by topic, which will hopefully make them more clear, concise, and easy to follow.
The Arguments of O.W.: Is the LDS Church oppressive to women?
Should Women have the Priesthood?
Okay, just personally speaking, I want the opportunity to be a bishop about as much as I want the opportunity to be drafted. But I know this is just my personal opinion, and there are women who would like to be bishop.
But then, the best bishops I've ever had were the ones who flat out cried from desperation when the call came to them, consumed with the stress of that calling, and their own sense of inadequacy.
Let me make one thing very clear. Priesthood offices and callings are not "opportunities." They are not a career path to a higher spiritual plane; they are a chance to serve the Lord. If you feel like your Spiritual growth is stunted because you are not allowed to be a bishop, you can ask the Lord for more opportunities for growth. Trust me, that is a righteous desire, and He will give them to you.
If what you're looking for is recognition and "position" in the Church, you're very most definitely missing the whole point.
My experiences with the "oppression."
During my time in college, I came face to face with the reality that women are frequently marginalized. Before I get into the particulars of that experience, I need to make one resounding clarification:
God. Does. Not. Marginalize. Women.
In an ultimate perfect world that is the model of heaven, this wouldn't even be an issue. But there is a reason Church policies and culture change: we are not perfect. We find - and are led to - better ways, a little at a time. Sometimes we take a step back, only to learn from that, and then we move forward to something better. What I experienced was not a reflection on the nature of God, or His desires for women.
That said, let's get into what I faced during the aforementioned time. In particular, I experienced:
-In General Conference, I looked up to see a sea of suits and ties, with a very occasional colored dot, marking where a woman sat. Clearly, women could not be our public face.
-In my ward (which I later found out was unique to my ward), there were always 3 speakers in sacrament meeting: 2 men, and a woman sandwiched between them. It felt like the woman was not allowed to offer beginning or ending thoughts, and women couldn't possibly outnumber the men when doctrine was being taught.
-Then we have Relief Society culture - oh, how many times have I ranted on that! Essentially, I have been assured time and time again in Relief Society that I don't need to be insecure, because, despite how I may feel about myself, I really do have intrinsic worth. As someone who has never doubted my intrinsic worth, this is quite off putting, and I believe it is due to our male-dominated clergy, and an attempt to compensate for that without actually addressing the issue.
-And finally, the biggest one for me, the video in the temple ceremony (and I know I'm getting into touchy ground by getting near this, but please bear with me) includes a female role that is very near to silent. She has one part where she gets to speak, and the rest of the spiritual instruction is carried out by the male characters.This is ultimately what kicked off the feeling of being marginalized as a woman. I related to that character - as I should in the case of being instructed by her - and to see her so silent sent me into a couple years of stewing over this issue.
The ordination thing never really bothered me, partially because I never really wanted the responsibilities and stress that come with it, and partially because of the revelation back in the 1970's that blacks could hold the Priesthood. I understand that the policies regarding who holds the Priesthood can change, and all that is required is a revelation from the Lord, followed by the announcement from the prophet. I firmly believe such a revelation, if it is to come, will not come until it is best suited for the benefit of the Church as a whole. (And yes, I have a long rant prepared - which I will not give here - on the nature of religion and how long it takes to change human beliefs that are not correct, when they are deeply seeded in religion.)
The Definition of Oppression:
Now, I just described 4 issues I've experienced with the LDS church, and one that I'm aware of but don't personally have a problem with. Are these oppression?
I'm not going to insult anyone's intelligence by quoting the dictionary here. We all know what oppression is, and it doesn't matter how the writers of the OED have chosen to phrase what we all know.
Let me instead offer a bit of perspective. While all of this has been swimming around the news and in LDS circles, another story has been making national headlines. It's the case of Meriam Ibrahim, a Christian woman in Sudan who was arrested for apostasy and adultery. If you're not familiar with the story you can read about it here and here. The condensed version is that she was born to a Christian mother and a Muslim father, and her father abandoned the family when she was little. She was then raised a Christian. However, according to Sudan law, children are their father's religion. So, when she married a Christian man, she was abandoning Islam (apostasy), in a marriage that was illegal and therefore made her guilty of adultery. She was sentenced to 100 lashes and death by hanging. (Good news, a court of appeals got her released. Bad news, she was rearrested trying to leave the country. Saga still playing out.)
That's right, a technically-legally-Muslim who was raised Christian was sentenced to die because she married a Christian and had children with him.
With that perspective in mind, let's take a look at my four personal grievances.
1.) Lack of female public representation. Now, bear in mind, this isn't a lack of female representation in decision making. In Ward Council Meeting and the like, you have the Bishop, etc., and you also have the Relief Society President, the Young Women's President, and the Primary President, all of whom are female. Everyone affected by the decisions has a voice in making them. These women don't sit on the stand and receive the public recognition, but they are by no means silent. And if you're concerned about public visibility, I reiterate what I said about being bishop - you're missing the point.
2.) My BYU ward's format for public speakers. Again, this was unique to the ward I was in, and is by no means representative of the entire church. Finding that out was a huge help in allowing me to look past it. While I didn't agree with the personal preferences of my bishop in picking speakers, I'll admit I was being quite hyper-sensitive about it, and it didn't change the fact that the same doctrine was taught, regardless of how many women got to be the ones teaching it.
3.) Relief Society culture of insecurity. Getting pissed off by the subtext of a Relief Society lesson, while a perfectly valid emotional response, is not going to shatter my testimony or make me go home and cry because I now believe I am worthless. It isn't a "deep wound piercing my delicate heart." It is just a major annoyance.
4.) Marginalization of the female character in the temple video. Again, I'll apologize to anyone who feels this shouldn't even be mentioned, since it's temple ceremony related. Since it doesn't even come near the things we covenant to keep sacred, I do believe it's fair to discuss, if done so respectfully and moderately. Personally, I believe the female character's script is a relic from the older scripts of this instruction video, written before feminism was even an issue. And, frankly, it does make sense in context of the story for the male character to do almost all of the speaking. In the most recent videos they made, they did try to give her more of a presence, even if they didn't change the spoken lines, and I greatly appreciated that. Either way, the doctrine taught in the film is not remotely affected or rendered untrue by the force of presence held by the female character. This makes it, once again, a matter of visibility.
So, when we look at all of these things for what they really are, our lives are not being threatened. We are not imprisoned. We are not subject to physical beatings. We are free to leave at any point. What we have are petty annoyances and a lack of public recognition.
This. Is. Not. Oppression.
Kate Kelly's Excommunication: Unjust silencing or the right course of action?
This brings us away from my stance on the O.W. arguments, and onto the actual events of recent days.
What Happened:
This past Sunday, Kate Kelly was asked to attend a disciplinary hearing via video chat (her home ward is in Virginia, but she was in Salt Lake City). Rather than do so, she instead organized a candle light vigil outside the church office building, so her supporters could pray for her. She piled letters from her supporters and handkerchiefs outside, and awaited the response.
The response came in a letter telling her she was officially excommunicated, listing the reasons why, and steps she would need to take to come back into full fellowship, if that's what she chose to do.
How appropriate was this measure?
Well, I'm not her bishop, so that's not my call to make (thankfully... see? So glad I'll never have to make a decision like that). But, looking at the situation, here's what I think about it.
She started her movement by using protest to ask the leadership of the Church to prayerfully consider the option of giving women the priesthood.
A few months ago, shortly before the last General Conference, she received a formal answer from the Church. The answer was that, after prayerful consideration, the answer was no. Women would not receive priesthood ordination. Also, please stop protesting.
Her request for prayerful consideration was granted. But she continued fighting about it. She held more protests, preached regularly on her website, and continued to reject the answer she was given as "wrong."
Protest as a Chanel of Religious Reform
Protest is wonderful in matters of government. Government is something we don't get a choice in whether or not to be a part of. We're born in a specific geographic location, and with that comes citizenship (or membership, to use Church terminology), and certain responsibilities like paying taxes and obeying the law. We have every right in this universe to speak out as loudly as we need to be heard. Opting out of government (at least, in an ethical manner) requires leaving your home, giving up proximity to your loved ones, and relocating to deal with a whole new government, if they allow you to do so, and filling out a full headache's worth of paperwork, paying exorbitant amounts of money in fees. And in most cases you don't have the option to separate and form your own country that does things the way you like.
Church is not government. Participation is 100% voluntary, and guess what - you can also be kicked out. If you think the leadership of the church is wrong, you have the option to start a break off group that does things the way you feel they should be done.
As for asking questions, YES, ask them! We hear this nearly every Sunday in one of our 3 sessions of church. "You can't rely on other people's testimonies. You need to find out for yourself." From the simple statements and the anecdotes to the deep-seeded feeling we all have to know truth for ourselves and to not just accept what we're told, our church thrives on questions. And please, by all means, ask the hard ones! Ask why women are marginalized sometimes. Ask why it took until 1978 for blacks to receive the Priesthood.
But, and here's the key, ask God. And ask with humility. Ask with a willingness to accept the answer God gives you as His will, even if it's exactly the opposite of what you wanted, or even expected.
Conclusion:
Kate Kelly asked the Church leadership - which is perfectly fine. And she was given an answer. But she didn't get the answer she wanted, and her response was certainly not humble. She lit a fire, taking it to the media and crying oppression, smearing the Church's name and reputation.
The Church is not oppressing women, and Kate Kelly's actions against it were grossly exaggerating petty annoyances. The Church asked her to stop, and at her blatant refusal to do so, they removed her membership. This is well within their rights, and perfectly justified. I can't think of another organization that, upon being blatantly badmouthed by one of their members to the media, would not remove that member's standing in their organization.
Removing her was also done in the interest of the Church membership as a whole, due to her avid preaching of false doctrine. There is a really good blog with an opinion on that here. I couldn't state it better, so if you're interested, I recommend going and reading that blog post.
As a woman in the LDS church, I have felt the marginalization that sparked the O.W. movement. I understand it, and I wish it wasn't there. But, when I realized how very little it affects my every day life, those annoyances became so tiny.
I have access to the Priesthood. I have an honorable, good husband, and before that my brother, and before that - when I didn't live 900 miles away from my parents - my father. If I didn't have them, I would have had home teachers, a bishop, and a myriad of other options, should I need inspired counsel or a blessing. I don't need the official ordination to use it.
There is SO much more to being LDS than how I feel affected as a woman, and my identity as a woman does not rely on the culture of the Church. All those things that the Church is really about, from the sense of community and service to the stack of scriptures to the teachings on being kind and loving that we receive every week, builds the "pile of good things" in my life. The LDS church gives us chances to grow, a sense of optimism, and a real purpose to life. And yes, it gives us hard questions, and tells us to ask them.
A while ago, I asked the really hard question - is this Church (or any church for that matter) really approved by God? And I got an answer - a resounding yes. And that yes was specific to this church, not just churches in general. I don't believe God marginalizes women. Only the mortals we work with do that. But God does approve of the LDS church, and I can't let the petty things pull me away from all the good things it does in my life.
Monday, April 14, 2014
Thoughts of a Post-Emotional-Outburst Woman
I made myself cry today. On purpose. When I was feeling no distress whatsoever.
I do this occasionally, for no observable reason. I'll just be feeling a bit bored and remedy that by daydreaming up a tragedy that leaves mascara streaming down my face, while I desperately hope I can remove any traces before my husband gets home and thinks somebody died.
Long after my self-induced emotional trauma, while I was still floating on that post-cry high, I had to ask myself, "I know at least 5 girls who will admit to doing this, and just about every woman I know will watch a 'cry movie' here and there when they 'feel like they could use a good cry.' I have never, ever heard of a man deliberately making himself cry. What's up with that???"
I know a little bit about the chemistry of crying. Apparently it releases toxins and such, but that doesn't explain why women cry so much more than men. So I decided to Google it.
Google was useless. One site claimed that the same proteins that stimulate breast milk also cause tears (which would be a great explanation... if I were lactating), another said it was because men had smaller tear ducts, so when they cried we just couldn't see it (nope... not buying that one), and another said it was because men sweat more, so they don't need to cry (I might be able to believe that one... as it also explains why many of the men in my experience naturally smell like B.O. and farts so much more often than the women). Still, I happen to know women who sweat plenty, and not only do they not smell like men, but they also cry up a good storm as often as any other woman I know.
No, Google didn't give me an answer. What Google DID give me, however, was a passel of advice articles on what to do if your girlfriend is crying. And, of course, being the crying girl in that scenario, I had to see what advice my potential comforters were being given.
Best advice: "Whatever you do, don't ever blame PMS for her outbursts — even if you, she and the calendar know better." From AskMen.com.
Thank you, AskMen.com, for saying this. Because, we DO cry for no reason, as I clearly did today, when hormones are not involved. And we cry for reasons that some people don't understand, but make perfect sense to us. And we cry when we're feeling hormonal and irrational and we know it doesn't make sense for us to feel the way we do, but dammit, that's how it feels and the fact that it makes no sense just makes it that much more traumatic. No matter why we're crying, having someone dismiss our feelings as "just hormones" is the quickest route to turn that high level of emotion into a homicidal rage.
Worst Advice: "If the woman tells you what is wrong, first determine if you can help her to fix the problem. Show her that you are a gentleman, or at least a decent guy. If you can help her fix the problem, tell her so and ask her if she wants you to help her fix it." From WikiHow.
No. Just... no. Freak, no. If we want someone to fix our problems, we will say so. Crying is NOT a request for problem solving. Frequently, it just feels like the guy is trying to get us to stop crying, or reducing our complex emotion into the simple scenario that caused it, and I'm pretty sure I've made it clear that we NEED TO CRY.
What we need most while crying is validation for the fact that we are crying. If we're crying because things suck, then yes. Things suck. If we're hormonal, that sucks. If we're crying because we're happy... great! That's... heck, not even we know why we're crying in that scenario, but sure. Let it rain.
I don't know why so many men don't cry, but women do because it feels good. It's refreshing and cathartic. Stressed? Sad? Angry? Frustrated? A solid cry is a good way to relieve any of that. Bored? Feeling a tad emotionally dull? Yep! Have a nice cry. It'll pep you right up!
So, if I could just add to the advice I read today, remember this: Tears are not a crisis. In fact, more often than not, they are a solution. They purge negative emotion and bring renewal, replacing stress, anger, and sorrow with strength and the ability to more easily move forward. If your girlfriend/wife/sister/mother/totally-platonic-female-friend is crying, encourage it. Validate it. It's a good thing, and she'll be so much better once she's done scrubbing the mascara off her cheeks.
I do this occasionally, for no observable reason. I'll just be feeling a bit bored and remedy that by daydreaming up a tragedy that leaves mascara streaming down my face, while I desperately hope I can remove any traces before my husband gets home and thinks somebody died.
Long after my self-induced emotional trauma, while I was still floating on that post-cry high, I had to ask myself, "I know at least 5 girls who will admit to doing this, and just about every woman I know will watch a 'cry movie' here and there when they 'feel like they could use a good cry.' I have never, ever heard of a man deliberately making himself cry. What's up with that???"
I know a little bit about the chemistry of crying. Apparently it releases toxins and such, but that doesn't explain why women cry so much more than men. So I decided to Google it.
Google was useless. One site claimed that the same proteins that stimulate breast milk also cause tears (which would be a great explanation... if I were lactating), another said it was because men had smaller tear ducts, so when they cried we just couldn't see it (nope... not buying that one), and another said it was because men sweat more, so they don't need to cry (I might be able to believe that one... as it also explains why many of the men in my experience naturally smell like B.O. and farts so much more often than the women). Still, I happen to know women who sweat plenty, and not only do they not smell like men, but they also cry up a good storm as often as any other woman I know.
No, Google didn't give me an answer. What Google DID give me, however, was a passel of advice articles on what to do if your girlfriend is crying. And, of course, being the crying girl in that scenario, I had to see what advice my potential comforters were being given.
Best advice: "Whatever you do, don't ever blame PMS for her outbursts — even if you, she and the calendar know better." From AskMen.com.
Thank you, AskMen.com, for saying this. Because, we DO cry for no reason, as I clearly did today, when hormones are not involved. And we cry for reasons that some people don't understand, but make perfect sense to us. And we cry when we're feeling hormonal and irrational and we know it doesn't make sense for us to feel the way we do, but dammit, that's how it feels and the fact that it makes no sense just makes it that much more traumatic. No matter why we're crying, having someone dismiss our feelings as "just hormones" is the quickest route to turn that high level of emotion into a homicidal rage.
Worst Advice: "If the woman tells you what is wrong, first determine if you can help her to fix the problem. Show her that you are a gentleman, or at least a decent guy. If you can help her fix the problem, tell her so and ask her if she wants you to help her fix it." From WikiHow.
No. Just... no. Freak, no. If we want someone to fix our problems, we will say so. Crying is NOT a request for problem solving. Frequently, it just feels like the guy is trying to get us to stop crying, or reducing our complex emotion into the simple scenario that caused it, and I'm pretty sure I've made it clear that we NEED TO CRY.
What we need most while crying is validation for the fact that we are crying. If we're crying because things suck, then yes. Things suck. If we're hormonal, that sucks. If we're crying because we're happy... great! That's... heck, not even we know why we're crying in that scenario, but sure. Let it rain.
I don't know why so many men don't cry, but women do because it feels good. It's refreshing and cathartic. Stressed? Sad? Angry? Frustrated? A solid cry is a good way to relieve any of that. Bored? Feeling a tad emotionally dull? Yep! Have a nice cry. It'll pep you right up!
So, if I could just add to the advice I read today, remember this: Tears are not a crisis. In fact, more often than not, they are a solution. They purge negative emotion and bring renewal, replacing stress, anger, and sorrow with strength and the ability to more easily move forward. If your girlfriend/wife/sister/mother/totally-platonic-female-friend is crying, encourage it. Validate it. It's a good thing, and she'll be so much better once she's done scrubbing the mascara off her cheeks.
Friday, February 14, 2014
The Emotion of Food
Turns out food is actually an emotion.
I didn't know this until I started compiling a menu for weight loss.
See, at work we just released a new weight loss product, and on our website we're going to have all these resources for people trying phase 2 of New Year's Resolutions, where you realize it's March and you haven't actually started, and then, motivated by crushing guilt and post-Valentine's chocolate weight, you spend a couple weeks buying weight loss products and thinking about cooking from weight loss menus, before deciding that, Hey! You lost 2 whole pounds! You're doing just fine, and should probably celebrate those 2 pounds with Bavarian cream donuts.
Because you've earned it.
Anyway, the menu I'm compiling comes from a book that lists what you should eat for a 2,000 calorie diet, and then has modifications for 1600 and 1200 calories.
Wow.
So much emotion. I never knew food could rip into my heart like that.
Let me give an example.
My first reaction, as I see strictly proscribed breakfast, lunch, snack, and dinner (yes, your snacks are proscribed for you... and you only get one) is a sort of dread. But... what if I want two snacks? What if I get hungry at 10:37 AM, and it's not time for lunch yet? What about second breakfast? Elevensies? Afternoon tea? Supper?
I don't think the guy who wrote this book knew about second breakfast.
My next reaction varies, depending on the menu item. When I get to snack, and it says "Cottage Cheese, Pear, Walnuts," I sort of gag a little in my mouth.
I'm sorry, but a "snack" is a brownie with ice cream on it, followed by a bag of fruit snacks. If you're feeling creative, put the fruit snacks on the ice cream. If you're feeling virtuous, use one of the Fiber One brownies that has enough fiber in it to make you feel like you're eating something healthy, and then confirms your personal health-choice by making you gassy enough to stave off the planet's energy crisis. Don't give me this 4 oz. of no-salt cottage cheese and a tablespoon of walnuts crap.
Then I get to dinner. Roast chicken breast, baked potato, honey glazed carrots, salad, and frozen yogurt.
What happens in my heart? Relief! Oh, the joy! Listen to those menu items! Roast chicken breast? Into my head immediately pops one of those rotisserie chickens from the deli section of the grocery store. Like, a whole chicken. Baked potato? Mmmmmm! Butter and cheeeeeeeese!!!! Honey glazed carrots? You know, I had a roommate who made the most perfect version of those I have ever encountered. Salad... meh. Sure. Have your greens, I guess. But it'd better be a Caesar salad with Parmesan cheese and croutons. Frozen yogurt? Now we're talking! TCBY, baby!
Oh... but I'm not recording the 2,000 calorie version.
No, I start going through the details and portions on the items. You only get 3 oz. of chicken breast, and it's a breast with no... anything. Just chicken. No sauce. No glaze. Not even the skin.
Same with the baked potato. Not even butter. Just potato. Oh, and if you're doing the 1200 calorie version, you only get half a potato.
The carrots still look good. You can have a full cup of those.
The salad... not Caesar. And you only get a single, tiny tablespoon of dressing.
The frozen yogurt? 1/2 a cup. That's it. And if you're on the 1200 diet, nothing.
Seriously, nothing. No dessert at all.
Do you know what emotion this makes? Do you know what I feel?
Sadness.
Crushing, heart-heavy sadness.
The weight of all the food I can't eat sits on my chest, threatening to cave it in as I fight through the pain, reminding myself that I just have to type the menu, not adhere to it.
But food.
Food is heavy stuff.
I didn't know this until I started compiling a menu for weight loss.
See, at work we just released a new weight loss product, and on our website we're going to have all these resources for people trying phase 2 of New Year's Resolutions, where you realize it's March and you haven't actually started, and then, motivated by crushing guilt and post-Valentine's chocolate weight, you spend a couple weeks buying weight loss products and thinking about cooking from weight loss menus, before deciding that, Hey! You lost 2 whole pounds! You're doing just fine, and should probably celebrate those 2 pounds with Bavarian cream donuts.
Because you've earned it.
Anyway, the menu I'm compiling comes from a book that lists what you should eat for a 2,000 calorie diet, and then has modifications for 1600 and 1200 calories.
Wow.
So much emotion. I never knew food could rip into my heart like that.
Let me give an example.
My first reaction, as I see strictly proscribed breakfast, lunch, snack, and dinner (yes, your snacks are proscribed for you... and you only get one) is a sort of dread. But... what if I want two snacks? What if I get hungry at 10:37 AM, and it's not time for lunch yet? What about second breakfast? Elevensies? Afternoon tea? Supper?
I don't think the guy who wrote this book knew about second breakfast.
My next reaction varies, depending on the menu item. When I get to snack, and it says "Cottage Cheese, Pear, Walnuts," I sort of gag a little in my mouth.
I'm sorry, but a "snack" is a brownie with ice cream on it, followed by a bag of fruit snacks. If you're feeling creative, put the fruit snacks on the ice cream. If you're feeling virtuous, use one of the Fiber One brownies that has enough fiber in it to make you feel like you're eating something healthy, and then confirms your personal health-choice by making you gassy enough to stave off the planet's energy crisis. Don't give me this 4 oz. of no-salt cottage cheese and a tablespoon of walnuts crap.
Then I get to dinner. Roast chicken breast, baked potato, honey glazed carrots, salad, and frozen yogurt.
What happens in my heart? Relief! Oh, the joy! Listen to those menu items! Roast chicken breast? Into my head immediately pops one of those rotisserie chickens from the deli section of the grocery store. Like, a whole chicken. Baked potato? Mmmmmm! Butter and cheeeeeeeese!!!! Honey glazed carrots? You know, I had a roommate who made the most perfect version of those I have ever encountered. Salad... meh. Sure. Have your greens, I guess. But it'd better be a Caesar salad with Parmesan cheese and croutons. Frozen yogurt? Now we're talking! TCBY, baby!
Oh... but I'm not recording the 2,000 calorie version.
No, I start going through the details and portions on the items. You only get 3 oz. of chicken breast, and it's a breast with no... anything. Just chicken. No sauce. No glaze. Not even the skin.
Same with the baked potato. Not even butter. Just potato. Oh, and if you're doing the 1200 calorie version, you only get half a potato.
The carrots still look good. You can have a full cup of those.
The salad... not Caesar. And you only get a single, tiny tablespoon of dressing.
The frozen yogurt? 1/2 a cup. That's it. And if you're on the 1200 diet, nothing.
Seriously, nothing. No dessert at all.
Do you know what emotion this makes? Do you know what I feel?
Sadness.
Crushing, heart-heavy sadness.
The weight of all the food I can't eat sits on my chest, threatening to cave it in as I fight through the pain, reminding myself that I just have to type the menu, not adhere to it.
But food.
Food is heavy stuff.
Wednesday, February 12, 2014
Amish Guilt Bread
About a week and a half ago I took a little jaunt up to Idaho to visit my little brother (and by little, I mean a good 8-10 inches taller than me, depending on whether or not he's wearing his cowboy boots, and outweighing me by 80 lbs... my absolutely minuscule, tiny brother). It was his daughter's first birthday, and there was no way I was missing that party.
While I was there, little brother introduced me to a phenomenon known as "Amish Friendship Bread." It is a bread that spawns from a starter mixture that only the Amish know!!! I'm pretty sure it consists of nothing more than milk, flour, sugar, and yeast. Anyway, since only the Amish know the recipe, the only way to get your hands on this starter is by receiving it from a friend... who got it from a friend... who got it from a friend... who mugged an Amish woman in Pennsylvania just so he could get the recipe. The Amish woman didn't give him the recipe, but, being Amish, invited her assailant in, fed him a loaf of bread, and sent him away with a starter and a promise to come visit the family next Easter.
So, here's the deal. If you get the starter, you have to wait 10 days before cooking it. It has to ferment. Sounds tasty, right? Sure. Anyway, you just squish the bag a few times, add some more milk, sugar, and flour on day 5 or so, and voila. You have a bunch of bread material right there.
Then comes the tricky part. You have to add more flour, sugar, and milk, divide it up into 4 portions, keep one for yourself, and then you must give 3 portions to your 3 closest friends, or else you don't have any friends, nobody loves you, and you will never get the starter back! If it does come back, you know who your friends are.
Basically, this is Amish chain mail.
Now, for those of us who only bake when we want to, because we want to, this 10 day program has a bit of a hiccup in it. And that's... well... when day 10 rolls around, you'd better hope you're in the baking mood, because there's not much wiggle room for "I don't wanna."
Day 10 hit.
I texted my little brother, asking if I had to bake the bread right then, or if it could maybe ferment for, you know, another month. He responded that I might be able to eek another couple days out of it, but that I'd really better not wait too long.
Day 12 hit.
I started feeling guilty.
I mean, I got this from my brother, and I needed to know who my friends were, because without this friendship bread, I might have to rely on emails I stopped forwarding in 1998, and those have a tendency to curse you with bleeding eye sockets and failure in love for the rest of your life if you don't send them fast enough.
Also, the dough was emitting so much gas that the Ziploc freezer bag it was in was about to explode all over my kitchen.
So, even though I was SO NOT in the baking mood tonight, I sucked up and did it.
I added the extra milk, flour, and sugar.
The directions clearly outlined the next step: "Measure out 4 separate batters.... Keep a starter for yourself and give away the other three to friends."
I snorted. "Ha. Screw that. If I give them to friends I might get one back."
So, rather than give my dearest of friends a bag of something they have to wait 10 days to eat, and can only eat after cooking it themselves, and then risk getting one back and having to do the whole thing all over again, I simply tripled the recipe and decided to make a LOT of bread. If I actually have any friends... which I will never know, since I'm not sending out any starters... I can make them think we're friends by giving them a cooked loaf of this stuff instead.
Then came the most ridiculously complicated bread recipe I could possibly have thought of attempting. Three separate trips to the store and some misread directions later, I finally had my 2 largest mixing bowls filled to the brim with dough. Oh... and let me just include... FOUR HOURS LATER. I feel that, for not being in the baking mood, that alone is quite the monumental accomplishment.
So, I baked the bread. I rid myself of the starter. I stopped the chain mail in its tracks.
"If you send this on, and it comes back to you, you will know who your true friends are. If you do not send this on to at least three friends, you will spend four hours baking bread, and then have to find homes for 3 loaves, 2 coffee cakes, and a pan of cupcakes."
That's right. The chain mail stops here.
Does anybody want some bread?
While I was there, little brother introduced me to a phenomenon known as "Amish Friendship Bread." It is a bread that spawns from a starter mixture that only the Amish know!!! I'm pretty sure it consists of nothing more than milk, flour, sugar, and yeast. Anyway, since only the Amish know the recipe, the only way to get your hands on this starter is by receiving it from a friend... who got it from a friend... who got it from a friend... who mugged an Amish woman in Pennsylvania just so he could get the recipe. The Amish woman didn't give him the recipe, but, being Amish, invited her assailant in, fed him a loaf of bread, and sent him away with a starter and a promise to come visit the family next Easter.
So, here's the deal. If you get the starter, you have to wait 10 days before cooking it. It has to ferment. Sounds tasty, right? Sure. Anyway, you just squish the bag a few times, add some more milk, sugar, and flour on day 5 or so, and voila. You have a bunch of bread material right there.
Then comes the tricky part. You have to add more flour, sugar, and milk, divide it up into 4 portions, keep one for yourself, and then you must give 3 portions to your 3 closest friends, or else you don't have any friends, nobody loves you, and you will never get the starter back! If it does come back, you know who your friends are.
Basically, this is Amish chain mail.
Now, for those of us who only bake when we want to, because we want to, this 10 day program has a bit of a hiccup in it. And that's... well... when day 10 rolls around, you'd better hope you're in the baking mood, because there's not much wiggle room for "I don't wanna."
Day 10 hit.
I texted my little brother, asking if I had to bake the bread right then, or if it could maybe ferment for, you know, another month. He responded that I might be able to eek another couple days out of it, but that I'd really better not wait too long.
Day 12 hit.
I started feeling guilty.
I mean, I got this from my brother, and I needed to know who my friends were, because without this friendship bread, I might have to rely on emails I stopped forwarding in 1998, and those have a tendency to curse you with bleeding eye sockets and failure in love for the rest of your life if you don't send them fast enough.
Also, the dough was emitting so much gas that the Ziploc freezer bag it was in was about to explode all over my kitchen.
So, even though I was SO NOT in the baking mood tonight, I sucked up and did it.
I added the extra milk, flour, and sugar.
The directions clearly outlined the next step: "Measure out 4 separate batters.... Keep a starter for yourself and give away the other three to friends."
I snorted. "Ha. Screw that. If I give them to friends I might get one back."
So, rather than give my dearest of friends a bag of something they have to wait 10 days to eat, and can only eat after cooking it themselves, and then risk getting one back and having to do the whole thing all over again, I simply tripled the recipe and decided to make a LOT of bread. If I actually have any friends... which I will never know, since I'm not sending out any starters... I can make them think we're friends by giving them a cooked loaf of this stuff instead.
Then came the most ridiculously complicated bread recipe I could possibly have thought of attempting. Three separate trips to the store and some misread directions later, I finally had my 2 largest mixing bowls filled to the brim with dough. Oh... and let me just include... FOUR HOURS LATER. I feel that, for not being in the baking mood, that alone is quite the monumental accomplishment.
So, I baked the bread. I rid myself of the starter. I stopped the chain mail in its tracks.
"If you send this on, and it comes back to you, you will know who your true friends are. If you do not send this on to at least three friends, you will spend four hours baking bread, and then have to find homes for 3 loaves, 2 coffee cakes, and a pan of cupcakes."
That's right. The chain mail stops here.
Does anybody want some bread?
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