Fencing Foo Fighter Style

Now how special was that, Westboro Baptist Church. Take a few moments out of your busy schedule of hate mongering to reflect upon the fact that many diehard fans will shell out their hard earned cash to boogie to the band; whereas you, peddlers of madness, were presented with an exclusive performance by the band. They graciously took the trouble to come to you via a flatbed truck. Lordy, lordy, that’s front row seats and a backstage pass all rolled into one.  I bet y’all thought you died and went to heaven.

On a more serious note the Westboro Baptist Church boasts 46,536 pickets to date. The congregation founded in 1955 fallaciously believes God sanctions their gospel of hate. I refuse to type the name of the group’s website or even mention their “sister sites” for fear I will taint my precious laptop with their callous brand of evil. Suffice to say their creed smacks more of Adolph Hitler than Jesus of Nazareth.

Undoubtedly they revel in the profuse attention from the press which their hijinks have mustered; their fifteen minutes in an otherwise pathetic existence. What I find most disturbing are photos of small children standing alongside their parents as they parade whatever crackpot cause of their day (where are social services when you need them?). Not surprisingly this flock of fools is comprised mainly of the pastor’s large family (do I detect inbreeding here)? It all might be a tad bit amusing if it wasn’t for the fact that these idiots will park their carcasses in front of churches to protest during funerals. I will say no more (I am struggling to keep this blog obscenity free in case my dad reads it).

In my opinion-- if there is a God in her heaven--created the Foo Fighters who in turn came up with such an entertaining counter ploy;  touché.  May they sell many many more cd’s.

Cookies and A Moment in Time

Although technically not yet autumn I cannot help but be seduced by the early signs creeping in as summer throws us a last blast. I get all happy pants envisioning leaves swirling madly in the streets whilst mini super heroes, along with a few ghosts and goblins, go door to door scoring sugar laden treats. Although I am no longer a trickster but rather a treater I am nonetheless able to partake of the festivities in a grownup sort of way.

Cookies are a fundamental accessory of any celebration, be it traditional or personal (today is Monday, derived from Moonday; I am a Moonchild therefore I will make cookies in honor of this -- so my reasoning goes). Cookies come in endless varieties, shapes, sizes, and flavors so it’s not difficult to find one to custom fit any occasion (can you believe Funeral Cookies?).  I choose to forego any kind that requires chilling, rolling, cutting, or God forbid, spritzing, and opt for drop - the quicker the end product reaches my maw, the better. And if it’s dropped, well most likely it will bake out at a round sort of shape.  For size, I choose mouth size; as in my mouth size. That leaves me with flavor-- a no brainer for me: chocolate, chocolate chip, or chocolate fudge. But I choose to be creative with my chocolate today, for accompanying my chocolate will be cranberries, oats and cinnamon.

Ghostly-licious
(I know it looks like a snowman and
snow but its not)

Standing at my kitchen counter, scooping the hot fragrant delectable morsels off the cookie sheet, I momentarily cease, for I see my mom (in my mind’s eye) standing at her kitchen counter enacting the same ritual. I am momentarily struck with both warm nostalgia and crushing heartache. Memories flood back. My mother had a love –hate relationship with cooking/baking. Most likely she hated to cook when expected to but conversely loved the task when she could labor leisurely and creatively.  Countless hours she chose to bake cookies, sweet breads, and mountains of muffins. She maintained her own repertoire of classics recipes; however she wasn’t averse to striking out on a culinary limb. Imbued with her love of creating through cookery I carry on the tradition. And as I sample the finished product I know somewhere, somehow, she is proud of me.

Rockin' Pneumonia and Boogey Woogey Flu

Soft early autumn breezes waft through my open windows caressing my fevered brow while the sound of skateboards striking the pavement amidst shouts of merriment pierces my achy ear canals. The high content of pollen in the air ignites spasms of sneezing accompanied by a great migration of mucous running down my nasal passages while a piece of sandpaper persistently scrapes the delicate tissues of my throat. All to the rhythm of the bass drum pounding nonstop in my head.  I am sick and the happy-go-lucky world taunts me.

My daughter Samantha is accompanying me on this tortuous journey for she too is “under the weather.” We are strong women and will withstand this assault on our persons with dignity – if dignity can be equated with viewing FRED, a YouTube spin-off on Nickelodeon TV. When Charles Babbage envisioned the wondrous role computers would play in the future; well, I don’t think this is quite what he had in mind. What would he have thought if he could have plugged into the spectacle of Tosh.0?  Oh well, Samantha’s bladder won’t permit  her to sit still forever; eventually  she will be forced to remove herself and when she does I will seize the moment and grab the remote control, enabling me to become the supreme ruler of channel surfing. For a while anyway.

Fifteen Saints for Girls

Back in the day Dubuque could boast of a predominantly Catholic population, apropos for a region whose first glimpse was through the eyes of a two missionaries, one a Franciscan and the other a Jesuit, meandering down the Mississippi in 1673. I wonder if they had any idea of the havoc their religion would wreak on the lives of many a young child.

Fast forward to 1964. The Catholic Church has yet to emerge from the Second Vatican Council. A good thing if you were a student at Nativity School because the longer it took, the more candy bars involved.  You see, every time Bishop Biscuit (actually Biskup but I was just a kid ) arrived back from his important business in Rome he would treat the entire school to Salted Nut Rolls. I kid you not.

Around this time I was delegated the most sacred of tasks--figuring out my Confirmation handle. In 1964 this meant using venerable saints names only. Now, mind you, you can use derivatives of names, or better yet, a non-Christian name if it has significant meaning for a candidate. Maybe its a good thing this wasn't allowed back then; I can imagine Sister Mary Teresita's reaction to  "Ringo".  I don't think that one would have gone over too good.

Saint Rose of Lima
Virgin   

Fortunately for me my sister Dawn maintained an astonishing array of Catholic paraphernalia. Rosaries, holy cards, statues; you name it she either owned it or had connections to procure it. What better source than "Fifteen Saints for Girls" to find a suitable saint to back me up in my hour of need. The saint's  name I chose to add to my given and baptismal names: Saint Rose of Lima (Lima as in Peru, not lima as in bean). Never mind that her given name was Isabel (aka Rose after a servant claimed to have seen her face morph into a rose). Her claim to celestial fame: extreme fasting and self-mutilating behaviors. She purportedly disfigured herself with lye due to her highly regarded beauty; also other acts which I will not go into for reasons you may surmise. Were we actually taught to look to these saints of yore as, God forbid, role models?  What the hell were they thinking? What the hell was anyone thinking?

I left behind the trappings of Catholicism long, long ago. But every now and then I get a flash from the past or a jeer from the here (whenever I go down Central Avenue past Planned Parenthood) My kids have been brought up differently and have fared well even though they missed out on all that pope-inspired hocus- pocus mumbo-jumbo of my childhood. Amen

I Adore Being a . . . Boy

"There are no ugly women, only lazy ones"  
   Helena Rubinstein  

I wonder how much I have personally contributed to Ms. Rubinstein and other sundry cosmetic empires. Times that by as many females who have ever donned lipstick; that amount alone would be enough to knock your stockings off. And then there's the hair, the clothes, waxing, dental work, nails, Jenny Craig bill, and on and on and on. But its about so much more than just the money, honey. Factor in peer pressure, competition (cause us girls are always competing), cramps, airbrushing, ridiculously thin Asian models, and aging; well, all I can say is Christ it ain't easy. So I've come up with a solution to give us girls a break. It's high time the males of the species take on the rag of being female. That's right, guys, stand up straight and suck that beer gut in cause we're havin' some fun now.

Number one on the list: hair. Remember boys, "hair is the richest ornament of . . . men!" For now on your slogan will be "Rogaine rocks." Just think of all the quality time you can spend with your guys at the corner hair salon having weaves and, better yet, extensions applied. And even though your do may look like a work of art when you leave the shop, get ready to rise and shine extra early every morning to wash, blow dry, straighten, and saturate it with expensive products, ad infinitum.  And don't worry about those chewed to the cuticle nicotine stained nails because we have a solution for that too. Sculptured, acrylic, and gel, along with cuticle care and nail fungus are all new terms you can add to your growing vocabularies. Which brings us to waxing. This will surely separate the men from the boys. Since you guys will be having this done in droves research has been conducted and it seems it's  as painful for men as it is for women. But don't worry, now that it's almost exclusively a man thing most likely anesthetics will be involved (and perhaps a short leave of absence from the workplace). Hell, lets go all out and have it covered by major medical.

Oh the years of trial and error you'll go through as you make your way through the maze of cosmetics. Just think of the fun you'll have spending countless hours in the bathroom. If you choose you can purchase your very own little vanity, a piece of furniture resembling a desk that comes with a mirror attached along with a cute little cushioned seat. If you are really serious regarding this endeavor you can have a mirror bordered with lights just like the lovely ladies of the theatre. The striking dramatic poses you can practice along with your very own make-up techniques will serve you well as you go through life. 

Shopping for clothes, or in terms of the fashion conscious, haute courture, will become a major endeavor in your life. Trust me, you will spend countless hours within the confines of a miniscule dressing room frantically trying on garment after garment. Don't despair when you hear rumors regarding those with weaker staminas who have been pushed into clinical depression due to mistaken expectations. Just remember, we all can't be a size two. I know this is a difficult fact to accept, but oh my gosh guys, on this you'll just have to take one for the Gipper.

Remember the days of old when all of your shoes felt good on your feet? Well guys, that's definitely a thing of the past. You may hold on to your well worn slippers, your comfortable sandals, and your over priced sneakers, but boys when it comes to dressing up that means HEELS. And unfortunately, in this era, that means five inch stilettos. Remember, fellas, no pain, no gain.

And now I need to touch on something rather personal. Tinea cruris, the serious term for jock itch (also referred to as crotch itch, crotch rot, and ringworm of the groin) will no longer be spoken of only in gyms and doctor's offices. Now you will be able to view embarrassing TV commercials during primetime regarding masculine hygiene products as you sit in the privacy of your living room with members of the opposite sex. These moments will allow for you to practice your skills at being demure. Whatever you do, never show any signs that you consider these particular commercials condescending and as nothing more than joke material for the immature rather than as important information for you to digest.

Whew, that was a tough one! Now I will come to the most important lesson in modern masculinity -- your weight. I know before this switch of gender traits occurred, boys and men were allowed to consume an amazing amount of calories per meal/snack. That my friend, is herstory. Say a tearful goodbye to triple Whoppers, pizza gorging, and mom's apple pie. But don't despair, there are plenty of yummy low-cal snacks on the market for you to ingest. Rice cakes do come in diverse flavors and the aftertaste of low-cal shakes can easily be dispersed by a tic tac which contains only 2 calories and 0 grams of fat per serving size. I know how difficult and painful taming the powerful appetite can be, but always keep in mind what the Duchess of Windsor said concerning the fairer sex; one can never be too thin . . . 

Holidays as you know them are now gone; kaput. No longer will you be the customer but instead the waitstaff. You will start your Christmas shopping the day after the holiday. Let me tell you, there's nothing more gratifying than snatching up a bargain amidst a crowd of likewise exhausted and frenzied shoppers. The juggling acts you will perform on the day of these familial get togethers will absolutely put the pros to shame. Turkey, ham, glistening marshmallow sweet potato casserole, tons of stuffing, great heaps of mashed potatoes, pots of gravy, three different kinds of vegetables, your grandmother's cranberry sauce, and a variety of homemade pies will all be ready to be dished out piping hot at the designated time. And after these cherished repasts you will spend the next two days cleaning up (three days if your scheduled to work the day after the holiday). Oh joy to the world.

Well I could continue on regarding this discourse on the joys of manhood. However, since gender traits and roles have been switched I find (alas, I am single) I need to run to the store for beer (the real stuff, not that lite crap). But no problem, even though I have major bedhead and my teeshirt is wrinkled (another son of a bitchin' problem due to no man in my life) I don't care!

 

                                                                      

Note: While nearing the completion of this blog my daughter and her friend came in and showed me their most recent purchase: a bottle of glitter pink nail polish. I oohed and awed over it and came to realize that, well, I guess at times I do enjoy being a . . . girl