The Odd Broad

That's me in the spotlight, losing my religion

(Odd Broad Disclaimer: This marathon post took me six hours to write.  Therefore it may take you six hours to read.  Also, it discusses two things my mother always warned me to avoid talking about in public- religion and politics.  I usually hesitate talking about God because I don't want to ostracize anyone, therefore this post may fall under the category of "too much info."  But there you have it.  You have been lovingly warned...read at your own risk!  But do read, if you like, because as I said it took me six hours!  xoxo)

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Part One: Serial dreamer

I have been certain of so very few things.  The rest has been a collective free fall of faith.  (Of this, I am certain.) 

When I was a very little girl I was certain I wanted to be a writer.  I practiced all the time, at my roll top desk; holding my old timey fountain pen, my brow furrowed as I dipped the tip into the little bottle that held the ink.  I wrote letters to Louisa May Alcott and stuck them under my pillow, hoping for some supernatural advice on how to get published.  She never did write back.

When I was twelve I knew very strongly I wanted to go to New York to be a working actress.  Basically everything I did up until the time I was seventeen was a push to make this happen.  My focus was laser sharp, and I knew what I wanted.  I'd give anything to have the discipline I had back then coupled with what I know now.  There is a certain comfort to knowing who you are, and what you want, and where you are going.

I was always certain I never wanted to be apart from Hubby, even when we were nineteen.  I was so sure that I could never tire of him, that my feelings for him came from a well so bottomless it would never dry up.  It was eternally hopeful, this belief, as hopeful as any of my innermost dreams have been.

My love for Hubby continues to bloom and expand with each passing year.  But I have all but abandoned my creative dreams; have neglected them, forgotten to nurture them, have left New York.  Yet still I'll wake up at 3 am in a panic that I'll never sing again.  It's too late, too much time has elapsed, and it's this time lapse especially that makes the loss all the more scary.  So many times I forget I'm thirty-one, and what that specifically means in terms of my creative dreams.  I never played Anne Frank, or Juliet, or Ophelia, and now I never will...

It's not a regret I feel daily, or monthly, even; but it's there all the same, hiding out in a deep pocket of my heart that I usually don't allow myself to reach into.

Dreams are a blessing.  Dreams are a curse.  In all honesty, my opinion changes with the weather.  (Set the scene: Am I pms-ing?)

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Part One and a half: Secret Dreams

I have other, newer dreams, of course.  I think about becoming (or not becoming) a mother just about every day, and have been meditating on it for some time now.  Years, even.  People who know me well are usually shocked to hear this.  My own sister didn't even realize, but there you have it.  It's not that my heart isn't willing, or longing, it's the HOW I'm concerned with.  As in, how will it work when there are so many factors currently standing in the way?

I was on my lunch break the other day and saw the following words written on a sign in front of a church:

"Faith is taking the first step even when you can't see the whole staircase." - Rev. Martin Luther King, Jr. 

Tears stung my eyes when I saw those words.  Of course I don't know how it will work.  I never know how anything is going to work, after all, do I?  And don't I still always believe things will turn out fine?  Don't I always know this somehow, deep down?  Isn't it one of the very few things I am certain of?

Like it says on the little placard Nanny bought me (but that Auntie Kim actually picked out), the one that plays "The Wind Beneath my Wings":

When you come to the edge of all the light you know, and you are about to step off into the darkness, faith is believing one of two things will happen...there will be something solid to stand on...or you will learn to fly.

I often say the only choice I've committed to in this life is Hubby.  I am bound to him, and unknowingly tethered one half of my heart to him all those years ago.  Loving Hubby has been a natural free fall, one that I'd always make.

The only other thing I know, in my heart of hearts, concerns my very personal relationship with God.  I've been pondering this an awful lot this week.  Specifically because I've been questioning my Catholic faith.

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Part Two: Are you there God?  It's me, Odd

Now, I've been talked to about God ever since I can remember.  My father's mother taught me all my prayers and would tell me about the Baby Jesus.  I prayed to the Baby Jesus for a long time, even, before I realized he grew up to be a man.  He was easier to relate to as a baby, I suppose, when I was very young.  In her bedroom, Grandma had a picture of Baby Jesus with a halo around his head; an angelic, beautiful little cherub, and it was Him I would pray to when I was terrified in the middle of the night.

Every Sunday we got dressed and headed over to the little white church for Sunday Mass.  My parents had both been raised Catholic, but didn't go to church as adults until my older sister was born.  It was then they decided they'd need some type of celestial reinforcement. 

Going to Sunday mass meant an abrupt interruption of watching Hanna-Barbera to head upstairs and get changed out of my pajamas.  We went every Sunday, not just on Holidays, and usually we were very well behaved.  My father says it's rare that my sister and I acted up, although I distinctly remember being separated, or receiving a pinch to my arm followed by a warning glare.  The mass was long; 45 minutes, and the pews smelt funny.  I'd pass the time by singing verses in my head of "I'm Henry the eighth, I am, Henry the eight I am, I am..."  Ma told me when she was a little girl she'd think of funny things in church.  "Like what?" I'd ask, "What did you used to think of?"  She told me she used to stare at the backs of the people's heads in front of her and picture silly things, like the men would have two pigtails and stuff.  From then on, I'd think of this, too, and would be forced to stifle many an irresistible giggle. 

There were a number of priests that came and went.  The soft spoken Father Sweeney, Father Power, who made everybody sing and handed out wooden crosses to the high school students, but only the males.  (I found this irritating, naturally, and it merely reinforced my already growing disenchantment with the patriarchal system.  My dad eventually asked Fr. Power for one of those cross necklaces and gave it to Sissy, who was in high school at the time.  Go Dad!) 

The prayers, those words softly mumbled under my breath over the years, became embedded in my psyche, and it would be years later that I'd realize I didn't need the missal to recite them, that I could recite them in my sleep.  Years before they would stop being disconnected words and became a message that I'd never heard before, despite all that monotoned repetition.  I knew them all, even that long Apostle's Creed.  One day Father Kiley omitted one small but irksome word that had always bothered me greatly: "For us MEN and for our salvation," and he changed it to, "For us AND for our salvation..."

This edit certainly wasn't lost on me, and I inwardly cheered Father Kiley for this small but respectful nod to my gender.

I was raised to be feminist, socially liberal, and lived in a lovely glass bubble until I left home at seventeen.  The people who didn't believe in equality for everyone were hateful caricatures on The Jerry Springer Show, larger than life villains who could be easily spotted.  Or so I believed. 

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Part Three: The Racist Girl Scout

I was a Brownie in elementary school but I didn't earn many badges.  I might have been in second or third grade, and was on the way to a Brownie field trip.  I was riding through Lowell in the back seat of a fellow Brownie member's car, when her older sister, just a girl herself, made a racist remark about a black man crossing the street.  I think she may have said something to the effect of, "Look at that black bastard."  I stopped breathing for a second and my eyes grew wide.  I had never witnessed anyone making a racial slur before, and the little bigot immediately got a scolding from her mother.  I told my parents as soon as I got home, but I didn't need them to tell me it was wrong and idiotic to refer to someone as a black bastard.  I already knew it was.  I judged that Brownie, and I judged her family. 

It wouldn't be until I was a senior in high school when I'd hear someone make another racial slur.  A good friend, in fact.  The remark was unexpected, caught me off guard, was casually spoken and shook me to the core.  Was she for real?  I will never forget that day, probably, because it was the first time I realized that anyone could be racist, and it wasn't as easy to spot hatefulness as I had thought.  ie: It wasn't just the wackos on Ricky Lake. 

It was all so gray.  Although, it became very easy to spot the openly homophobic kids at my high school, and I hated them, longed to be away from them, pitied them, even, for their backward ignorance.

Whether they realized it or not, my parents had reared me to be an idealistic little dreamer, and my heart was ripe for the breaking. 

My heart broke into a million bits the day the letter came from NYU saying they'd rejected me.  Even still, I knew The Boston Conservatory was where I was meant to be.  It was the environment I'd always dreamed of: tolerant, flamboyant, constantly creative; it was heaven.  Heaven with jazz hands. 

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Part Four: Miss Understood

When I first met my college roommate (now one of my oldest, dearest friends), she balked when I told her I was Catholic: "You are?  So your family hates gay people and stuff?"

She could have stuck her pointy finger up my nose and I couldn't have been any more shocked.  "No, of course not!"

It turned out her friend from high school was gay, and his strict Catholic mother didn't approve.  This was a real wake up call for me, the first time I realized my telling people I was Catholic came with a specific list of ugly implications.  (As I said before, I had been in a groovy little bubble up until then.)  The custom fit, tailor made, cut and paste Catholic blanket my parents had wrapped around me didn't involve anti-gay sentiment of any kind.  No siree, Barbara.

I was a Catholic, after all, but that certainly didn't mean I believed in every little thing the church told me to!  On the contrary, I disagreed with most of it!  Didn't a lot of us?

It wasn't like I was unaware of what the church did and didn't officially approve of; and it wasn't as if those things didn't infuriate me, and it wasn't like my parents and I didn't have open discussions about them, it was just...our parish priests never spoke of these issues.  EVER.  The most controversial I ever remember one of them getting was one Sunday when he spoke out about the issue of being pro-life.  Suddenly there were a lot of people clearing their throats, and I could feel a tension growing in the pews, hanging uncomfortably in the air.  Not that Father Kiley was spitting at the pulpit or anything; I distinctly remember his description of pre-marital sex as the act of "loving someone a little too much, a little too soon."  Hardly a scathing sermon.  We never got scathing sermons, it seemed.  This was the first, and it wasn't even very scathing.  It was more of a plea, to consider other options.

I guess what I'm getting at here is the church had its beliefs, and my family had ours.  The truth is, I had ZERO idea that when I said "I'm Catholic" it would mean I hated gays, was in support of pedophile priests, didn't believe in birth control or safe sex, didn't support a woman's right to choose, and didn't believe women were equal to men.  I didn't realize this, of course, because that wasn't what I believed in!  And as I said, none of it was ever mentioned in that little white church of mine, save for the occasional pro-life talk, which seemed to make the parishioners rather uncomfortable anyways.

Then again, I was raised in Massachusetts, and I'm not sure how the other churches were during the 1980's and early 90's.  I was also raised by fair-minded parents.  And somehow I knew, have always known, in my heart of hearts, that God himself wouldn't, couldn't be nearly as intolerant as the church would have me believe.  Man was intolerant, not God.  Mad had hidden agendas, not God.  It wasn't God's fault His message has been twisted and misinterpreted a thousand time over!  And not just by my own religion, but by a good many of them!  I never believed God had anything to do with a lot of the church's uglier man-made doctrines.  In my idealized little teenaged heart, man's missteps had very little to do with what I felt God believed.  I suppose I assumed this sentiment would translate.

It may seem naive, but there you are.

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Part Five: Getting personal

Somehow, some way, my parents brought Sissy and I up in the Catholic church and we were able to take all of the good and none of the bad out of it.  My father-in-law once summed this up as "eating the meat and spitting out the bones."  I couldn't have put it better myself, because that's exactly what we were doing.  Sissy and I both emerged with a deep love and respect for God, and Mary, the mother of God, and we have personalized our religious beliefs in a way that makes sense to us.

I don't talk about it much, I realize, because it's kind of a touchy subject.  But I'd be lying if I didn't say that I have placed every important decision in my adult life in the hands of God.  (Not the church's hands, mind you; God's hands.)

There.  I said it.  I don't make a move without Him.  When I have been at my most pathetic, at the lowest of my low, terrified and alone, I have literally said, "God, I place this situation in Your hands.  I'm done trying to fix things on my own.  Take this situation, this mess, and do with it whatever You feel is best." 

I will tell you that at these times there has been a tangible force, a strength other than my own, that has swept in and saved the day.  Every time.  All I have to do is ask.

Most of the time I forget to ask, of course, until things go pear shaped.  And then I'll remember, like waking up from a dream, and everything becomes clear.  I usually opt to do things the hard way, when I know the easy way is to place my choices, my very life, into a power higher than myself.  And that pretty much sums up my beliefs.  The God I love certainly doesn't hate gay people, He created gay people for crying out loud, and He wants them to be happy, and accepted, and safe; He wants them to be able to get married.  The God I believe in doesn't condemn; and from a place deep inside me I know, I just know, I know this to be true.

This is what works for me.  I don't attend Mass, but I wouldn't call myself a non spiritual person, and I don't believe it makes me love God any less.  I've attended other churches: Non-denominational, Episcopalian, Baptist, United Church of Christ, but honestly I don't get the same connection I feel as when I enter a Catholic church.  With all the mess, and the lies, and the infuriating, outdated, often hateful beliefs that emerge from the Vatican, I can still find comfort kneeling in those pews.  No other church regards Mary, the mother of God, in the way I've become accustomed to.  I love so many things about Catholicism- the ritual, the mysticism, and yet...

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Part Six: The Next Generation

Hubby and I talk about what religion we'll bring up our child, when we have children.  He was raised non-denominational Christian, but is not religious.  He's always told me we could raise our child Catholic, if that's what I wanted.  And up until now, theoretically that's what I wanted.

Because in theory, it always seemed like a good plan.  After all, my parents did it, and even though we didn't agree with a large percentage of the church's outdated doctrines, my sister and I still emerged with a deep love and respect for God.  It works for us.  We didn't turn out to be conservative radicals.  Couldn't it work again?

It dawned on me that it's an awful lot to hope for.  Wouldn't it be lovely if I could just find a religion that lined up perfectly with my own strong beliefs?  Do I really want to have to keep spitting out the bones?  I'm a vegetarian now, after all!

More importantly, would I want my child to have to do this?  What if she is a girl?  How will I tell her she can never become a priest, because she is female?  How could I explain to her that this is simply the way it is, because it's always been done this way?  What will be her response, when someone at school asks if she hates gay people?

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Part Seven: In Defense

Hubby and I were married in the Catholic church.  We didn't take communion, since Hubby isn't Catholic and the priest suggested it may alienate my new family if half of us took communion and the rest didn't. 

The priest never asked, "Who gives this woman away?"  Now, I had been gearing up to tell him those words would not be welcome at our wedding, but it turns out I didn't have to.  He wasn't planning on saying it, anyways. 

Oh. 

Hubby and I both asked we not be announced as "Mr. and Mrs. (insert Hubby's full name)," and the priest merely shrugged and complied. 

I've attended many a wedding, and have also seen a few non-religious wedding ceremonies (one that was even officiated outside by a radio dj) and one common thread is that the woman has always been "given away" to her husband.  (Gag me with an effing pitchfork.)  But not at my wedding, and come to think of it, not at my sister's wedding, either. 

The church did right by me that day, and I was glad.  For all the shit I've taken over the years for being Catholic - and believe me there is no other religion, I don't believe, which the majority at large feels they have a free pass to bash, even to a Catholic's face, (especially to a Catholic's face?) - I loved everything about my wedding.

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Part Eight: The Beef

However.  I feel very strongly in support of gay marriage.  As an American, I am ashamed and sickened that this hateful lack of civil rights still exists for the gay community.  But that's another post.  (Another long, angry post.)  Do I want to attend a church that would ban gay marriage?  Not to be so naive as to say the Catholic church is the only church who opposes this, because I know that isn't true.  But this may just be the deal breaker.

I told my mother I'm having doubts about Catholicism and initially she asked, "Hasn't God been good to you?"  Of course He has, but I didn't say I was doubting God, I said I was doubting the church!  I don't think one has anything to do with the other.  My whole life I have always spit out the bones.  But what about my children?

God has been so, so good to me, and I want to pass that love along.  It's what I know, it's what comforts me.  Mary the Blessed Mother has been a comfort to me.  The saints have been a comfort to me.  The repetition of the prayers has been a comfort to me. 

One of my dearest friends is Jamie, whom I've known and loved since I was seventeen, when we met in the basement of our dorm freshman year of college.  Jamie was raised Catholic, and is gay, and although it's a bit of a contradiction, he can still find some comfort in church.  I can, too.  Is it because it's all we know?  Dysfunctional though it my be, do we return to it because it's what we know?

It's complicated.  I don't think God or God's love is complicated, I think the rest of it is. 

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 The future

Sadly, I don't think the church is going to change any time soon, or within my lifetime, even.  Therefore, when I tell someone I am Catholic they may always assume I'm a radical religious zealot.  But if I'm not any of those things, is that their problem, or is it mine?

They most likely will never be able to delve into my heart and know what I know.  And I do know.  My beliefs concerning God are long held and unwavering and strong and deep and real.  And I don't feel safe talking about them with most people, especially "religious" people, because in my experience, talking about my strongest and deepest beliefs is an open invitation for me to get my heart trampled upon. 

The Catholic church is what I was born into, and the very thought of leaving fills me with a certain amount of anxiety and sadness.  I'm no quitter, and yet...can I keep on spitting out these bones?

Is the church concerned about losing people like me?  Will they ever be willing to bend, to evolve with the times?  I don't think so.  Not one bit.

Morally and ethically I want to do the right thing by God, myself, and my future children.  Maybe I'll never, ever find a spiritual cookie cutter to cram my personal beliefs into.  Maybe a lot of people don't.  Maybe for now, spitting out the bones will have to be enough.  The rest may have to be another free fall.  (And hopefully not a free fall into Hades.  I don't care much for barbecue.)

I heart boys who sparkle

The prestigious Boston Latin School is a vampire free zone.  At least the headmaster said so today, in a notice to parents, teachers and students. 

It's undeniable that Stephenie Meyer's Twilight series has caused a major sensation.  I've just finished the first book and overall I found it pretty enjoyable, but it's also raised some questions/concerns that I'd like to dwell on for a moment or two.  A virtual Odd Broad book club, if you will...

For starters, why is Bella always being carried about?  Think about it.  Even Alice picks her up!  She is forever being conveyed like a tiny baby.  If it happened only once I probably wouldn't have taken notice, but it happens more than once. 

As for Edward, his smoldering protectiveness is kind of dreamy, but it also suggests a certain helplessness in Bella that I just couldn't get past.  So she's awkward, we get it!  But are we truly expected to accept the fact that she's so clumsy that her own mother would believe she's uncoordinated enough to trip on a staircase and fall through a plate glass window?  (Be more careful walking, honey.)

And then there's the hearts and roses factor.  Before I began reading this book I'd heard it described over and over again as romantic.  I have to say, at first I agreed with this general consensus.  That is, until I didn't.  The irony is, I'm a total romantic!  When I love someone,  I have no qualms about telling them just why I love them, over and over again, at times in teary eyed detail.  (Set the scene...have we been drinking?)  But I suppose I just couldn't get over the fact that our heroine is, after all, a junior in high school; a seventeen year old kid who says things to her boyfriend like: "You are my life.  You're the only thing it would hurt me to lose."  (page 474.)

They haven't even properly made out yet!  Unless we count lightly pressing one's cold lips underneath a jawbone as heavy petting.  (I don't.)

He's a gorgeous, century old vampire who's desperately attracted to her scent and blood.  She's a loner teen who just can't live without him.  Is it socially irresponsible to suggest to young readers that this sort of hyper intense, self-destructive relationship is not only acceptable and appropriate, but a thing to envy and strive for?  While Bella was being carried around all that time I started to wonder, is this child going to take her SAT's?  Where does she want to go to college?

I'm not turning up my nose at young love.  But Bella has such a stereotypically teenage one track mind; I never get the impression she feels any real affection for anything but Edward.  This kid has no passion, no hobbies, no hopes or dreams, save those concerning her boyfriend.  She doesn't play sports, is blase and indifferent towards both parents and school friends.  Life is but a boring chore and she basically white knuckles her way through the day until the moment she can be with Edward again.  At the risk of sounding cynical, I just don't find this very sweet. 

I understand how it feels to love someone so much you'd rather die (or in this case, never die) than be without him.  But I'm certainly not going to write an effing children's book about it!  And I'm not going to turn to my own (hypothetical, nonexistent) seventeen year old daughter and admit, "I used to cry over Daddy!  And wrote bad poetry in my journals about how much I loved and needed him!  And wanted to drop out of my senior year of college to be with him!"  I'll keep that shit to myself.

Bella, five hundred years from now, during a heated domestic argument, do you really think you're not going to lash out at Ed and say, "You asshole, I NEVER should've become immortal for you!"  (And he'll roll his timeless, ageless eyes and say, "There you go again!  Always the f***ing immortality thing!  I TOLD you not to do it!")

And I digress.  When religious circles criticized the Harry Potter books it made me boiling mad.  Apart from the carefully crafted story lines and lovingly developed characters, there was an underlying message that love and goodness would prevail.  JK Rowling's young wizards were noble and brave.  They loved each other, and yet they also had great regard for the world at large.  Harry was too noble to even kill Wormtail, for Christ's sake! 

By comparison, in this first book at least, Bella and Edward mostly only love each other.  It's this sort of single-mindedness that I find most concerning.  Nothing in the Harry Potter series ever led me to believe they were unfit novels for children, and yet many parts of Twilight caused me to take pause.  The heroes in Harry Potter are selfless.  The characters in Twilight are simply self-destructive. 

As I said earlier, I found this story to be entertaining and a lot of fun.  But the feminist in me worries about young people reading it.  Our heroine tells us over and over again that she is not worth saving, and remains passive in everything but her love for her boyfriend.  (Let's face it, the snippets of affection she doles out to her mother and father are afterthoughts, at best.)  And on page 473 she actually says, (when Edward attempts to keep her in the dark, yet again, for her own good), "A man and woman have to be somewhat equal."  Somewhat?  What the?

I'm no child psychologist, and I'm no mother; but if I did have a teenaged daughter I'm not sure I'd be lending her my copy anytime soon.  What do you think?

Here's what I think:

If the people of America aren't yet ready to support gay marriage, then it's time for the federal government to wake up and intervene.  Change doesn't occur because the majority agrees in unison, change occurs when it becomes blindingly clear that the right thing must be done; politics, popularity and religious bullies aside. 

Massachusetts and Connecticut are on board, what is the rest of the country waiting for? 

Thoughts on Beauty

When it comes to appearance, I've always felt that women are far more forgiving than men.  Television and movies seem to support my theory: Doug and Carrie Heffernon, Fred and Wilma Flinstone, Larry and Cheryl David, Beauty and the Beast.  (I mean, come on, would that movie have turned out as rosy had Belle been a grotesque, toothless hag with a heart of gold?  At the risk of sounding cynical, something tells me no.)

Perhaps women are simply more adept at recognizing inner beauty.  And if so, is this by choice or are we wired this way?  And why are we so quick to forgive imperfections in males but cutthroat when it comes to judging other women?  Or ourselves, for that matter? 

It really chaps my ass.  Take the upcoming Sex and The City movie, for example.  With all the buzz and excitement surrounding it, I notice some other less appealing things swarming about, too.  Namely, the biting, nasty, in depth commentary regarding Sarah Jessica Parker's appearance.  It's driving me bananas.

Just what is it about this actress that makes the public feel so threatened?  Was it necessary or even remotely accurate last year when Maxim named her the Unsexiest Woman Alive?  Who were the judges behind this ruling and more importantly, what do their faces look like?  Are we to assume all of them are the very picture of symmetrical, well endowed masculine perfection?  Sadly, I suspect it boils down to nothing more than the age old fear of a successful, confident woman.  Why are we still buying into this garbage?

I am a happy, intelligent woman and even I can't help but let this crap seep under my skin from time to time.  I wonder, if I ever have a daughter, how I will go about tackling the constant bombardment of candy coated misogyny that has become the grim normality nowadays.  Is there a way to explain the existence of Girls Gone Wild while maintaining an air of dignity?  There has to be.

Forget the opinions of trashy, socially irresponsible magazines, the same goes for the comments I've seen posted after nearly every online article I've read about Sarah Jessica's new flick.  These weren't what I'd consider harmless jabs, they were bile filled, cutting digs.  I've also casually asked around and have found that many people agree.  The underlying message is ugly and clear: what right does this woman have to feel beautiful?  And what right does HBO have to expect us to consider her a sex symbol?  After all, the media is clearly supposed to dictate what is beautiful in this country...how did she slip through the cracks??!!

Which brings me to the point of this rant: What's the effing beef with Sarah Jessica Parker?  Does her appearance, unconventional by Hollywood's bizarre standards, perhaps force us to look at the imperfections in ourselves? 

I have to tell you, I have always admired SJP's beauty as something unique, intriguing and highly watchable.  I find her far more fascinating to look at than any of her costars.  She steals the show.  Cookie cutter perfection may make the vast majority of people feel safe, but it can become tiresome.  This is not to say that everyone who finds SJP unattractive is a giant, gaping asshole.  On the contrary, I'm speaking only of those who take such rancid pleasure in popping her bubble, so to speak.

Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, folks.  If this wasn't the case, nobody would ever get laid.  I have met plain people who I've come to find exceptionally beautiful.  By the same token, I've known stunningly gorgeous people who over time I've decided were just ok looking.  When it comes right down to it, pretty is as pretty does.  I think of the people I know: each of them lovely and individual and so very much themselves.  The people I consider to be attractive are all different shapes, sizes and colors.  There is no common trend, no definitive factor that makes them beautiful in my eyes.   

I wish for our world a collective awakening, a departure from the shallow, depthless, beauty and youth obsessed sleepwalkers we seem to be marauding around as.  They are not us.  And they are certainly not who we were born to be.

Happy Belated Earth Day

Hubby and I were watching tv the other day when a commercial made him snort out loud.  Perhaps you've seen it also?  It was an ad for the Toyota Tundra, which boasts the following:

What does it take to be the 2008 Motor Trend Truck of the year? 

POWER. 

QUALITY. 

AND...

FUEL EFFICIENCY:  18 miles per gallon rating

What the?  Our country is at war!!  Is 18 miles to the gallon honestly considered fuel efficient?  Are these people smoking crack? 

If the state of NY is attempting to forcibly tax smokers into quitting, why not do the same with people who have fixations for gas guzzling trucks and suvs?  I say tax 'em.  It's for our own good. 

I've had it!

I'm feeling rather punchy as of late.  In light of this, I would like to unleash my wrath in several directions, in no particular order:

1.) The media.  When a news story hits, be it tragic, sexy or scandalous, the same pathetic, predictable bullshit inevitably ensues.  The media will pounce and rabidly pick away until there is no story left to discuss or analyze.  Like the carcass of a juicily succulent rotisserie chicken, there is nothing left to chew.  It's all bones, folks.

I am especially bitter this week, since I've been unable to catch the weather forecast because news of a more pressing nature has taken precedence.  Namely, our fine married Governor spending a shocking amount of time and money on high class prostitutes.  (I love that term: high class.  Is this meant to separate the high class hookers from the low class ones?  Jeeze, whatever career path one embarks on, that pesky status thing is simply unavoidable.)

It's not that a part of me doesn't feel sorry for the gov, no matter how sleazy and hypocritical his actions may have been.  But come on, Spitz.  You've publicly betrayed your three daughters and your accomplished, intelligent, beautiful wife and for what?  For a 22 year old hooker from Jersey?  A young woman who possessed neither the foresight nor presence of mind to switch her Myspace page to "private" after the nasty scandal hit?

There is no weather, apparently, for Spitzer paid for putang.  This is, after all, a far more pertinent and sensational matter.  At the end of the day, is the media really anything more than a glossy, shiny bunch of glorified gossips? 

2.)  K-Fed: The Unsinkable Mr. Spears.

I have had just about enough of this opportunistic little rat.  Does anyone else agree?  It saddens me that he's rising above the ashes while his hot mess of a wife continues to self destruct.  Just this morning I was reading AM NY on the way into work when I read that Alicia Silverstone refused to tape an episode of How I Met Your Mother because Britney was slated to play her receptionist.

Alicia, my vegan friend, I just looked into your refrigerator in this month's issue of Rachael Ray at Home and you really seem like a nice enough girl.  But I feel you have some maturing to do.  I mean, first you refused to shake conservative Elizabeth Hasselback's hand on The View, and now you're turning on Brit?  What political grudge can you possibly hold against her?  Do you not brake for trashy, pot bellied ex-pop divas?  I've had it with Hollywood and their holier than thou antics.  Alicia, I loved you as Cher Horowitz, and it's obvious you care about a number of worthy causes, but I think you should perhaps take a page out of the 1960's musical sensation Hair: 

"...especially people who care about strangers, who care about evil and social injustice...do you only care about the bleeding crowd?  How about a needing friend?"  (Random musical theater moment there, Dear Reader.  I'll try not to let it happen again.)

Not two inches above this article I found a picture of K-Fed, in all his mousy glory.  It seems Mr. Spears may be set to embark on a bright new endeavor: The Great White Way.  That's right, talks are in the works for him to appear in the Broadway production of Legally Blonde.  It was all I could muster not to vomit.  K-Fed, do you feel no remorse for abandoning your collective babies' mamas not once, but two times?  I am in no way excusing the irresponsible actions of Britney Spears.  But after being bled dry by mother, father and husband, is there truly nobody who can come to the aid of this train wreck?  The media is having a field day tearing her to shreds, and these are the same people who will no doubt be salivating over her funeral, Anna Nicole style.

Under these circumstances, for K-Fed to not only gain but sustain a career that was born out of his estranged, drunken wife, and then climb higher and higher even as she continues to publicly unravel is just astounding. 

3.) My final lashing goes out to Laura Ingraham, the political reporter and radio host who labeled Brett Favre a woman for crying when he announced his retirement after playing what many consider to be one of the most stellar seasons of his career.  So what you're saying, Laura, is that a man who is capable of expressing his emotions and acknowledging his appreciation for something he deeply loves is a...woman? 

As if being a woman is something to be ashamed of, something wretched, something undesirable, something weak?  This is exactly the type of woman I cannot bear: a self hating female.  I myself have never equated strength with being able to deny one's feelings.  As if young boys don't already receive enough unhealthy messages: don't cry, be tough, be a man! I say cry all you want, or else live your life being a suppressed, repressed douchebag. 

Laura, you denigrate not only strong, sensitive males everywhere, but your fellow women.  I am sorry to share my gender with you.  You don't even deserve to have a vajayjay.  I think it should be revoked.

Phew.  I feel better.  xoxo

Thoughts

Did you read about the group of jackasses from Kansas who are planning to protest memorial services for actor Heath Ledger because he portrayed a gay man in Brokeback Mountain?

These are the same douchebags who protested two years ago at my former junior high school, costing taxpayers over two thousand dollars in police presence.  (A twelve year old girl had won a writing contest for an essay she'd written on Ellen Degeneres, who just happens to be a lesbian.  The nerve of this pre-teen!)  These misguided wackjobs can also be found picketing the funerals of soldiers who've died in Iraq.

They have a website, but the domain name is so disgusting, filthy and evil that I will not link to it or even mention its name.  Indeed, I'm loath to even visit it, if only for curiosity's sake.  (I'm partially afraid Satan will pop through the screen and tweak my nose, such is their special level of evil.)

Stories like this just make my blood boil.  I'm a pretty tolerant individual, but I can't say I brake for homophobia.  I never did. 

I remember being in kindergarten and finally getting to ride the big girl bus with my older sister.  There was this sweet, rather portly classmate of Sissy's named Beth who'd kindly allowed me to sit next to her one day.  We were chatting, and things were going quite nicely when I dreamily informed her, "you're fat."

I wasn't an unkind child, so to this day I still have no idea what possessed me to say such a terrible thing to such a nice person. 

I can still hear the sound of Beth's voice: "Jenna!  Did you hear what your sister just called me?  She called me a FAG!" 

I started to panic.  I hadn't said that!  The situation only escalated when I blurted out: "NO I DIDN'T!  I SAID SHE WAS FAT!!!!!"

I don't really recall what followed.  I suppose I've blocked it out.  My point is, although this particular episode is on the list of things I will undoubtedly feel guilty about until the day I die, I never, ever uttered the F word.  My parents didn't go for that kind of thing.

Unbeknownst to me, I'd first been exposed to gay people at a young age.  In elementary school, my best friend had a very cool aunt who had an even cooler female roommate.  They lived together, just like Laverne and Shirley.  They had two guy friends, Gary and Bob, who were always around.  (Lenny and Squiggy?)  I assumed Gary and Bob were their boyfriends, though I could never really figure out which girl went with which boy. 

On special occasions, I'd be invited to go along with my friend and her parents up to her aunt's house.  Much to my delight, these Saturday barbecues would inevitably morph into an endless dance party, right there in the living room!  There I'd be, collar flipped up, home perm bouncing, dancing enthusiastically to Madonna, George Michael, and songs that posed questions like, "Won't you take me to, Funky Town?" 

It would be years before I learned that they were gay.  I remember being surprised when my Mom casually mentioned it to me, having assumed I already knew.  At the time, I even stammered, "But, but, what about Gary and Bob?  Weren't they their boyfriends? 

Oh. Gary and Bob were each other's boyfriends.  It did make sense.

Soon after, I step-ball-changed my way into the world of community theater, and then attended a college for music, dance and theater, where boys dressing in drag was practically a social prerequisite.  I had a blast.  (Did I mention I was elected Queen my Senior year?) 

I'd come from a high school where the only gay student (a sweet, artistic, handsome kid) stressed about attending our graduation for fear someone would call him something he didn't want his mother to hear.  I was delighted to be in such an open minded college environment.   

Having been raised by my parents in what I now recognize as a kind of idealistic bubble, I will always find it upsetting when I learn that someone is homophobic.  Especially infuriating to me is when God is brought into the equation.  (This really gets my granny panties in a bunch.)

And that is why, when I hear someone utter a homophobic slur, for all intents and purposes they might have just informed me that they are chainsaw wielding, satanic psychopaths.  Such is my disappointment and shock. 

My internal organizer files the ugly information away in a mental filing cabinet, to be extracted when the homophobic in question does something "wrong."  As in, so it's ok for them to do or say x, y, or z, yet gay marriage is a sin.  Most of the time I don't even consciously realize I'm doing this. 

I can appreciate the irony here.  I'm judging people for being judgmental.  I'm sure there's a more enlightened, tolerant way to feel, but so far I haven't felt it yet.  (You are welcome to judge me for it.)

XOXO 

The Little Mrs.

What are your thoughts on addressing envelopes?  Do you have any?  I do.  In fact, I have several.

I remember a tense moment at my parent's kitchen table while I was addressing my wedding invitations.  Things were going just swimmingly when all of a sudden we hit a snag.  You see, Mom and Dad had just suggested I write Mr. & Mrs. (insert male's full name) and as you might imagine, I was having a difficult time of it. 

My eyes began to water: "What?  I'm not writing it that way! I can't!"  (I couldn't, could I?)

I gazed with disbelief at my mother, who'd always acted as my feminist guru over the years.  A master at reasoning with me, she took the practical approach:  "Some of the older people will definitely be offended if you don't address it that way.  It's ridiculous, it's annoying, but it's just the way it's done."

No doubt trying to be helpful, Dad chimed in: "It's not a big deal, it's just an envelope!"  (Says the lovable Mr.)

In the end, amid sighs and grumbles, I compromised.  A few of the guests were addressed in the aforementioned archaic manner and a good portion of the rest were not.  I tried to forget about my short-lived hypocrisy in regards to the envelope episode.  (And otherwise those invitations were lovely, I must tell you!)

This subject arises more than I'd like it to, however.  Why, just this month, as my mailbox filled up with Christmas cards, there I was again: Mrs. (Hubby's First and Last Name).   

My boss, mother-in-law, my cousin's new wife, and even one of my very best friends all addressed me in this fashion, and perhaps all for different reasons.  Regardless, it didn't really give me the warm fuzzies.  Instead, it got me to wondering.

Having already sat through countless diatribes on this very subject, my loving husband gently suggested I let the matter go.  And I did, it being Christmas and all.  But then I mentioned it again, just once.  And now I suppose I'm mentioning it yet again, to you. 

Perhaps I'm being oversensitive, but I can't help but find this outdated, moth-eaten, musty form of address to be vexing.  Is it just me?  Because in this day and age, if a woman being addressed by a man's first name is truly the only proper, genteel way of doing things, call me improper!  Just don't call me late for happy hour.  (Sorry.  Kittie made me write that.)

Especially now, when political correctness is so unbridled people are actually blaming portly Santa Claus for the collective plight of childhood obesity!  I suppose he does set a poor example, what with all his pudgy, merry philanthropy.  Some folks would even prefer him to say ha ha ha in lieu of ho ho ho.  Now, if ho ho ho has become too slutty a phrase for Jolly Old Saint Nick, surely my humble case isn't too far out there.

Before you get the wrong idea, let me go on record and say I adore being married to my husband.  I've even been known to declare that without him life would be a party I could not attend.  (I'm such a romantic.  A maudlin, morbid romantic.) 

At the risk of sounding too saccharine, I would go so far as to say I was born to marry this person. 

That said, I resent the fact that this whole issue makes me feel just a bit guilty, as if by wanting to retain my forename I'm somehow being disloyal to the love of my life.  Logically, I really don't believe one has anything to do with the other and yet...

Call me kooky, I guess I'm just one of those people who likes to see her own name in print.  Preferably on an envelope. 

xoxo

~Odd Broad Disclaimer: If you happen to be one of the myriad of souls who've addressed me in writing as Mrs. Hubby's first and last name, do not fret, for I still love you dearly.  While I may seem opinionated on the subject, I don't judge, not really.  After all, while writing this, I speedily inhaled an entire box of Annie's shells and cheese, justifying it with the comforting knowledge that at least it was organic.  To each her own, Que sera, sera, and all that.  xoxo

Proper Etiquette For A Rainy Day

I'm not quite certain where I'll be dwelling in the afterlife, but for the most part I try not to think about it.  All I know is hopefully it won't be down there.  You know, at that eternal barbecue we've all heard so much about?  (The one where there's never enough potato salad and the keg is always kicked?)

I've pondered it a bit, though, and have come to a few key conclusions, the first of which is: In my personal version of Hell it will always be raining and I will constantly be forced to walk down a narrow, overcrowded sidewalk while carrying a broken umbrella.  A mix of smooth jazz and Josh Grobin hits will be playing in my ipod and I will be made to walk behind an elderly person on a cell phone.

Seriously, though, have you ever attempted to wield an umbrella on a NYC sidewalk?  On a good day these sidewalks are a challenge, what with the slow walkers...the cell phone talkers...the crackberry users...

Why, just the other day a woman was walking down the subway stairs while reading a book!  For reals.  I nearly flung her.

I'll save my sidewalk/stair etiquette for another day, however, since today I am strictly discussing...

~Proper Umbrella Etiquette for a Rainy Day~

~For starters, why is it always the tiniest, slowest walkers who feel the need to hold those enormous golf umbrellas, smack dab in the center of the sidewalk?  I like to refer to these offenders as Sunday Walkers.  Please, do stay in your own lane, on the far right if you please, and allow people to pass you as needed.

~For the love of God, don't be a triple offender: If you're attempting to simultaneously dial someone's phone number, hold an umbrella, walk and take a drag off of your Marlboro Ultra, here's some advice for you: DON'T. 

We all know this feat simply cannot be accomplished.  Put your inner directional on, pull over, and save us all some effing aggravation.  The same goes for answering emails on your blackberry while walking.  Please don't make me have to fling you. 

~Now, I'm aware this is a radical concept, but if you're walking in one direction and I am walking towards you in the other, one of us is going have to raise our umbrella and the other will have to lower theirs.  I'm afraid it's one of the great inevitabilities of life, next to death, taxes and the rampant overexposure of Rachael Ray.  This doesn't seem like rocket science, yet apparently it is.

~By the same token, don't try to recklessly speed down the sidewalk while carrying an umbrella.  Walk responsibly.  Nobody needs to suffer injury because you hit the snooze button one too many times.

~Do not, I repeat, do not stand under the store awnings with your umbrella.  Save that space for the poor saps who are getting rained upon, you selfish pig!

Let's face it, though, if you're not evolved enough to politely wield an umbrella down a crowded sidewalk, here's a thought, buy a hooded raincoat, for frigg's sake!  (There's a sale on at Daffy's.)

xoxo

Proper Etiquette For The Can

Sometimes I fear I'm morphing into an elderly little bitty.  Or perhaps I've always been this way?

On days like today, I feel inspired to blast my opinions to the world, at highest volume, using an oversized megaphone, should one make itself available to me. 

For now, the following written rant will have to suffice.  I shall call it:

~Proper Etiquette for a Ladies Public Restroom~

by The Odd Broad

~Complimentary paper seat covers are our friends.  Please utilize them, they do like to feel needed.

~Ladies, if you must hover, kindly wipe the seat afterwards.  There is no shock nastier than sitting one's kiester down upon a moist seat, especially since we all know where the moistness has originated from. 

~On several frightful occasions I've been unlucky enough to have spied blood upon a public toilet.  Unless someone has been precariously attempting to shave her legs, blood is a sight nobody should ever have to witness in a public restroom!  Gag.

~Often times air freshener is made available to you.  If so, please use it. 

~In life, paper towels, used tampons, and maxi pads may fall.  Pick them up and throw them away, for fuck's sake! 

~For the love of God, please double-check that your flush was triumphant.  For the sake of your fellow sisters, follow through with that flush.

~If you are intent upon socializing, gossiping, or applying a full face of makeup after you've done your business, perhaps it's best to take it outside.  Sometimes people do need to concentrate.

~And lastly but not least(ly): Soap is provided for a reason.  Not washing your hands after using the potty is unacceptable.  I'm sorry but this fact is not up for debate.   

There's more of course, but I think that will do.  For now. 

xoxo