bittersweet

Well, besides driving the senior citizens group to the Center of a Different Faith (see post below), it turns out there's something else you probably shouldn't do while hopped up on fertility drugs.

When your amazing sister-in-law gives birth to your very first niece after 47 hours of labor without any pain medication (no shit, people; that is a superhuman effort as far as I'm concerned), you might not want to think that you're fine and walk into the room 15 minutes after the baby is born. Because when you see your brother and his wife, a woman who is still trembling and sweating with the effort of having given birth - and you see your beautiful niece laying on her mother's chest, still squinting even at the little bit of light in the room, still adjusting to her first few minutes of life in the outside world - when you see all this, your first reaction might surprise you. You thought you were fine. You've been fine for nine whole months. Even the little twinge of jealousy that cropped up like a weed when they announced her pregnancy disappeared as quickly as it came. And the little moments of longing every once in awhile when you've seen her were nothing unusual, nothing overwhelming.

So this moment was going to be fine too. The woman was in labor for two freaking days. How can you not want that to come to an end, and for the baby to finally arrive? How can you not be delighted for her, and for them, and for your parents, who will meet their first grandchild?

How can it be, that when you walk into the birthing center and the midwife says, "She'd like all the mothers to come in now" - how can it be that you know, right then, that you are not going to be okay, but you ignore that warning and tell yourself to suck it up. Because your stupid drug-addled, infertility-warped mind thinks, right off the bat, I can't go in then, because I'm not a mother, and maybe I never will be.

But you will ignore this, because you are a grown-up and you know perfectly well that these drugs are effing you up, and this is a big important moment for your family, so you need to get over it already and deal with it. So when the midwife comes back out and says, "oh, actually, all the women can come in," and you walk in and you see that new mom and dad, you really thought it would be okay, it's been fine for nine damn months now, and instead, the only thing you can think is this:

That might never be me. Never. Never. Never.

And, no matter how hard you try, you can't get that out of your mind, and your sister-in-law's sister (possibly the most self-centered woman in the world) keeps going on and on about the miracle of motherhood and how amazing it is and isn't this wonderful and wow, you're so amazing, and you think, "I am going to kick her ass if she doesn't shut up right now," which is not really the thought you want to have in a room where someone has just been born.

And it feels almost profane to be there, in that room, because there are too many people there, too many women jostling to see the baby, and you wish there could just be time for one person at a time, one little moment for each visit. You want your parents to see their granddaughter without all the effusive commenting from That One, who won't shut up. And you know you would probably be okay with seeing her for a few moments on your own, but all of a sudden it's just too much, and your sister-in-law looks like a combination of the mother of Jesus and a women who just got the shit kicked out of her - holy and beat up at the same time - and you know, right then, that you have to leave. RIGHT NOW.

So you duck out, hoping that the guys hanging around the door will mistake your tears for tears of joy, and you go find your husband in the waiting room, and you fall completely apart, at which point your parents come in and find you crying, and then you feel really horrible because you ruined their first night with their first grandchild. (Well, you didn't ruin it. You know this. But the drugs will tell you that anyway. They're powerful little suckers.)

So you leave, and cry all the way home, and even when your dear Beloved tells you, "of course you're upset, how could you not be? It's perfectly normal," and you know he is right, the drugs still tell you you're a freak, you're an idiot and a jerk for being this way, how could you be so unbelievably self-centered, why is it all about you?

You know the drugs are wrong. You know that three years of wishing, trying, hoping, and praying to be that holy, beat-up woman in the bed are bound to back up on you every once in awhile. You know that this is just normal, and very soon you will be back to yourself and eager to see your niece and delighted by every sound she makes. You know this will be true, but it's not true yet.

But the good news is that, when you get up in the morning, you feel a lot better. After all, you only have to take these drugs for two more days. You decide that it's better to stay away from the new niece for the weekend, not because you don't want to see her, but mostly because your sister-in-law's family is in town and they won't have as much time with her on a daily basis as you do, so they ought to have the weekend. And also, a little bit because you might need 48 hours to let everything settle down in your emotional self (and you'll be done with the drugs tomorrow, so that will help).

You look forward to Monday, when you'll be able to see the baby one-on-one. You drink a small cup of coffee with your breakfast. You get to work and sit down at the computer and look across at the bulletin board, where a few months you posted a prayer by Walter Brueggemann that ends like this:

we wait and receive and we thank...
because you are the only Lord of the Future,
you are the one who births at the eleventh hour,
you are the one who comes to barrenness and makes new,
you promise like the stars for number while we count according to the old math.

And you pray,

Damn, I hope so.

things they didn't teach you in seminary, epsiode 473

Here is what I learned today.

If you, as a pastor, ever find yourself on fertility drugs which, let's say, speed up your hormonal reactions to things (and especially enhance your ability to get cranky REAL FAST), then it would be wise not to volunteer to be a driver for the senior citizens' group trip to the Center of a Different Faith, wherein you will be required to listen patiently not only to the speaker who represents said Different Faith (who did a very nice job), but, more importantly, where you will be forced to listen to Old Lady Who Never Shuts Up in the Van AND I MEAN NEVER, MY GOD PUT A CORK IN IT.

If you find this situation unavoidable, and additionally notched up a bit by the fact that you are also in the midst of giving up coffee (THIS DOES NOT HELP), then I have found the best way to deal with it, besides gritting your teeth in such a manner as to probably give you TMJ instantly, is to get into your office, shut the door, breathe deeply, and eat a whole box of Dots candy.

That is today's lesson.

Carry on.

Niece Arrival Watch Level: ORANGE

Thai Food Delivered to Home of Brother and Sister-In-Law: $37.50.

Watching Sister-In-Law in Early Phases of Labor: Painful, but Exciting.

Imminent Arrival of Niece: Priceless.

Come on, baby!

well, yeah, probably.

My personal DNA reveals that I am a...

Reserved Architect

Having read the description, I'd say it's mostly correct.

Except for the actual use of the word "architect." I cannot overemphasize how much I suck at spatial skills. Oddly enough, though, "architect" is always what I choose when people ask "if you could be anything in the world, regardless of your abilities or gifts, what would you choose?"

I should be working on other things. Do they have a "reserved procrastinator" category? Because that would fit perfectly.

because THAT HYMN DOESN'T BELONG ON THE ORGAN no matter what you say, and WHY CAN'T YOU HEAR HOW HORRIBLE IT IS GAAAAAAAHHHH

This is one of those days when anonymity comes in handy.

Seriously. Some hymns and/or liturgies do not belong on the organ. Because when you play them on the organ, it sounds like the World's Worst Carnival has come to town, and that's never good, especially on a Sunday when there happen to be a massive number of visitors for no explicable reason, and there is nothing that can kill a piano liturgy faster than an organ (digital, my friends, a heart-pain no matter what). And I have to smile up in the front and pretend like everything is fine, because everyone can see me, so if I let on in even the smallest way that I am HORRIFIED by the music I'm hearing - well, that's not fair.

But inside, TRUST ME, I am screaming like a banshee. JUST BECAUSE YOU CAN PLAY IT ON THE ORGAN DOES NOT MEAN YOU SHOULD.

I love a good pipe organ. Really, love. I could listen to Bach preludes all day long. I play the organ. The organ rocks. Best. Instrument. Ever. I know something about being a church musician, too. It's harder than it looks and people are never, ever satisfied. I get that.

But, just like you can't play Toccata and Fugue on a piano and expect it to sound like it should, you can't play this particular liturgy on the organ and not feel like the circus clowns are coming to get you.

And, after all, there's nothing scarier than a clown.


Dude. This organ music is making the rodeo clown sad. THAT'S NOT A GOOD SIGN.

perverse gratitude?

Every once in awhile someone comes into my office with a story so horrific, or unbearable, that I wonder how they are still standing up and walking around. (Generally, they wonder that too.) This happened this morning. The details of the conversation don't belong even on an anonymous blog, but suffice it to say that this woman has endured more than any one person ought to, and it hurt just to listen to it. People don't always tell the truth, of course, and even when they do the truth you hear is their version of events, but - if even half of what she said is true, then that would be more than enough.

After those conversations, I usually have two reactions.

One: to wonder, again, why a good God allows such events, especially when one person seems to be living through more than their fair share of them. This is where all my decent theology about "God isn't fair, which really benefits all of us because 'fair' would leave us in the ashes anyway," or; "God is present in our suffering," or; "your questioning and lamenting is a prayer and a form of faithfulness just as it is," really hits the wall. I believe all these things. I really do. They are the only way I can wrap my mind around a world where things that are and the things that should be are so far apart. I realize she wasn't really looking for answers, so I don't feel the pressure anymore that I used to when I first started this gig, to be God's receptionist and try to answer all questions about where he's been lately. So that's good. But I still have to face the fact that theology can't solve everything. This is where 'ministry of presence' had better be okay with the good Lord, because that's all I've got.

My second reaction: to be grateful for my own life. Isn't that perverse? "Wow, your life really sucks right now and damn, I can hardly imagine what you're going through. Thank God I don't have to deal with that." (Note that I do not say that out loud. Ever.)

I have that reaction after visiting people in the hospital too. Walking out to the parking lot, I often find myself focused on the particular body part that landed my visitee in the hospital: if it's a broken hip or replaced knee, I feel the strength in my legs; if it's pneumonia, I breathe deeply; a stroke victim makes me think about my thinking. (This experience would be troubling if I were visiting, let's say, a colonoscopy patient. So I don't always do this. But it's a fair generalization.)

On the one hand, I know my reaction is perfectly normal. We all do this. Read about a car accident which killed a child, and you want to hug the first child you know and love. Hear about a horrible divorce, and you go home and kiss your partner and rejoice. Listen to someone complain about their terrible parents, and you call yours just to hear their voices. C'est la vie.

There is something perverse, though, about the fact that it so often takes someone else's tragedy to remind me to be grateful for my life. To look honestly at what is good, right now, and to notice it, and pay attention to it, and not let it pass you by, because it won't last forever.

I'm going to quit before this turns too Oprah-style "live out your gratitude." It's just an odd experience, is what I really wanted to say.

overheard in tonight's adult education class

Teacher: "Tonight we're going to talk about testimony."*

Very Sweet, Hard of Hearing Older Woman: "What did she say?"

Teacher: "Testimony."

Very Sweet, Hard of Hearing Older Woman: "Sex Warning?"

Teacher: "TESTIMONY."

Very Sweet, Hard of Hearing Older Woman: "SEX TESTIMONY?"

Oh.

My.

Good.

Lord.

Help me.

Not fall over laughing.

Amen.

*(Note: "Testimony" is the chapter we're studying in Dorothy Bass's excellent book, Practicing Our Faith. In case you think I have gone off my mainline/Lutheran rocker.)

Friday Five: Business Trip

It's the perfect Friday Five for me, because I've been on a business trip since last Sunday afternoon, heading home tomorrow - a week of continuing education at Alma Mater Seminary. As my laptop is hopelessly out of date and depressingly slow, I haven't been on the computer much (just as well, given the news websites I would otherwise be visiting).

Back to the Five. Mother Laura writes,

So for today's Friday Five, you're invited to share your experiences with the exciting, challenging world of business travel....

1. Does your job ever call for travel? Is this a joy or a burden?

I really hate flying, but I've gotten better about it over the years (now I only scream in my head when we take off, as opposed to out loud). And once we're in the air, I actually enjoy some of the freedom. If it's for a conference or church-based reason, I wouldn't call the travel itself a joy, but the destination usually is. And I count myself very blessed to have served in two congregations which unquestioningly support regular continuing education. I would have withered on the vine long ago without it.

2. How about that of your spouse or partner?

Not much business travel for him. Them teachers tend to stay put.

3. What was the best business trip you ever took?

A few great conferences over the years come to mind. "Best" is hard to choose, but for the sake of brevity, I'll go with a trip to Canada, several years ago. Spectacular scenery, good program, wonderful friends. What more can you ask?

4. ...and the worst, of course?

Nothing horrible. But, being a West-Coaster, I do hate traveling to the East Coast and having to get up day one for an early meeting. I'm not a morning person anyway, and that three-hour time difference is a killer.

5. What would make your next business trip perfect?

Anyplace I can go with the seminary friends is perfect for me.

good news at chez shalom

Beloved got great news today - he's been moved from a non-continuing contract (teacher-speak for, "you might have a job next year, you might not, good luck with that") to a continuing contract - after only one month of school! We were crossing our fingers that a continuing contract might come his way after Christmas break, so it's fantastic to get the offer so early. He's gotten great feedback from the principal and, even better, he's really enjoying the work.

Of all the nerve-wracking things we did during our move, his giving up an 18-year continuing contract in Old City to take a one-year-only contract here was top of the list. Thanks, God, for making it all worthwhile.

eavesdropping

Grief is such a strange thing, and so personal. All Kubler-Ross wisdom aside, how each of us manages our way through a loss will never be duplicated, even by ourselves at another time. I have found this to be true in my own life, though the other truth is that - so far - I have not yet navigated a loss which snatched the whole world away from me.

There is grief in infertility, of course. Grieving what has not yet been, or fearing what may never be, is a real thing. Different than grieving a miscarriage or stillbirth, yes. But a thing which has not yet been can still be nearly as real, nearly, as things which are. A yearning to be something (a mother) and to love someone (a child) comes with its own grief, as unique as any other.

I have walked with others through the loss of a born child. Not an infant, not yet, and if I am the luckiest girl in the world, perhaps not ever. My first pastoral experience with this came when a mother called the church on a Sunday morning before worship to tell me her son had been found in the woods, with a shotgun next to his body and a six-pack of beer, empty, in the truck bed. It's a long story. It always is. But they changed, those parents, in that day. In one way, their son's death freed them from twenty years of holding secret his mental illness; "I keep telling myself, 'the truth will set you free,'" said his mother on the phone that day. But in many other ways, his death diminished her, and her husband, and their daughters, forever. Permanently.

Of all the interviews I have seen in the past few days with Paul Newman, the best by far is the moment Barbara Walters asked him how he felt about the death of his son, some ten years later. "It gets different," he said to her. "Not better, but different." I have not known that pain myself. But I have no doubt he is right.

Loss, of course, is not something you can create - not loss-by-death, anyway. If I have not experienced it personally very much, I can't do much about that, except be grateful. And yet I wonder at times how that might diminish my understanding as pastor. I know how I felt when my grandfather died of Alzheimer's, but I was fourteen at the time, so it's been awhile. And I know how I felt when my grandmother died during my first year of ministry, but again, the fact is that your grandparents are supposed to die before you are, so even when you mourn them with all your being, it's not precisely out of the norm to do so.

Grief is so intensely personal and private that it's rare to hear an honest accounting of it. A few weeks ago, I checked with RevGals to read that one of our bloggers had lost her son, and that is how I found her blog, Search the Sea. (Isn't that a stupid phrase, by the way? "Lost" her son? Good God, it's not like he was wandering around in the frozen food aisle and she accidentally walked out the door. It almost puts the onus of the loss onto the one left behind: well, you lost him. Didn't you hold on tight enough? I may have to stop using that phrase altogether.)

So I have been reading her words now, since her son's death. This has been both enormously gratifying, and yet feels almost wrong, as if I were driving through a neighborhood at night peering through windows, and saw something meant to be entirely private because someone forgot to close their windows. I know that the writer realizes her blog is public. If she didn't want to write these things down, if it didn't feel like it might, maybe help someday, she probably wouldn't do it. But still, the loss is so great that her words feel like glass, like they could shatter at any moment. Like if I read them too often, they'll fall apart in front of me. Fragile. And precious. And sharp.

I have not posted on her blog, other than one initial word of consolation, because I do not know her. I will not link this post to her, because perhaps her own writing is exposure enough. But still, I want to thank her. For letting us in. For telling her own story. For being honest. For getting up in the morning.

She wrote early on that the phrase, "I can't imagine what you're going through," is not helpful. It may be true, but it just doesn't help. But here's the thing: I can't imagine it. I don't know that grief. I hope with every fiber of my being that I never do. She is in my prayers and I don't even know what to pray for, really, except to say her name and hope that God knows what to do from here. (I pray more and more like this, now. A two word prayer: your turn.)

I've thought about writing this post for awhile, and I didn't because mentioning it felt like I was pointing out a particularly interesting zoo exhibit. ("Look, kids! A grieving mother! Let's see what we can learn, shall we?") That's not it, of course. But what her writing does for me is give a glimpse, a tiny peek, into her own story of grief. I am grateful for that, as someone who peeks into grief on a regular basis, because somehow each story enriches the whole body. Makes our individual responses less crazy, less lonely, more real.

Thank you, Gannet Girl.

thanks

In a lovely surprise, Choralgirl gifted me with the following wonderful bit:



In all honesty, it made my day. Thanks, friend. How sweet.

thanks, WomenSpirit!

Like many clergywomen, I have wardrobe issues.

Not wardrobe malfunction issues, a la Janet Jackson (save us all from that, good Lord), but wardrobe issues. More specifically, clergy shirt issues.

Until recently, most clergy shirts for women trespassed on one of the following shirt-specific sins:
1. They have puffed sleeves (unless you are Anne of Green Gables, and aged about twelve, this is not a good look).
2. They are some shade of pastel, in the manner of Easter eggs.
3. They have darts to give them "shape" (which does not work).
4. Did I mention the puffed sleeves? And the pastels? They're worth a second offense.

I have a few really nice clergy shirts, most of which came from WomenSpirit, a company which makes a number of reasonably attractive clergy shirts in non-pastel colors, without puffed sleeves, and dart-free. They're not cheap, but then again, the pink-puffy shirts aren't cheap either.

The very ingenious writer of Collar This! has chronicled her attempts to transform regular shirts into clergy-collar shirts, and while I admire her very much, that is the sort of transfiguration I think I should leave to the professionals. I only wear clergy shirts on Sundays, or to weddings or funerals, so it's not like I need a ton of these things. But, since I got into this gig nearly ten years ago, I have coveted one particular shirt - or, to be accurate, one specific color. I want a red clergy shirt.

This might be traced to my group of wonderful seminary friends and our love for liturgically-appropriate underwear. (Color, I mean. I'm not sure how else you could make your underwear liturgical. Many bad thoughts in head now. Moving on.) A few of us bought red lacy undergarments for seminary graduation, which happened to be on Pentecost, as a randomly fun inside (no kidding) joke. And since then, I've really wanted a red clergy shirt to wear on Reformation and Pentecost Sundays. But no one makes them. Only pink. And light blue. And maybe grey, or seafoam green, or yellow. But no red.

And then, a few weeks ago, I found this shirt at WomenSpirit. (That's not me in the picture, but isn't her hair great? If I can go grey like that, sign me up.) Unfortunately, however, it only came in the long-sleeved version. And, while I've bought a few long-sleeved clergy shirts over the years in great colors, what I've learned the hard way is that they're usually just too warm. Add the robe and the stole and 500 people in worship, and it's too much. Even in the winter.

So, I wrote to the good people at WomenSpirit and asked if they would make the red shirt in short sleeves. And yesterday, I received my beautiful garnet red, short-sleeved, non-pastel, puff-and-dart-free clergy shirt. Thanks, WomenSpirit! You rock.

Sometimes you have to find joy in the little things.

well THAT can't be good

So, what does it mean when you have a really big day ahead of you and you wake up with the theme to Titanic running through your head?

Doesn't seem good. I haven't seen that movie in years. Where on earth did that come from?


*Update: apparently it means nothing. The day was great. I have no musically-inclined psychic abilities. Good to know.

off

I'm having an "off" day. The kind of day where nothing specific is wrong, nothing is terrible, there's no crisis, there's no tragedy - and yet you just feel...off. Off-balance, maybe, or off-focus, or just off.

I had a frustrating session last night with the 9th graders in confirmation: I don't think they would have talked if I had paid them. Silence and sullen looks are not my favorite way to spend an evening. I had another encounter during that session with Mr. Acolyte Boot Camp, who seemed intent on undermining my attempts at group conversation. I really dislike the feeling of disliking a kid. I decided last night that I need to pray for him and for myself, because I'm not quite sure what to do with this one.

And today my colleague, Senior Pastor, whom I like very much, was in the office on his day off - again. I think he's here almost every one of his days off, if only for a few minutes. It irritates me. I think it sets up an expectation that the pastor will be here every day, and frankly, that's a pattern I just don't buy into. I think I'll need to talk with him about it next week and just voice my own concerns about what "day off" really means (to me, anyway - he can do as he chooses). And then a woman who is involved with almost every group at church - the kind of person you run into a lot in congregations, who needs to be needed in a profound way - responded with a snippy retort when she asked me where Senior Pastor was, and I said, "well, it's his day off," and she said, snorting, "well, I KNOW it's his day off, but he's HERE." "I haven't seen him," I said. "Well, he's here," and huffed off.

Off. One of those days where I just want to crawl back in bed and start over. There are days in this new call (not so new now, nearly eight months in) where I feel all over again that I'm brand new, and that I don't belong here. That they don't know me. And that they never will. And that I'll never know them. And that we won't find real friends. And that if one more person asks me how many children I have, I will go insane.

I feel unfocused and pointless here today. What am I doing? Writing in an anonymous blog? I have no sermon to finish this week, only one class to prepare. No one's in the hospital. No one is calling. I feel completely and utterly, redundantly useless. I should be glad for the rest, and put it to good use. And instead, I just feel off.

These days come and go. Tomorrow will be better, I'm sure. It's grey and rainy today, which doesn't help. I think I just miss my other life today, the life I had before. That's natural. It gets better. But it's funny how that sort of grief pops up when you're least expecting it.

maybe it's in the water

So apparently Nicole Kidman is gushing to celebrity magazines that she "fell pregnant" after swimming in some magical Australian fertility waters.

This would have been good to know before undergoing a relatively minor but nonetheless not-exactly-painless surgery last week. Hmmm...general anesthesia, or trip to the Outback? Door number two, please.

Part of me says this is a harmless story about a woman who is delighted to be a mother, and who has a relatively unscientific but sweetly innocent theory on her pregnancy.

And another part of me says this is yet another deceitful attempt to hide something which no one needs to be ashamed of, but which seems like something shameful precisely because you are unwilling to acknowledge it. How do all these 41-year old Hollywood moms get pregnant so easily? How is it that they so often have twins? I guess it runs in the family.

I know they have every right to privacy. They don't have to talk about their sex lives, or their fertility, to a magazine any more than I have to reveal that same sort of information to my congregation.

But you know, just for once, I would love to read about a famous woman who tried for years to have kids, went through treatments, was frustrated and sad and scared and tired, and says flat out, "this fucking sucks, and it's not fair, and I have all the money in the world to deal with it, and it still fucking sucks."

Not, "Oh, I went swimming in the magical Australian waters of fertility, and I fell pregnant at age 41. Imagine!"

On the other hand, I wouldn't mind a trip to Australia.

Boot Camp

Last week, we had acolyte training at church. I'm assuming most people are familiar with the basic duties of an acolyte: light the candles, hand the offering plates to the ushers, help with communion - that kind of stuff. We have 4th and 5th graders do this, because they think that being an acolyte is the COOLEST THING EVER (whereas junior high kids sigh with boredom and wish they were dead rather than get up in front of everyone in a dumb white robe).

I was really excited and impressed that one of our junior high kids wanted to help with the training. I don't really know this kid; I know his dad a little bit, and his mom a little less. He's clearly very smart and mature, and I thought the fact that he volunteered to help teach this class was really wonderful. He said he would take the kids through the routine of a Sunday, while I was to give a basic intro and closing, and answer questions.

So. We had ten kids show up. Ten happy, excited, a-little-too-interested-in-the-candlelighter kids who were eager to acolyte and help on Sunday morning.

By the time we were done, we had nine nervous, worried, over-informed, FREAKING OUT graduates of Acolyte Boot Camp (one dropped out as soon as the training was over, nearly crying: "I don't want to do this," he said in a trembling voice). It turns out that Eager Junior High Volunteer would probably thrive in a career as a prosecutor, army general, or IRS agent. Now I am in a rather strange position.

How do you tell a junior high kid that he is not a good fit for helping train acolytes? Because he's not. He made them turn counter-clockwise at the altar (he stopped and made them do it over if they turned the wrong way, and let's face it - kids with digital clocks don't know what the hell "counter-clockwise" is anyway). When one girl asked nervously what she should wear, he answered, "church clothes." "What about shoes?" she asked. "Well, I usually wear church shoes," he said sternly, "do you have church shoes?" "No," she said quietly. "Well, you should probably get some," he retorted, and then moved on to the next question.

The church is full of people with control issues. This we all know. But they usually show up a bit later in life. If you have any helpful tips about how to deal with Mr. Boot Camp, please let me know.

Meanwhile, I'm hoping he's not acolyting this Sunday, because if I turn the wrong way, I'm pretty sure I might get hit on the head with a candlelighter.

random notes from a week

• Yesterday I started producing my very first Powerpoint (which should come with a little person who jumps out of your computer and answers your every question, of which there are MANY). I find to be very true what a friend of mine says: "Power corrupts; and PowerPoint corrupts absolutely." That thing is a black hole of time. But I'm having fun.
• I met with my doctor today for one last appointment before minor surgery next week (an outpatient deal I am thinking of as Baby Promoting Procedure). I'm not worried about it, but it will be nice to have it over with. Also, and happily, it will end the Summer of Birth Control, which is also known as Very Bizarre Experience for Someone Trying to Get Pregnant.
  
• Every year I think early September cannot possibly get more busy than this year. And every year I am wrong. And also tired.
• In yesterday's mail I found an advertisement from a local fundagelical church promoting its latest adult forum series: three classes entitled, in this order, "Porn and Pancakes," "Porn and Pastries," and "Porn and Parents." (These are also helpfully filed on their website under "XXX Church Events.") I'm all over churches talking about difficult, complicated issues. But this is just a little over the creepy line for me.
• It's amazing how a few days of solid, reliable sunshine really makes you feel good.
• Right now I have three baby sweaters to be knitting. I need to find a new pattern.
• If you are someone frustrated by the choice of Sarah Palin (even if you are, like me, someone who was never going to vote for McCain in the first place), you should most definitely read Anna Quindlen's take on the choice in this week's issue of Newsweek. I've read some good articles about Palin, but this one says it best. Well done, Anna.
  

Back to the PowerPoint. And the sermon, at some point.

I 'heart' Jon Stewart

Tomorrow I will do a better job of rising above petty politics and trying to improve the civility of substantial discussion among us.

But today, I will enjoy Jon Stewart. Sigh.

i'm just a girl in the world

For the sake of total honesty here, I did not watch Sarah Palin's speech last night. (In all fairness, I didn't watch Biden's speech either. I've never been a big fan of political conventions - they strike me as really, really long infomercials.) From what I've read, she's probably a very effective speaker. And her speech seems to have been long on criticism of the other guys, and a bit short on creative ideas of her own. Then again, the VP speech can get away with a lot of that, so she probably doesn't deserve particular criticism for that approach.

I'm irritated for her that last night's national news broadcast included a piece entitled, "Can a Mom of 5 be the Vice-President?" It might be a decent question, if anyone was asking whether a Dad of 2 could be President. And I'll admit that Palin has made some parental decisions which bother me a bit. It doesn't bother me that she twice went back to work the day after having a child; some women don't have the luxury of childcare or the money to take a leave. It does bother me that she seems to be bragging about it, as if that were an ideal situation (I'd hope that any new dad would take a little time off too). It certainly doesn't bother me that she has five children, or that her youngest has Down's syndrome - though it does bother me that she apparently spent a fair amount of her speech introducing her family, which strikes me as filler material for someone who doesn't have much substance. One of our local candidates for governor routinely pastes his family's picture all over his campaign ads, and that irritates me to the same degree. Candidates' families are always of interest, and always will be. I don't mind them being on stage (though I do wonder how they feel about it at times). I do mind feeling like I'm being manipulated by cute kids.

And I really, really mind that the pregnancy of Palin's daughter is being used, simultaneously, to prop up anti-choice agendas and to decry the invasive nature of American politics. Either you keep your family out of the public eye, or you live with the consequences. And if you are willing to let your 17-year old daughter be a poster child for the anti-choice movement, then you've sacrificed her privacy whether you think it's fair or not. You can't demand her privacy and show her off as a model of "choosing life" at the same time. (You also can't laud her "choice" and then spend the rest of your time lobbying for legislation which would get rid of the whole concept of reproductive choice. Equally irritating.)

There's a fine line here between disagreeing with parenting styles and wondering whether parental decisions reveal something about a person's basic character, so as to impact that person's suitability for public office. For example: I've read a quote from Palin's speech in which she said something like, "Some people use change to promote their careers: John McCain has used his career to promote change." Nifty line. But a bit slick coming from someone who is evidently willing to place her 17-year old daughter square in the public eye, including a really sickening emphasis on how she's going to marry the 18-year old father of her child, in order to become McCain's running mate. I'm not sure you're in a position to criticize someone else's ambition if you went back to work the day after having a baby.

This gets complicated, because for all I know, Obama went back to work the days after his daughters were born. If we're lucky enough to have children, I plan to be a working mom myself, and I have no shame about that whatsoever. But it goes back to my central problem with choosing Palin: consistency. Or the total lack of it.

Let's face it: the choice of a running mate is entirely political. You want to find someone who fills in the soft spots of your resume, who appeals to a different category of voters. So McCain might well have chosen someone from a different area of the country, with different experience, who appeals to younger voters. That's fine. If you think a woman candidate might help you get women voters, I can understand that. No problem.

But choosing a woman who, by any standards, is light on experience - after you have spent over a year decrying your opponent's lack of experience? What does that say to women? That you think we are so dumb as to vote for vagina over values? That we can't see past hairdo's and pantsuits to the vast and overwhelming differences between Sarah and Hillary? Do you really think that women (and men) who supported Hillary were in her camp only because of her gender?

I really love that McCain is now crying sexism because so many questions have come up about Palin's resume. Funny how that never came out of his mouth while Hillary was in the race. You cannot reasonably expect to choose a highly inexperienced woman, after months of pounding the pulpit for the value of experience, and then brand any questions about her background as sexist. If you had chosen a similiarly inexperienced man, would you be trying to protect him from the questioning? Why does she need protecting anyway? That's sexist.

I was never going to vote for McCain anyway, even if he chose George Clooney as his running mate. (I might have volunteered for George's campaign staff, but that's another post.) But after a historic primary, after knowing that a woman might actually become President during my lifetime, it's really, really disheartening to feel totally patronized. Choosing a candidate because she's a woman is just as unfair as not choosing her for the same reason. And no matter how hard you try to convince me otherwise: if you choose someone who's been the governor of one of the least populated states in the union for a whopping 18 months - and if you do that after harping on your opponent for being inexperienced - and if you then get super pissed at the media for questioning your choice - then you're telling me one thing: I chose her because she's a girl.

And that's exactly what girls don't need, Mr. McCain. Especially Ms. Palin.

a thousand words

Let's face it: I am not the biggest fan of our current president.

But, really. Even his most ardent supporters have to admit - the guy takes a horrible photo. Is there any shot of him that doesn't look like that freckley dude from Mad magazine?

Take this.



Is this the face you want telling you who to vote for in November? Really?

Please, O Lord, hasten the day when my first thought, upon seeing the President of this fine country, is no longer thus: "Boy, I bet that guy has some cheap used cars on his lot."