Caustically Optimistic

seven, an immorality tale

Today at work we were trying to sell a car to a particularly cantankerous woman.  In order to ‘close’ the deal with her my boss said, “you need to sign up; he has seven kids to feed at home.”  The woman wasn’t an idiot and demanded to see (a) pictures of the kids, (b) know their names, and (c) a bit about them.  She thought she had caught us in a lie; it is much harder to catch me in a lie than that. 

In a bit of foreshadowing I noticed earlier that I have pictures of my friend’s kids on my phone and I need to clear that up and send them these pictures.  Luckily, I had not done this so I could produce my children. 

My children in reverse order, and order of appearance in the story are:

1. Mackenzie, actually the daughter of Chad and Ashley, is my youngest.  Her claim to fame is the time that I was interrogated about her age, name, and other vital statistics at Chic-fil-a.  This is a true story made funnier if you’re thinking that I am actually her father. 
2. Connor, actually the son of Chad Ashley, I told them that I think he is trying to kill Mackenzie because she’s a “bad baby,” and he doesn’t like her.  When they were horrified by this I said, “this goes for all my children: if they can survive Connor they can survive life.”  He reminds me of child three and I am afraid that he’ll be just like child three. 
3. Benjamin, actually the son of Jon and Melissa, is noted for vomiting all over my sister, Leah, at Easter.  We named him Benjamin because he is the youngest brother of Joseph from the Bible and we were hoping to stop at five. 
4. Kinley, who we call Alison, is actually the daughter of Doug and Valerie, and besides being the studious one and a talented athlete is the oldest girl.  We call her Alison because the name Kinley offended members of our family.  She has gotten me in the bad habit of calling children one through three, “the Neanderthals.”  I love that Kinley is the boss of her house. 
5. Justin, who was a student of mine, is the twin of child two.  Justin is the one I call the ‘bad twin,’ owing to the fact that while he really is a good child he isn’t as good as his brother and has my bad habit of letting things wander out of his mouth and it conversation.  Justin has actually told me that he was going to kill me in my sleep so I told them that when I put the kids to bed at night he hugs me and says, “I am going to kill you in your sleep.”  I added that a responsible parent would worry. 
6. Nathan, who was in a random yearbook picture on my phone with Justin, is also a former student.  I told them that Nathan was the good twin.  I told them that Nathan was my favorite and while it was inappropriate to have a favorite, he was the one I could depend on to do the right thing, snitch on the other kids, and tell me where the candy was hidden.  He’s the favorite because he gets my jokes, tells me when they aren’t funny, and has a sense of humor of his own.  He also reminds me of his mother – Cindy I totally sold you out as my wife.  Nathan is party to the cruelest thing I've ever done - which is convince (with his help) the student teacher that he had a crush on her.  
7. Seamus is actually my son so I had to throw him under the bus.  My story about Seamus was that he was the oldest and the one I was confident would stop Justin from killing actually killing me because it was the one thing I couldn’t depend on Nathan to do.  Twins are of one mind, one will, and are one force.  You cannot divide and conquer twins.  He prefers to be called Caleb.  My cousin Alison picked the name.   

I also claimed that my sister doesn’t like babysitting the children and says things like, “you wouldn’t miss one if I gave it to someone else,” and I claimed my mother said of Justin, “If I were you I’d start his day off with a spanking to make sure it got off on the right foot.” 

My new boss, who has never complimented me on anything ever and has openly expressed the little value I have in the organization, was impressed.  He had no idea that at the drop of a hat I could bend reality, spin fiction, and follow along with a story.  I have my uses and now I have seven children that I have to take care of.  

gnome bowling

Today was a day that should have been annoying because of the weather.  It snowed yesterday, then it rained, and then that rain froze and then freezing rain fell on top of that, and today more snow fell on that. I might have complained that the weather shut down McDonald’s.  I might have been annoyed by the tiny, painful zit on my lip.   I was annoyed to no end with the fact that you have to fight for your right to party but none of these things hit high enough on the Kipples Blogging Scale, indeed the snow did, but I was most annoyed with Gnome Bowling. 

Before you think that I have become so progressive as to cross over into liberal territory with Casey, rest assured I have not.  I am neither a member of the Gnome’s Liberation Front nor a Gnome’s Rights Activist.  I am annoyed that Gnome Bowling isn’t available at Target and that in order to acquire Gnome Bowling I will have to spend a great deal of money and have it shipped from some other country.  I discovered Gnome Bowling while trolling through Facebook and finding it in my friend Erin’s pictures.  Erin has been dispatched to New Zealand on a secret mission so secret that neither she nor I know what her mission is or when it will be accomplished.  Her mission is that important.  Please know that I love Gnomes, and so does my Vice-President: any group that it is socially acceptable to use as bowling pins would be considered A++ in our book.

I consulted the interwebs and the googles in order to procure the Gnome Bowling but it isn’t available in this country and it will cost me a great deal of money to have it sent to me from Erin and it will distract her from top-secret, clandestine mission (it’s extremely hush-hush).  I did not have to think long on how to solve this problem because I am part Japanese (Kathy, my student teacher is the other part Japanese).  Using what we learned from our Japanese student last year I solved this problem: I let my problems solve themselves. 

How does this work?  First, I will submit a complaint and request to Gretchen.  Gretchen has super-powers and she can solve any problem – except a flat tire, her kryptonite.    You can ask Gretchen to solve any problem and it will be solved promptly.  She has many powers but her ability to change the course of the future in the direction of her choosing is singular and amazing.  Gretchen loves me and will fix this issue for me.  Gnome Bowling will be at a Target very near me soon or I will be Gnome Bowling on her nicely landscaped lawn.  Gretchen’s powers, annunciated in the visual aid, are legend.  I must return to Gretchen and learn from her how to cultivate and use these powers.  If I too have these powers within me then I need to harness them and use them for good or my own gain, either/or.  Gretchen’s powers are explained on the visual aid.

This mystery of the Gnome Bowling and how to procure it is an important one.  This could be the great question of our time.  I need two sets of this bowling – my OCD wouldn’t allow me to actually USE the set if I were to have it lest I ruin it in anyway.  I need two: one to keep perfect and another to actually use.  I cannot enjoy it any other way.  Perhaps Gretchen can use her powers to un-riddle me, to make me normal.  I am afraid if she did this – and she may know this for certain – that my powers would undone.  If I ceased to be neurotic, cranky, and obsessive I might become like everyone else.  I can’t be anyone else.  I have to be myself because everyone else is taken.  Speaking for myself, I’d like to be Gnome Bowling.  I am not sure anyone else could derive as much pleasure from it as I could.  It is a problem that needs solving, it must solve itself – through Gretchen.  

double-stuffed

Today in Kentucky we’re inundated with snow, and not really snow, but ice that fell on top of it making it slick and dangerous.  Kentuckians get irate when you say that but they have no idea how to behave in this weather.  If one lonely snowflake wanders down from the Upper Peninsula of Michigan and lands in Jefferson Square it sparks pandemonium.  People who are already bad drivers become worse; people flock to the stores and buy up food for months in case they’re frozen into their homes; and oddly enough they don’t close their schools.  I direct your attention to the diagram.  I watched a great deal of C-Span, and I believe Jon Stewart touches on this as well, but any bullshit is made credible by a diagram or visual aid.  The greater Louisville area (that mean you, too, Hoosiers) is thrown into hysterics by many things but the greatest of these is snow.  

I worked in a grocery store here for what was actually five years but felt like eons.  Whenever it became cold and wet people became nervous and once it turned into snow they dropped nervous for erratic.  People would dog-pile into the store grabbing milk, bread, eggs, and other things that I didn’t eat at the time. 

I’m doing my damnedest to acclimate to the local culture and I was thinking about what I would buy at the store when I went.  What would you buy if you were going to be frozen into your home?  I was pondering these things in my heart when I received a message from Valerie about how Cindy was spearheading competitive weight-loss at my school.  It made me regret not being there because if there is something dangerous it is my will to lose weight when I find it (eighty pounds in eighty days) and then there is my competitive nature.  I’m pretty sure that I would be dead if I were still there because my spider-sense tells me that money is involved as well and those three things together would be hazardous to my health.  Lucky for me, I am not in Phoenix.  This is perhaps one of two things to be thankful for about not being with my friends and faux-family. 

For the record, out of solidarity with Valerie, the first thing on my shopping list for the snowstorm/Armageddon was double-stuffed Oreos.  They tried to sell me on some store brand faux Oreo cookies and they are very lucky that I don’t know how to get blood out of argyle or someone would be replacing the one I ruined.  I also got potatoes, tortillas and bacon for breakfast burritos (we had eggs at home); pretzels and the ingredients for French onion dip – or Freedom onion dip as your politics permit, an abundance of Diet Coke, and some malted milk balls – also for Valerie but I gave them to my mother because she likes them as well and I’d never remember to mail them. 

With the exception of framing a picture (now I know why to pay someone else to do it) and shoveling the ice-encrusted snow off the driveway I have done little today besides hate The Fountainhead eat the junk food I purchased.  I feel sick from all the crap food and The Fountainhead is a disappointing book.  I think the next time it snows I will briefly consider but ultimately reject stocking up on healthier fare.  

Defiance

I saw Defiance with my friend Leslie from the campaign.  It’s against my morals to sneak candy into the movie theater, and really I have so few, so I stopped at Kroger and picked up Reece’s Pieces and Sour Patch Kids for Leslie and I.  I needed a soda and since I am a boy who doesn’t carry a purse I had to buy one inside – this is the equalizer to my sneaking in candy: the soda cost $4.25.  I looked at the soda and said, “Michael,” the clerk’s name, “this is too small!  You should have up-sold me!”  Much grumbling ensued and he took the extra quarter dollar it took to make the soda a reasonable size for the price of twenty-four sodas at Kroger.  I concluded with, “Thank you, Michael, have a nice day.”  There is nothing stranger to me than using the person’s name on the nametag as if I know them in a scolding manner.  Mainly because I never scolded my students, I never had ridiculous problems from them like that.  Michael, you’re an idiot. 

The movie had a lot of elements I was afraid of in a movie: Nazis without Indiana Jones, subtitles, and ‘based on a true story.’  However, they managed to tell a true story in a way that was honest, shooting Nazis is an acceptable pastime (even Dick Cheney will cap one in the face), and the subtitles were few and far between.  The movie ended on a note that was alternately happy and historically accurate which is all that a person can ask for in life. 

For instance, Casey didn’t like Elisabeth Jurchen: The Golden Age because it wasn’t dramatic enough but I liked it because it was historically accurate.  You have no idea how many times I’ve seen a Jurchen thrash someone screaming, “my [five letter word for female dogs, starts with ‘b’] wear my collars!”  The Jurchen aren’t dramatic but they’re deadly in their effectiveness.  It’s all in how you are raised and what your morals are, those suit mine.  One of the most important things to know is how to take everyday conversation and turn it into a history lesson about the Jurchen. 

What I want to know, and I rarely comment on cinematography because I feel I expose my ignorance enough already, is this: how do they cast the actor fitting the bill of, ‘creepy date-rape guy with bad teeth.’  Who reads the script – and it has to describe it that way – and says, “you know what, I do look like someone people cross the street to avoid, excepting dentists who want to know how they can bilk me for all I’m worth?”  Who does that?  I realize that some people are good actors and can turn it around and make your skin crawl.  Other people just naturally appear like the person who’d make you reach for the whistle or mace in your pocket.  Who takes that job?  The guy who played Kramer on Seinfeld certainly felt typecast but there are worse things that being the wacky neighbor.  I’d hate to spend the rest of my career being the person who made you put on another pair of underwear in the morning.  

fart proudly

I was going to write about the inaugural poem read today; instead I have decided to write about something a little less olfactory but nearly synonymous.  Ben Franklin encouraged us to, "Fart Proudly," I remind you to not always listen to Old Ben.   

If I had to list the things I missed about teaching I’d put “working with smart, beautiful women,” on the list albeit down the list from things like, “June,” “July,” or, “August,” but it would make the list.  If there were one thing I really liked about the women I taught with, beyond their incredible intellect, extraordinary talent, and aesthetic qualities would be that they didn’t make sport of breaking wind.  The other mammals I work with have a lot of appalling traits: their grammar makes me wretch, they use words incorrectly, are politically incorrect to a degree that I notice, and I can overlook this all.  I can close my ears, I can stop taking a red pen to their conversations, and I can overlook insensitivity.  I have a hard time walking around with a plugged up nose.  People look at you funny if you have cotton in your nose all the time.  I realize that everyone passes gas but most people would have the manners to leave a small, enclosed and poorly ventilated space if they could before doing it.  My coworkers do not. 

I’m an English teacher.  Deep in my soul rules and propriety are what I love.  I am so tightly wound that sometimes after sitting I take the furniture with me when I stand back up.  I will accept the criticism that I am formal, starched, or even prissy.  This stabs me deep in my soul and makes me miss Valerie because I know she will never fart in an enclosed space in which I am trapped. 

I bring this up because the other day I had the worst experience I have had while on a job, ever.  I thought the most embarrassing thing to happen on a job would have been when a student fell into a tank at the aquarium but being questioned last year about the masturbating primates on the Zoo trip eclipsed that.  Maybe it could have been the time that a student held up the nub of pencil and shouted he had a small penis?  Perhaps it could have been a lot of things but my experience is teaching and if children are one thing they are as forgiving as they are vicious.  Last Monday something much worse happened.

I was on a test drive with a couple my parent’s age and they were trying out a smaller, more fuel-efficient car.  We were half way thought the wife’s test drive when she farted.  It wasn’t a dainty fart or a quiet one.  It was loud and its smell was terrifying.  It isn’t the chocolate thunder from down under served at The Outback but it would have made Taco Bell proud.  I think the rotting corpse of a puppy – or something else cute and wholesome - fell out of her body to deafening applause.  It wasn’t as simple as being the loudest, worst smelling flatulence ever.  With me things are never simple.  I can’t do simple.  I am cursed and you are blessed; reading about this is much better than living it. 

When the woman sounded her trumpet I thought it was something wrong with the car.  It sounded like someone tore a steel beam in half with their hands while slipping on a number-ten can’s worth of mandarin oranges.  It was a horrible, horrible sound.  I thought it was the car and said, “What the obscenity¹ was that?  Pull the car over!”  It was then that the smell and realization of what happened hit me.  If when I die I go to Hell it will smell like this.  It felt like what happens to someone who doesn’t know better and asks the waiter at the Vietnamese place for something authentic that most Americans wouldn’t pick².  My eyes watered, my throat started to swell up, and my stomach was starting to churn.  The upside is that I don’t have to ever trim nose hair again. 

When it hit the back seat her husband insisted that she either pull the car over or crack the window.  He cautioned me that, while he liked the car, he would want one without a dirty driver’s seat.  When we found a place to safely pull over – with the windows still shut – I jumped out of the car like I was on fire but pretended like I was giving up my seat.  It was horrible, physically and professionally.  During my teaching career I have comported myself well through crisis and outburst, incivility and calamity; from 9/11 to a student’s sudden, unprompted impromptu speech on why he enjoyed masturbating (and anyone who said they disagreed with him was a liar), I should have been able to hold it together when her colon could not.  I felt like a failure.  I’m just glad I didn’t have to do her laundry.    

 

1. I think I’m like Hemmingway and speak in this manner.  I am a nerd.  
2. I have done this.  It is very stupid.  I tried it once and Melinda told me it was stupid.  I went behind her back and did it later.  The Sooze General’s Warning reads: Listen to Melinda and you’ll live; otherwise you’re on your own chump.   

proof that God loves us, and wants us to be happy

When I lived among the Phoenicians I rock ‘n rolled all night and partied every day.  I think that is what I miss second to no longer having a professional career or a purpose-driven strife.  I think if I had those two things back the only thing in my life that was blue would be the grass.  I define myself by the work I do; I shouldn’t but we’re all addicted to something and it sure beats sanctimonious piety.  The upkeep on that is insane.

 Luckily, some of the pieces are falling into place here.  Through the witchcraft that is Facebook I was able to reconnect with one of the few people from High School that I missed and regretted losing track of.  This gave the friends that are connected here in Kentucky the excuse to get together.  Some of us have been sick, busy with work, or both: this gave us the perfect excuse to spend money we didn’t have on food we really shouldn’t be eating. 

The friend we found, Erin, is one of my favorite people from high school, but before I sing her praises I’d be remiss if I didn’t hate on her a little bit.  We all look back wistfully to our High School days and how we were thinner, fitter, had more hair, more friends, more pocket money or whatever.  Mainly, we miss our beautiful youthful bodies.  Erin looks better than she did in High School.  I’d encourage you to shank her for me but if you had any idea how hard it was to find people who enjoy my company as much as I enjoy theirs; it’s ridiculous.

She also posted pictures of us all on Facebook, thankfully she posted Foxy Cleopatra’s mullet because she denies that she had one but she did.  I was shocked to see how skinny I was, which proves that my physician is right and that I, perhaps, have a wee bit of body image problem and not fat.  My Wii told me I was obese, however.  Who are you going to believe, a doctor or a Nintendo?  I look emaciated and would like to get back to that.  I’m not going to develop an eating disorder; I’m too lazy for that.  If I had the will power I’d be a danger to myself instead of just a danger to society. 

Foxy Cleopatra, which is my new name for my friend Tennessee, and Amanda joined Erin and I at the Olive Garden.  This isn’t Louisville’s best restaurant but they have a decent bar, Amanda and I ate crappy Italian for prom, and I had a gift card.  It all came together.  I had the chicken scampi and an Italian margarita that left a great deal to be desired and should have known better than to have something Mexican this far north.  Thankfully, the fellowship was better than the food. 

After dinner Amanda had to leave us but we went to a karaoke bar because karaoke, while an abomination, is a great way to be goofy in public.  Foxy can sing, she has pipes; Erin and I have other talents.  We were going to sing a duet but we had to leave before it was our turn – saving the rowdy crowd from our crooning.  Okay, my crooning.  The crowd was tame at first and we regretted not slipping drugs into Amanda’s drink and dragging her with us.  Apparently the uniform for douche bags this year includes argyle sweaters with Elvis collars – putting me ahead of the curve but also a part of the crowd.  I realized this as soon as I realized the crowd was a drunk, obnoxious mess and that Amanda might enjoy our shenanigans but would never have abided this tomfoolery.  I’m disappointed that Erin and I didn’t get to sing because the crowd needed to know that Erin didn’t talk to me anymore when I came to the door at the end of the day or that I don’t bring her flowers anymore or that it was in the spring and spring became a summer; who’d have believed you’d come along? 

When it was time for us to walk home we were not drunk, no not drunk.  We were a little buzzed still and had to walk it off.  Amanda is obsessed with who she still hasn’t found, Patricia “Patty” Plunkard née Tipton if you Google yourself and find this please give your homegirl a shout.  Richard Cobb III, Foxy Cleopatra is looking for you and will not be denied.  I decided that since I had a couple beers in me, and an iPhone that I should search out their phone numbers and call them – after midnight – and see if they wanted to come out with us the next time.  Foxy needed to pee so we stopped at a Diarrhea Bell so she could, and Erin and I were under the impression that she was using the men’s room. 

This distracted me from my drunk-dialing mission.  It’s not important for me to find these people; I wasn’t close with either of them.  It is important to Amanda so it’s important to me.  Today I called everyone with their last names in the states they were last seen in and the surrounding states.  I talked to a lot of nice people and left a few awkward messages.  I stopped calling all Cobbs when I realized that Foxy has his mother’s number.  Amanda should get her fair share of interesting calls on the morrow; I gave them all her number.  Those people don’t like me and aren’t interested in hearing from me.  At this point Amanda is re-writing “Rehab” but about making us go to rehab.  I won’t go, Go, GO. 

I didn’t have a traditional High School experience.  I did four schools in as many years.  I regret that: I missed out on being gung-ho about a school, having a core set of friends for life from whom I was inseparable.  I grew up differently, and we discussed how our uncommon commonality was something that we wouldn’t trade for the world.  So while I’m never going to be the best man in someone’s wedding or the godfather to one of my buddy’s kids, or know who’d do that for me because I don’t have those connections, I do have people as like me as possible.  Thankfully through the witchcraft of Facebook we’ve found each other again; which is tragic it didn’t happen sooner because we all ended up in the same city going to the same places and not running into each other.  Friends are like beer: they’re proof that God loves us and wants us to be happy.  The comparisons stop there, they don’t come in bottles and you don’t have to sneak them until you turn twenty-one. 

Today, not hung over but convicted of my sins, I wandered into church with my parents and was confronted by two of the kids in my VBS class.  One of them was dressed like my Phoenician partner in crime, Cindy, and the other was dressed as a miniature version of me.  They didn’t say anything but he made the “I’ve got my eyes on you, punk,” sign language that we make at the kids and walked away.  It was menacing and eerie.   

the fountainhead

Chaos Bean and I went to the used book store, which is one step away from going to the library, but still as wasteful as going to a traditional book store.  While there I sold them three books, one of which was a book written by my mother’s brother and was total crap.  I am surprised that they gave me money for it.  I know what you’re thinking, “you should be ashamed for selling your uncle’s book!”  I should be ashamed, you’re right: I should be ashamed for taking their money.

I found a copy of Ayn Rand’s The Fountainhead.  I was initially worried that it would sound like the young woman on our debate squad who won the national championship.  She used words that were so big I am surprised they fit in my ears or my tiny brain.  I’m not saying that she was like that guy in high school or at work using words incorrectly but thinks they sound smart because they can pronounce, “commiserate,” she would use eccentric words with the same ease that I order fries with that.  I hate to reflect on this person because while she was nice to me, most of humanity regards her as unpleasant and/or rude.  I look back at university with all the fondness most people use when they look back to middle school and was as much fun to spend time with while I was there as a coven of vipers.  Imagine someone beating it over your head that they are smarter than you while pretending to be humble about it: that was my fear about this book.  Fortunately, Chaos Bean doesn’t suffer fools gladly and would never recommend a book if it were like that. 

Besides that, the book was the fattest one and since J.K. Rowling isn’t going to write another book for me to read I am going to have to read established, adult books on intelligent themes.  I didn’t pick this one up to appear smart or fill a gap in my library.  I picked this one up because it was fat and inexpensive.  So far this is how I’ve picked all the books I’ve read from this store and it has been a success.  I would have asked Valerie what she thinks I should read but I think she’s reading books about Vampires and I could care less about vampires. 

While we were checking out of the store Chaos Bean noticed that they sold a machine that allowed you to use your iPod as a karaoke machine.  It is not difficult for Chaos Bean and I to become indignant in public about things big or small and most of them wouldn’t bother the normal population.  Most of you have never burned down a McDonald’s because they put mustard on your cheeseburger or initiated a letter-writing campaign to a small town in Kentucky because they spelled, “Y’all” incorrectly on their water tower but most of you have hobbies like basket weaving, sewing, or throwing horseshoes.  Our hobby is randomly getting indignant and then working to change the situation or make someone feel bad that it happened. 

Chaos Bean picked it up, as if it were a sneaker with dog poop on the bottoms and said, “do you see this?” in the same voice she’d admonish our dearly departed dog when he did something naughty, and presented it to the clerk.  I was horrified by it myself and I said, “You should be ashamed of yourself for selling that filth in your store.  The only thing worse than karaoke is competitive karaoke.  I might stop shopping here.” 

The sales clerk chuckled; this is a very bad idea when Chaos Bean and I are not joking.  Karaoke is something that, when performed in seriousness and sober, is something that should inspire shame in a person and a family.  For many reasons, I have not spent time with my mother’s family in nearly ten years: one of those reasons is karaoke.  It can be cute and funny when you are intoxicated or being ridiculous but there is no excuse for it when you are sober and with your family.  We have cousins who travel around with their karaoke machine and set it up in your living room in case people feel spontaneous and want to be lame. 

Sure, it’s dorky that my father’s family will break out Scrabble and worse that I have cousins mad at me that I inherited Grandma’s Scrabble set when she died.  It's wholesome and different that Valerie and her kids sing together like they’re the von Trapp family of the desert¹. It is a conscious decision that Kathy and I don’t teach in the same facility because we’ll sing ballads from the 80s into hairbrushes for people.  Having a karaoke machine that travels with you all the time is so ridiculous it makes Queen Elizabeth bringing her toilet seat around with her places seem commonplace.  I no longer complain when people have their dogs at the dentist or car dealership because as inconsiderate as that is, I could be enduring a ginger kid serenading me with Islands in the Stream.

¹ Valerie and her kids are actually all normal, except for the one being trained for the circus, but as his irresponsibility mentor I can’t help but he proud of that.  I’d rather someone ride a unicycle while juggling than juggle homework.  I like to unfairly pick on Valerie because secretly I am a part of her family, whether she likes it or not.  Seriously, have I let other children into my car? 

 

my lord Katie

This Sunday we celebrated Luther’s Mass.  We use this Mass, or should, on important religious festivals.  This Sunday we commemorated the Baptism of Christ and I have a lot to say about that occasion but I don’t have a mind for theology; I only have a heart for Jesus.  Chaos Bean wasn’t excited about the prospect of Mass, having been warned yesterday while making lunch for a church group that the Mass wasn’t going to go well because of the music and songs we were going to sing with it.  I wasn't either.  I leaned over to her and said, “Don’t worry, Katherine von Bora,” Martin Luther’s wife, “didn’t like this Mass either.”  Chaos Bean and Katherine von Bora were trained by the same order of Benedictine Sisters subsequently they are armchair experts on each other.  What I said about Katherine von Bora isn’t true: I have no idea her opinion of Luther’s Mass.  What I do know, and what Chaos Bean knows, is that von Bora would have brought it to Luther if he needed it. Rightly translated her name would be Chaos von Bora in English.  

Katherine von Bora is used as the model for the wives of the clergy and members of the laity.  We have a pastor’s wife in our congregation who we use as a gauge for our behavior.  Lois is the model of piety, service to others, and good behavior in church.  If Lois is doing it, we should do it too.  If Lois isn’t doing it, you won’t catch Chaos Bean or I doing it either.  This comes in especially handy when we sing the few hymns we haven’t translated well into English and she closes her hymnbook and waits for the others to plod through the song.  Mass wasn’t horrible and had the choir practiced it the Mass it would have been fantastic.  I can’t help but wonder how it would have gone if Candace of Jurchen, Emily, or Leah Monster had been in church to lead us through it; or had we sung it in German - at least then the angels wouldn't have had to translate our worship for God.  

The little I do know about Katherine von Bora, again, is that she’d have called Luther to the carpet when he was wrong, made fun of him when he was ridiculous, and overlooked the former when in the latter he was right.  I have a coworker who, while selling a car that Hitler had a hand in making, will criticize me for being Lutheran because at the end of Luther’s life he went batshitcrazy during his prolonged, painful death and said some awful things about the Jews that the Nazis revived to make the case for their hatred.  He seeks to ignore the important contributions Luther made to the Christian faith or to the secular culture of the West to hang his hat on something the Nazis did to every German thinker, writer, and composer.  Under his analysis we can’t accept anything anyone has ever done if at some point they did something rather nasty.  If I applied his thinking I would have to disregard Lutheranism and (officially) become a Methodist (until I found something about the Wesley brothers that was dastardly).

Should Republicans reject their entire program because George W. Bush has said a thing or seventeen that were not exactly well thought or grammatically correct?  Should I abandon Progressive thought once Obama slips up?  Should we remember Senator Kennedy for Chappaquiddick or should we think about all the legislation he’s shepherded through the Senate that made our Republic and world a better place?  I think, and I think most people would agree, that people – being human – make mistakes but that doesn’t mean we should disregard their positive contributions.  I know I’d rather be remembered for the good I did as a teacher in total rather than the havoc that I created.

Instead, what I will do is follow the example of Katherine von Bora and craft a new resolution for living: I will hold people to the same standards I hold myself.  I will judge other people the way I judge myself.  Please, don’t think you’re getting off easy.  I am harder on myself than I am on anyone else.  However, I learned a while ago at Valerie’s church that we judge ourselves by our motives (do it, Luther wanted you to!) and we judge others by their actions.  Katherine called out Martin when he was wrong, made fun of him when he was ridiculous, and supported the old lug when he was right.  I am going to continue to do that, but I am going to be careful about it.  Certainly I’m not going to thank Hitler for the Autobahn and ignore the Shoah; but I can’t look at Luther and the contributions of standardizing language through translating the Bible into the vernacular of the people, reforming the Church, and prompting the Legal system to focus on motive instead of action because he wrote something crazy when he was crazy.  I'm going to follow Katherine's example the way I would follow Lois', you should too.  

At no point in this entry did I state or imply that anyone who trained me in anyway resembled either Luther in thought, word, deed, or appearance.  It was really just the hat.  Anyone would look like him in that hat.    

potato chips heal all wounds

 

My time at work was sadly uneventful and in an attempt to make it better I decided to get some potato chips from the vending machine.  The worst possible thing happened.  My potato chips were stuck in the machine.  The person who services the machines wouldn’t be back until the work-a-day week and by then it would be too late.

The receptionist came around from the information desk to see what was the matter, and to get a Payday, and started to give me pointers on how to throw myself at the vending machine to dislodge the potato chips.  She seemed to have a special knowledge of it, its not something they taught me at the university and I was glad of her help. 

There was a great deal of trial and error as well; I didn’t just put my shoulder into it to be rewarded with the greasy goodness of faux cheddar on rippled potatoes.  Oh, no…. it is never that easy with me.  First, she directed to run right at the machine and throw my shoulder into it.  I didn’t do it right, or well, or something because the chips didn’t budge.  One of my coworkers tried it as well and we decided this was a poor course of action because the plastic front of the machine could break and we’d be fired for breaking the machine or looting it after breaking it. 

I then started charging at the machine from the side, which was a better idea because running across the show room gave me a lot of momentum once I struck the machine.  My boss didn’t see it this way, but I wanted those potato chips.  This didn’t work so I tried to hip-bump it using the weight of my midsection to dislodge the chips and when that didn’t work I used my butt.  The receptionist announced that as comical as my efforts were they were unproductive.  I made a final charge at the machine using my shoulder and the show room to full effect.  This had to effects: first, I dislodged my arm from the shoulder but I also dislodged the potato chips from the machine. 

Potato Chips, and time, heal all wounds. 

Now, if I had been back at the Ranch with Valerie and the others we would have had no need for the potato chips because we would have either squirreled away Pringles or absconded to Target during our planning period.  Either that or Ashley would have put guilt on us because she is skinny and we need a treadmill.  This stuff doesn't happen down home.  

Today started like any other day, I was annoyed to wake up and find myself alive and living my dreary life.  I suspect that I won’t be a pleasant person to be around until I am teaching and/or my life has meaning again.  It’s very difficult for me to be a shyster and I am steadily failing at it.  Yes, I’ve been black but when I’m back you will ll know Know KNOW.  

perfect pitch

I talked to one of my friends from Phoenix yesterday on the telephone.  We talked about a mutual student we had who interrupted her lesson on facts and opinions with the opinion that I didn't like him.  

The first lesson you need to learn from this is that when you think someone doesn't like you it is probably the case that you're, in the politest way, beneath their notice.  They don't know you're there.  The other possibility is that when you don't like someone, they don't care for you either.  Finally, I don't dislike any of my students.  Occasionally I will blame their parents for their lack of socialization. 

Finally, the way you can tell fact from opinion is pretty simple.  Everything that I think is a fact, when I claim something is, "just my opinion," I am being humble.  Everything I think, say, and write is a dead-on fact and absolutely true.  It can all be found in books, magazines or posted as a note on Nedenia's facebook page for our review and discussion.  I am always right.