A little bit back, I told my readers (reader?) about how I'm a bad Catholic and do not have my own rosary – but I took a wee bit of license there. In February, Anchoress had posted a link to a novena written for Terri. Since I didn’t have a rosary, but I DO have insane amounts of yarn, I decided to make my own rosary. I made it of a lovely, soft, deep olive green, variegated yarn, substituting small knots for the beads. After praying, I would twist it around into smaller loops until I could slip it over my wrist. I have worn it around my wrist ever since, except for yesterday when I wore it like a necklace. Now, being yarn, it is going to wear out eventually. Until it does, I will keep my Terri rosary. Since it has not been blessed by a priest or bishop, many Catholics might not even consider it a real rosary. But, I know differently. It has been blessed by my prayers, intentions, and my love for Terri.
Go with God, Terri. You loved. You were loved. You ARE loved…by so many.
3.31.2005
3.30.2005
Brain Implants for the Paralyzed?
Interesting. Via Drudge... This in the Guardian.
Evidently, a device implanted directly into the brain may allow paralyzed people to move artificial limbs, cursors on a computer, etc, using the power of thought.
Just wondering here. If technology develops sufficiently to allow implants for the severly disabled who also lack an ability to communicate in any physical way, I wonder if Mr. Felos might suddenly begin "hearing" trapped souls begging to remain ALIVE?
Or maybe he would find himself suddenly being drawn (via his amazing, infallible psychic powers, of course) to assist the implant-free souls who actually "want" to die....
I dunno. Just more blathering.
Evidently, a device implanted directly into the brain may allow paralyzed people to move artificial limbs, cursors on a computer, etc, using the power of thought.
Just wondering here. If technology develops sufficiently to allow implants for the severly disabled who also lack an ability to communicate in any physical way, I wonder if Mr. Felos might suddenly begin "hearing" trapped souls begging to remain ALIVE?
Or maybe he would find himself suddenly being drawn (via his amazing, infallible psychic powers, of course) to assist the implant-free souls who actually "want" to die....
I dunno. Just more blathering.
The Amazing Felos
Captain Ed is wondering about Geoge Felos' amazing powers here, as reported by Eric Pfeiffer of NRO here. (Update: My apologies for sloppiness. Whiskey, not Capt. Ed, posted the link at CQ)
I briefly heard about Felos' book this morning on the radio. (Glenn Beck, i think???)
I don't know. Doesn't the DSM-IV use almost this exact sort of thing as an example of a clinically significant level of "magical thinking" that may indicate a need for further investigation, treatment, or intervention of some sort?
Now, don't get me wrong. I believe in a whole lot of things that some of you may consider wacky. One of those things is that I believe there is more going on in the universe than what we so far have considered or imagined - things which have never been measured or observed in any scientific way, and may never be. But, asking me to believe Georgie-boy flipped the switch on a jumbo-jet's auto-pilot by the sheer power of his wondering what it might be like to die...that's asking a bit much of me. Now.... if George had been concentrating furiously on the switch, willing it to flip off while chanting a mantra of some sort - okay. Maybe.
Maybe not.
I briefly heard about Felos' book this morning on the radio. (Glenn Beck, i think???)
I don't know. Doesn't the DSM-IV use almost this exact sort of thing as an example of a clinically significant level of "magical thinking" that may indicate a need for further investigation, treatment, or intervention of some sort?
Now, don't get me wrong. I believe in a whole lot of things that some of you may consider wacky. One of those things is that I believe there is more going on in the universe than what we so far have considered or imagined - things which have never been measured or observed in any scientific way, and may never be. But, asking me to believe Georgie-boy flipped the switch on a jumbo-jet's auto-pilot by the sheer power of his wondering what it might be like to die...that's asking a bit much of me. Now.... if George had been concentrating furiously on the switch, willing it to flip off while chanting a mantra of some sort - okay. Maybe.
Maybe not.
Serendipity in the Schiavo case?
Serendipity in the Schiavo case? SERENDIPITY? Are you KIDDING me? It seems that's what Anne Applebaum is trying to assert in her piece in today's Wahington Post. (reg.req.) Actually, this might have been a decent piece had Ms. Applebaum simply left out any and all reference to Terri Schiavo.
The Schiavo case has most certainly NOT exposed what death is like for most people of the 21st century. It has, however, exposed the fact that if you become disabled, and are not terminally ill, your guardian can decide to have you killed.
Ms. Applebaum might have included “the disabled” in here as well. Terri is not elderly, nor is she terminally ill, she is disabled. But, the last paragraph really sends me over the edge ...
It appears Ms. Applebaum does not consider issues of life vs. death important, and finds the entire notion that they could be thought important preposterous. At least, as far as Terri's case is concerned. She seems more comfortable seeing Terri's situation as "serendipitous."
Isn't that nice? It certainly lets us all off the hook.
"Along with all of its unexpected political implications, the Schiavo case has had the effect of exposing the enormous gap between what Americans imaginedeath should be like and what death actually is like for most people in the 21st century. A hundred years ago, when average life expectancy was 47, people who got sick either recovered or died quickly. Now that life expectancy is 75, most Americans will spend at least two years of their lives too disabled, one way or another, to care for themselves without help."
The Schiavo case has most certainly NOT exposed what death is like for most people of the 21st century. It has, however, exposed the fact that if you become disabled, and are not terminally ill, your guardian can decide to have you killed.
"But because we don't dwell on it, and because we haven't thought about it, the system that has sprung up to care for the elderly and the terminally ill is neither medically nor ethically consistent."
Ms. Applebaum might have included “the disabled” in here as well. Terri is not elderly, nor is she terminally ill, she is disabled. But, the last paragraph really sends me over the edge ...
"...All of the commentary makes it sound as though these momentous decisions are not only crystal clear but are ultimately made on moral grounds, as if there were something important at stake: the sanctity of human life vs. the right to die, or the wishes of the dying person vs. the wishes of the family...."
It appears Ms. Applebaum does not consider issues of life vs. death important, and finds the entire notion that they could be thought important preposterous. At least, as far as Terri's case is concerned. She seems more comfortable seeing Terri's situation as "serendipitous."
Isn't that nice? It certainly lets us all off the hook.
3.28.2005
Earthquake in Sumatra
Oh, no.
It's apparently being viewed as an aftershock to December's earthquake in the same region. As of now, it looks like the tsunami danger has passed. But, good grief - those poor people haven't even begun to recover from the emotional shock of the LAST disaster.
A magnitude-8.7 earthquake struck off the northwestern coast of Indonesia,
raising initial concerns that a tsunami might hit the area where waves from
a Dec. 26 temblor caused widespread death and destruction.
It's apparently being viewed as an aftershock to December's earthquake in the same region. As of now, it looks like the tsunami danger has passed. But, good grief - those poor people haven't even begun to recover from the emotional shock of the LAST disaster.
Blathering About Storms Indoors and Out
YES! Praise be to all that is good and holy! The first thunderstorm of spring! I am ecstatic. The one and only thing that mars what would otherwise be a sublime moment of experiential perfection is my brain-damaged dog. Hereinafter to be known as…well, Brain-Damaged Dog, or BD Dog.
According to the husband and the daughter, BD Dog is not REALLY brain-damaged, and how dare I even suggest such a thing? They really become quite indignant when I tell others that I suspect BD Dog is not quite up to canine intellectual par. However, I have every reason to believe he is, in fact, running on short circuits. You see, when he was a puppy, he had an annoying puppy habit of chewing on everything in the blasted house. In fact, he chewed the blasted house. He snacked on windowsills and baseboards and even chewed away most of an entire lower corner of a solid wood door. He made a kitty-door before we even knew we wanted one. At that time - due to some brain malfunction of my own, evidenced by my begging that we buy an old house so we could “fix-it-up” - we were living in a beautiful but structurally decrepit Victorian style farmhouse, circa 1920. Now, I believe anyone with even a smidgen of sense would agree with me that there is a STRONG chance BD Dog’s maniacal chomping on and through a house while he was a growing, developing puppy might have, just maybe, affected his little brain. Especially since said house had, of course, been slathered in LEAD BASED PAINT - hellooo! Anyhoo, I’m blathering again. So, how does BD Dog ruin the exquisite perfection of a thunderstorm, you ask? Or don't ask, but I'm going to tell you anyway.
He’s terrified of them. He whines, he slathers and drools and pants like a demon and wants to seek cover under ME. Since he can’t get under me, he tries to do the next best thing, which to him, means climb up me, whether I’m standing, sitting, or lying down. If he were still his cute little puppy size, I might be able to deal – but he’s about 90 lbs now, which in my book disqualifies him from ever perching on any part of me. Besides that, did I mention he DROOLS? Not all the time, mind you, only during thunderstorms. It is not pleasant. He will not go in a closet to hide. He will not, God forbid, go outside. He’s not happy under a table. He won’t be happy till the weather’s stable. Eeew. Yuck. Think I’ll leave that stuff to Dr. Seuss. I promise that will never happen again on this site.
I feel sorry for BD Dog. I take pity on him, and try to not be angry with him for dripping and drooling and generally making a disgusting mess all over me, the floor, the sofa, the bed, or wherever I happen to be. And, for some reason, he only wants ME during storms. The husband won’t do. The daughter won’t do. I am the one who gets the full, undivided attention of the wet, whiney, slobbery, panting hulk of a dog who is, at other times, the sweetest of sweet, loyal, well-behaved doggie companions. I suppose I feel some sense of obligation to respond in kind with loyalty to him during his psychotic breaks. For example, despite wanting desperately to do so, I do not throw his ass into the basement to battle his terror alone. I do not glare at him and raise my voice, forcing him to “down, stay, stupid dog!!” while I go into another part of the house, though really and truly that’s all I want to do.
So, it’s the first thunderstorm. Rain falling outside. Slobber raining inside. But, nevertheless, I’m still ecstatic. Because, hallelujah! It is well and truly and finally SPRING!
According to the husband and the daughter, BD Dog is not REALLY brain-damaged, and how dare I even suggest such a thing? They really become quite indignant when I tell others that I suspect BD Dog is not quite up to canine intellectual par. However, I have every reason to believe he is, in fact, running on short circuits. You see, when he was a puppy, he had an annoying puppy habit of chewing on everything in the blasted house. In fact, he chewed the blasted house. He snacked on windowsills and baseboards and even chewed away most of an entire lower corner of a solid wood door. He made a kitty-door before we even knew we wanted one. At that time - due to some brain malfunction of my own, evidenced by my begging that we buy an old house so we could “fix-it-up” - we were living in a beautiful but structurally decrepit Victorian style farmhouse, circa 1920. Now, I believe anyone with even a smidgen of sense would agree with me that there is a STRONG chance BD Dog’s maniacal chomping on and through a house while he was a growing, developing puppy might have, just maybe, affected his little brain. Especially since said house had, of course, been slathered in LEAD BASED PAINT - hellooo! Anyhoo, I’m blathering again. So, how does BD Dog ruin the exquisite perfection of a thunderstorm, you ask? Or don't ask, but I'm going to tell you anyway.
He’s terrified of them. He whines, he slathers and drools and pants like a demon and wants to seek cover under ME. Since he can’t get under me, he tries to do the next best thing, which to him, means climb up me, whether I’m standing, sitting, or lying down. If he were still his cute little puppy size, I might be able to deal – but he’s about 90 lbs now, which in my book disqualifies him from ever perching on any part of me. Besides that, did I mention he DROOLS? Not all the time, mind you, only during thunderstorms. It is not pleasant. He will not go in a closet to hide. He will not, God forbid, go outside. He’s not happy under a table. He won’t be happy till the weather’s stable. Eeew. Yuck. Think I’ll leave that stuff to Dr. Seuss. I promise that will never happen again on this site.
I feel sorry for BD Dog. I take pity on him, and try to not be angry with him for dripping and drooling and generally making a disgusting mess all over me, the floor, the sofa, the bed, or wherever I happen to be. And, for some reason, he only wants ME during storms. The husband won’t do. The daughter won’t do. I am the one who gets the full, undivided attention of the wet, whiney, slobbery, panting hulk of a dog who is, at other times, the sweetest of sweet, loyal, well-behaved doggie companions. I suppose I feel some sense of obligation to respond in kind with loyalty to him during his psychotic breaks. For example, despite wanting desperately to do so, I do not throw his ass into the basement to battle his terror alone. I do not glare at him and raise my voice, forcing him to “down, stay, stupid dog!!” while I go into another part of the house, though really and truly that’s all I want to do.
So, it’s the first thunderstorm. Rain falling outside. Slobber raining inside. But, nevertheless, I’m still ecstatic. Because, hallelujah! It is well and truly and finally SPRING!
Peace
An interesting thing happened to me on Good Friday. You might not find it interesting, but I’m going to share it with you anyway. Because, well – it’s my blog.
Just some background first. I said earlier that I consider myself Christian. I was raised “Batholic” – which is what I call the schizophrenic mixture of Southern Baptist-slash-Catholic upbringing that I was given. That particularly entertaining story I’ll save for another time. Bottom line, I was baptized Catholic, and as most Catholics will tell you - once a Catholic, always a Catholic. Unless you’re excommunicated, that is. Although I manage to make it to Mass maybe only once every three or four years, and have no parish to which I belong, I am still a Catholic…though not anywhere near as Catholic as the Anchoress. All of this leads me up to the afternoon of Good Friday. Really. It does.
As I was driving home from work, I took a wrong turn. Well, not really a “wrong” turn. I just happened to find myself making an unusual turn that would wind up taking me home via a longer route. I was exhausted from the workweek and all the emotional ups and downs I’d experienced since Terri Schiavo’s feeding tube was removed. I was just too damned tired to try to fight traffic in order to find a place to turn around. So I settled in for a long drive. It’s a beautiful drive, thankfully, with lots of trees, hills, farms, and estates. Just before reaching the last turn which would take me the final few miles to my house, I passed in front of a Catholic church; one I’ve never attended but have been meaning to visit for the last two years. Okay, so I tend to procrastinate a little bit. There was a quick thought of, “oh, what the heck – it’s Good Friday.” While I didn’t exactly squeal my tires or skid sideways as I pulled into the lot, I was happy I was no longer being tailgated by the the stupid Ford F-250 that had been my unwelcome and annoying escort for most of the way. I went inside, and just sat. I wasn’t sure exactly why I was there, but I began to feel Someone had brought me there for something. So I sat and I waited in the tiny little chapel where the Blessed Sacrament is kept. Suddenly, all my grief, anxiety, anger, and frustration of the past week came bubbling to the surface with such force that my throat was immediately constricted and began to burn with tears I hadn’t cried. Then, finally, the tears came. For Terri and for her family. I tried desperately not to break into great heaving sobs, because I had noticed there were no tissues anywhere in the chapel. Oh Great! I was going to leave a little suggestion note, but had nothing to write on. So I reached instead for one of the little plastic rosaries that are provided for bad Catholics such as I who do not own one. I took it up and began to pray. And slowly, slowly, I was calmed. I stayed in the chapel for 40 minutes, just soaking in the Peace. I didn’t want to leave, but as we were expecting a housefull of friends over for a Sing (another of those strange things related to Sweat Lodges – which I also mentioned earlier), and my house was in no way tidy or ready for visitors, I couldn’t stay longer. I was dreading leaving the church. Not only because I knew housework was in my immediate future, but also because it had been a long time since I'd felt peaceful and I didn't want to lose the feeling, which I was sure would happen the moment I stepped out of the door and back into the real world. But, incredibly, surprisingly, the Peace accompanied me. All the way home, through the rest of the evening, and throughout the weekend, Peace has been with me. And, I think that’s why I was taken to the church on Good Friday. Someone knew I was burnt out and stretched beyond my limit. And, that same Someone also knew I didn’t need to be carrying all that turmoil around with me – especially this weekend. I am still praying for Terri, and her family, of course. Still hoping for a miracle. But I’m at peace now with the possibility that there may not be one – at least not of the kind I would most like to see.
So, now I'm praying for all the thousands of you out there who have been praying, lobbying, and otherwise emotionally involved in the struggle for Terri’s life. I am praying you also will heed the call when Someone beckons you aside for a few minutes to find the Center. To be reminded again of Peace.
Just some background first. I said earlier that I consider myself Christian. I was raised “Batholic” – which is what I call the schizophrenic mixture of Southern Baptist-slash-Catholic upbringing that I was given. That particularly entertaining story I’ll save for another time. Bottom line, I was baptized Catholic, and as most Catholics will tell you - once a Catholic, always a Catholic. Unless you’re excommunicated, that is. Although I manage to make it to Mass maybe only once every three or four years, and have no parish to which I belong, I am still a Catholic…though not anywhere near as Catholic as the Anchoress. All of this leads me up to the afternoon of Good Friday. Really. It does.
As I was driving home from work, I took a wrong turn. Well, not really a “wrong” turn. I just happened to find myself making an unusual turn that would wind up taking me home via a longer route. I was exhausted from the workweek and all the emotional ups and downs I’d experienced since Terri Schiavo’s feeding tube was removed. I was just too damned tired to try to fight traffic in order to find a place to turn around. So I settled in for a long drive. It’s a beautiful drive, thankfully, with lots of trees, hills, farms, and estates. Just before reaching the last turn which would take me the final few miles to my house, I passed in front of a Catholic church; one I’ve never attended but have been meaning to visit for the last two years. Okay, so I tend to procrastinate a little bit. There was a quick thought of, “oh, what the heck – it’s Good Friday.” While I didn’t exactly squeal my tires or skid sideways as I pulled into the lot, I was happy I was no longer being tailgated by the the stupid Ford F-250 that had been my unwelcome and annoying escort for most of the way. I went inside, and just sat. I wasn’t sure exactly why I was there, but I began to feel Someone had brought me there for something. So I sat and I waited in the tiny little chapel where the Blessed Sacrament is kept. Suddenly, all my grief, anxiety, anger, and frustration of the past week came bubbling to the surface with such force that my throat was immediately constricted and began to burn with tears I hadn’t cried. Then, finally, the tears came. For Terri and for her family. I tried desperately not to break into great heaving sobs, because I had noticed there were no tissues anywhere in the chapel. Oh Great! I was going to leave a little suggestion note, but had nothing to write on. So I reached instead for one of the little plastic rosaries that are provided for bad Catholics such as I who do not own one. I took it up and began to pray. And slowly, slowly, I was calmed. I stayed in the chapel for 40 minutes, just soaking in the Peace. I didn’t want to leave, but as we were expecting a housefull of friends over for a Sing (another of those strange things related to Sweat Lodges – which I also mentioned earlier), and my house was in no way tidy or ready for visitors, I couldn’t stay longer. I was dreading leaving the church. Not only because I knew housework was in my immediate future, but also because it had been a long time since I'd felt peaceful and I didn't want to lose the feeling, which I was sure would happen the moment I stepped out of the door and back into the real world. But, incredibly, surprisingly, the Peace accompanied me. All the way home, through the rest of the evening, and throughout the weekend, Peace has been with me. And, I think that’s why I was taken to the church on Good Friday. Someone knew I was burnt out and stretched beyond my limit. And, that same Someone also knew I didn’t need to be carrying all that turmoil around with me – especially this weekend. I am still praying for Terri, and her family, of course. Still hoping for a miracle. But I’m at peace now with the possibility that there may not be one – at least not of the kind I would most like to see.
So, now I'm praying for all the thousands of you out there who have been praying, lobbying, and otherwise emotionally involved in the struggle for Terri’s life. I am praying you also will heed the call when Someone beckons you aside for a few minutes to find the Center. To be reminded again of Peace.
3.27.2005
Happy Easter
Blessings for everyone today - especially Terri Schiavo and her parents and family. Her real family, I mean.
But, I suppose, in the spirit of this Holy day, I can try to think one or two non-hateful thoughts about Michael, her "in-the-legal-sense-only-but-not-in-fact-or-in-act" husband. However, I'll leave the blessing of him to Someone far greater than I.
But, I suppose, in the spirit of this Holy day, I can try to think one or two non-hateful thoughts about Michael, her "in-the-legal-sense-only-but-not-in-fact-or-in-act" husband. However, I'll leave the blessing of him to Someone far greater than I.
Best of the BEST
As of now, The Anchoress is by far and away IMO the best blogger out there. The BEST. She does not blather. She does not preach. Her posts are relevant, interesting, insightful, and when she pours a healthy dose of wrath over someone's head, you can bet it is well deserved. She's Catholic all the way down to the tip of her pinky-toe bone and is not afraid to let it show. It's not the reason I like her site, but there is just no way to separate her personality from her faith. She wouldn't be the Anchoress without the solidity of belief that informs her views and her style. If you haven't already, you need to go there. Now.
Next on my list of faves would have to be La Shawn Barber. Smart, focused, sharp. Points out ridiculousness where ever she sees it....and, as there seems to be no shortage of that these days, I think she'll be around a good long while.
Captain's Quarters, Michelle Malkin, and Sigmund, Carl and Alfred round out my top 5.
Go. Read. Learn something. Be edified.
Next on my list of faves would have to be La Shawn Barber. Smart, focused, sharp. Points out ridiculousness where ever she sees it....and, as there seems to be no shortage of that these days, I think she'll be around a good long while.
Captain's Quarters, Michelle Malkin, and Sigmund, Carl and Alfred round out my top 5.
Go. Read. Learn something. Be edified.
3.26.2005
Introduction to Me
This is my blog. I will blather on about whatever I choose. If you don't want to read what I want to write, you are cordially invited to move on, scram, skedaddle, and leave me alone. I owe you not one whit of explanation or empirical evidence for my opinions, thoughts, beliefs, feelings, blah, blah, blah...though I may blather on and provide some from time to time. Bottom line, I am not much interested in your opinions about my opinions, unless of course you agree with me and want to tell me I'm brilliant. Obnoxiousness will only be acceptable when I am the one being obnoxious. YOUR obnoxious comments will be wiped from existence. Unless by chance they are also, in MY opinion, funny, witty...or just laughably lame. I will not apologize for being foul-mouthed on occasion. I will, however, be properly horrified if and when I commit a felonious assault on the English language. I am, as are most of us, terribly busy, and do not have a lot of time for replying to e-mails and comments. I will do my best to reply to folks who don't scream at me and call me filthy names, but it may take me a while. If you are of the impatient sort, don't write to me.
Who am I? Due to my utter lack of imagination, I have decided to be known here as "PB." Those, of course, are not my true initials, but will just have to do for now. If anyone comes up with a better nomicker for me, feel free to submit it. You will not win a prize if I happen choose to use the name you submit.
About me: I live with my husband. Both of us work for a living. I am the mother of an almost-20 year old, a fact which, most days, just surprises the hell out of me. Not, that I'm a mother. But, that she's almost 20. I am not well versed in politics, but I like to read and hear from others who are. I lean to the Right on many things, and to the Left on many others. And, in some areas, I waffle back and forth so much it gives me a headache. In other words, I have no clue how to fix all the world's problems. That, however, will not stop me from blathering on about politics, when and if I choose. I believe myself to be a Christian, but whether or not I'm a "good" one is still up in the air. Most mainstream Christians would probably not claim me. I crawl into a Sweat Lodge at least once a month to sing and pray, and also conduct and participate in several other such worship, celebration and beseechment activities. For some reason, MSC's are uncomfortable with that. That's okay by me. In case you are wondering - despite the whole Sweat Lodge thing - I am not a non-deodorant-using, shower-avoiding, hairy-legged, vegetarian, love-light-and-rainbows, crystal-carrying, star-gazing, air-headed, floaty, smiley, "s'all good" mantra-spouting, "judge-not = check-your-brain-at-the-door," hippy-dippy fruit loop. Although - because of the whole Sweat Lodge thing - I do KNOW many of them. I love them, but still think they are very silly. I love arithmetic, and am enthralled by the complexity and beauty of numbers. But, I am still a dim-wit. I enjoy poking around in my computer's registry and tweaking things just for fun. Haven't crashed anything yet. But, I know absolutely nothing about HTML. Which is why this post is here instead of having a permanent home on the sidebar or something. I enjoy vegetable gardening, though I make a mess of things, because I hate weeding. Okay - I just enjoy planting, harvesting, and eating the stuff. I love to refinish antique furniture, build things, sculpt stone, make love to my husband, eat Sushi, and have lots of people over for dinner and cook-outs. Not necessarily in that order, nor all on the same day. And, I love talking. And blathering on.
Who am I? Due to my utter lack of imagination, I have decided to be known here as "PB." Those, of course, are not my true initials, but will just have to do for now. If anyone comes up with a better nomicker for me, feel free to submit it. You will not win a prize if I happen choose to use the name you submit.
About me: I live with my husband. Both of us work for a living. I am the mother of an almost-20 year old, a fact which, most days, just surprises the hell out of me. Not, that I'm a mother. But, that she's almost 20. I am not well versed in politics, but I like to read and hear from others who are. I lean to the Right on many things, and to the Left on many others. And, in some areas, I waffle back and forth so much it gives me a headache. In other words, I have no clue how to fix all the world's problems. That, however, will not stop me from blathering on about politics, when and if I choose. I believe myself to be a Christian, but whether or not I'm a "good" one is still up in the air. Most mainstream Christians would probably not claim me. I crawl into a Sweat Lodge at least once a month to sing and pray, and also conduct and participate in several other such worship, celebration and beseechment activities. For some reason, MSC's are uncomfortable with that. That's okay by me. In case you are wondering - despite the whole Sweat Lodge thing - I am not a non-deodorant-using, shower-avoiding, hairy-legged, vegetarian, love-light-and-rainbows, crystal-carrying, star-gazing, air-headed, floaty, smiley, "s'all good" mantra-spouting, "judge-not = check-your-brain-at-the-door," hippy-dippy fruit loop. Although - because of the whole Sweat Lodge thing - I do KNOW many of them. I love them, but still think they are very silly. I love arithmetic, and am enthralled by the complexity and beauty of numbers. But, I am still a dim-wit. I enjoy poking around in my computer's registry and tweaking things just for fun. Haven't crashed anything yet. But, I know absolutely nothing about HTML. Which is why this post is here instead of having a permanent home on the sidebar or something. I enjoy vegetable gardening, though I make a mess of things, because I hate weeding. Okay - I just enjoy planting, harvesting, and eating the stuff. I love to refinish antique furniture, build things, sculpt stone, make love to my husband, eat Sushi, and have lots of people over for dinner and cook-outs. Not necessarily in that order, nor all on the same day. And, I love talking. And blathering on.
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