"You know, Brunhilda," the author said upon sitting with a flop, leading to a look of affectionate disapproval from her trusty maid, "I may have bitten off more than I can chew here."
Brunhilda smiled gently. For hours, they sat quietly, enjoying the quiet. Suddenly, that fateful knock on the heavy oak door.
"Hark, do I hear a knock on the door?" The author called with false brightness in her voice.
And upon flinging open the door, she found a short, skinny little man, nose like a parsnip, hair combed fetchingly over a growing bald-spot.
"Lord Pratty-Pants, I presume?"
"Indeed," he said, looking her over. He liked what he saw apparently, his lascivious glances made the author's stomach drop. "Lady Slutskaya, you are lovely."
"Dear God, help me if I even act like that stupid woman!" thought the author.
"Ah, no, Dear Monster, it is I, your Doctor Frankenstein. Please come in."
"You're the one who was so aggressive with me?"
"Indeed."
"I am Lord Fauntleroy Pratty-Pants," he offered a full name that made the author's stomach cringe.
"That is far too much, and I think your surname is obvious enough. We will call you 'Roy'."
"Roy." He looked disgusted, but said nothing for a moment. This was going to be fun, a snotty sulker with a very high opinion of himself, and the idiot who could not for a moment, cease complaining.
"Your name?"
"Not important," smiled the author.
"Now look here, Miss," the flustered Pratty-Pants spluttered, "Everyone else has a name to match their personality, or a certain trait. You cannot simply just be called by your description."
"Frank Bard, if you must know," friends called her Frankie, her mother preferred "Francesca". And acquaintances referred to her simply as Frank.
"Frank?" he asked in disbelief.
"Yes, Fauntleroy?" The author-now-known as Frankie raised her eyebrows. "Ugh, Roy, what was I thinking? That name is so ghastly."
"Frank, I will have you remember, that I am written to be ghastly."
Frankie gave him a look that told him that he should count himself lucky that he was not being buried right about now.
"How could I forget?" Frankie-the-author muttered as she led him in. "Lady Slutskaya should be here soon."
"Would there be any way she could arrive without us knowing?" asked Sir Pratty-Pants.
"Indeed not. She is meant to be an irritation for us all."
"I have been informed that she is a diva,"
"Ah, but of course," smiled Frankie.
And with that, came a whirl-wind- the heavy perfume, and loud, grating (but oh, so angelic!) voice that could belong to none other than our Lady Slutskaya.
"Ugh, that salon did not have Venomous Vermilion."
"Tragedy!" said Frankie with an eye-roll.
"Classic red. Hmph."
"Yes, I know," Frankie said soothingly, nudging her gently to turn and meet her suitor.
Although written to bounce off of and to match each other, Slutskaya and Pratty-Pants had looks of disgust on their faces, narrowing their beady little eyes.
"Dear God, what is this?" demanded Slutskaya.
"Could you have perhaps written someone who is somewhat attractive?" Pratty-Pants wondered aloud.
"Shush, you two. Time to eat. And you will like each other, or I shall have to let you know of my disapproval. Come, children."
Small and skinny, Frankie was nonetheless a commanding figure, with a sharp, elegant marching step and an almost balletic way of navigating turns. Her curls bounced lightly with each step of her small bare feet on the polished oak floor. Pratty-Pants and Slutskaya followed, having no choice.
"You look like that cat-lady, with all that plastic surgery," hissed Pratty-Pants to Slutskaya.
"You look like a worm on legs," Slutskaya hissed back.
"Children," warned Frankie in a soft, falsely sweet maternal sing-song.
She smiled. She regretted for a moment the wisdom of having them be so equally despicable, but decided she could use that to an advantage.
I blog gluten-free
Sunday, March 6, 2011
Saturday, March 5, 2011
Lady Slutskaya's Morning of Reckoning
Daylight. The author is wrapped in a striped blanket, holding a stuffed animal, flopped on her bed. Blazing white rays of sunlight stream through the window, lighting up her messy golden curls and haloing her small face. With a hand on her forehead, she awakes, curses, and glares into the sunlight. "Grrrrrrrrrrr..."
"Do I hear an angel calling?" comes a cheerful little German-accented voice beyond the door.
The author's pet cats, Polly with her kittens, Optimus Prime, Megatron, and Bumblebee, proceed Brunhilda, and curl up to the author affectionately. "Yes," the author says, "You know where your Fancy Feast comes from, don't you, loves?" while gently entwining her fingers into Bumblebee's soft gold and black fur. He purrs and rolls.
"Very late night, liebchen." Brunhilda fixes her with a look of loving, maternal disapproval. She begins to fill coffee cups, and slathering a bagel with cream cheese.
"Guten morgan, Brunhilda. Ja, I know. We uh... got a little tied up last night."
"That's what you said when you dated that boy in the Navy." The author blushes.
"I suppose coffee might have to wait." She regretfully puts the affectionate kitten, and her coffee cup down, and leads Brunhilda to the living room.
When we next meet Lady Slutskaya, she is bound and gagged with duct tape, screaming behind her gag. She affixes the author with a look of pure horror. The author, looking like a little girl, in a t-shirt that goes to her knees, chuckles a little that someone could be afraid of her. Brunhilda watches without emotion, inwardly chuckling at the usually gentle and laid-back author's way of handling Lady Slutskaya.
Kneeling next to Lady Slutskaya, the author reaches for the corners of the duct tape covering Lady Slutskaya's mouth. "Can you behave now?" She asks brightly. Lady Slutskaya nods her head briskly.
"Good."
With ferocity, the author tears the duct tape away, murmuring "Just like a Band-Aid" in a soft, soothing voice.
Lady Slutskaya lets loose with a shriek.
"Oh, stop that," the author says, mock-affectionately, patting Lady Slutskaya on the head, "It's no worse than a wax, which you desperately needed. You've got to do something about that mustache."
"I'm..."
"Yes, I know, you are Lady Slutskaya, and you don't like, have to, like, put up with this. But, it's my words in your mouth, oh Dear Monster that I've created. Behave and take a shower. I'm no good with knots, Brunhilda will have to untie you. I have work to do, I'll call you when I'm ready for you." With a pause, the author stands again, and looks back at the prone Lady Slutskaya. "You stink," she tells Lady Slutskaya, who for once remains quiet while Brunhilda's sure, pale, fat fingers make strangely short work of the author's double and triple knots. The author retreats to her cats and her coffee, mumbling about divas and tugging on a strand of hair.
Over coffee, she reads Brunhilda's note from the evening before:
"Pratty-Pants called. Expressed concern that Slutskaya is known for being difficult. Wants more money, a masseuse of his own, and a new Mercedes as payment."
Swiftly, the author dashes off a note to Sir Pratty-Pants.
"Dear Sir Pratty-Pants:
You do realize I created you? Do not make me remind you again. As for difficult, my good sir, that is akin to the pot calling the kettle black, now isn't it?"
The author finishes her coffee and showers and dresses, little cartoon blue-birds bringing her her sweater and tying her freshly washed hair with ribbons, tweeting a sweet song. The author holds one on her finger as the 4 cats watch, trying not to lick their chops. "Fly away," she says softly.
Dressed, the author and her cats majestically and quietly make their way to the living room. Brunhilda is at her side in a heartbeat, refilling her mug and chattering about her youth. And then, there's an interruption. Of course!
"Like, this soap is like, unacceptable. I demand something from Paris, pronto!"
The author marches into the bathroom.
"Would you rather I give you the hose again?" she affectionately rubs the happy Polly's furry white head, not understanding why Lady Slutskaya stares at her oddly for doing so.
"Well, this is what we've got. Take it or leave it, Slutskaya. It shuts its' mouth, or it gets the hose again. Capisci?"
With a huff, Lady Slutskaya disappears into the shower. The author tries to shake a few images of Lady Slutskaya's wide, white arse from her mind. Sadly,the song, Moon River remains stuck in her head, and the images pop up as little distorted nightmares.
"Damn divas. Why I oughta..." mutters the author.
The phone rings, and Sir Pratty-Pants lets her know he is on his way.
"Oh, good," the author replies, with far less enthusiasm than Pratty-Pants might like.
"I am Sir Pratty-Pants, good scribe," says he, "Of Pratty-Pants Manor, Houndsdyke. I don't have to give you anything, you know."
"But you do, Pratty-Pants," the author replies more cheerfully, "You see, my dim-witted friend, you may be self-aware, but you have the brains of a cactus. Because I created you that way. I can tell you to dance the Hoochie Coochie, and you won't be able to help yourself."
"I will do no such thing."
The author hangs up with a smug smile. Sir Pratty-Pants will be meeting his match.
"Brunhilda, Pratty-Pants will be here at one. He is leaving the Manor now."
After sending Lady Slutskaya for a manicure to tame her talons, Brunhilda and the author sit to enjoy a peaceful moment.
"Do I hear an angel calling?" comes a cheerful little German-accented voice beyond the door.
The author's pet cats, Polly with her kittens, Optimus Prime, Megatron, and Bumblebee, proceed Brunhilda, and curl up to the author affectionately. "Yes," the author says, "You know where your Fancy Feast comes from, don't you, loves?" while gently entwining her fingers into Bumblebee's soft gold and black fur. He purrs and rolls.
"Very late night, liebchen." Brunhilda fixes her with a look of loving, maternal disapproval. She begins to fill coffee cups, and slathering a bagel with cream cheese.
"Guten morgan, Brunhilda. Ja, I know. We uh... got a little tied up last night."
"That's what you said when you dated that boy in the Navy." The author blushes.
"I suppose coffee might have to wait." She regretfully puts the affectionate kitten, and her coffee cup down, and leads Brunhilda to the living room.
When we next meet Lady Slutskaya, she is bound and gagged with duct tape, screaming behind her gag. She affixes the author with a look of pure horror. The author, looking like a little girl, in a t-shirt that goes to her knees, chuckles a little that someone could be afraid of her. Brunhilda watches without emotion, inwardly chuckling at the usually gentle and laid-back author's way of handling Lady Slutskaya.
Kneeling next to Lady Slutskaya, the author reaches for the corners of the duct tape covering Lady Slutskaya's mouth. "Can you behave now?" She asks brightly. Lady Slutskaya nods her head briskly.
"Good."
With ferocity, the author tears the duct tape away, murmuring "Just like a Band-Aid" in a soft, soothing voice.
Lady Slutskaya lets loose with a shriek.
"Oh, stop that," the author says, mock-affectionately, patting Lady Slutskaya on the head, "It's no worse than a wax, which you desperately needed. You've got to do something about that mustache."
"I'm..."
"Yes, I know, you are Lady Slutskaya, and you don't like, have to, like, put up with this. But, it's my words in your mouth, oh Dear Monster that I've created. Behave and take a shower. I'm no good with knots, Brunhilda will have to untie you. I have work to do, I'll call you when I'm ready for you." With a pause, the author stands again, and looks back at the prone Lady Slutskaya. "You stink," she tells Lady Slutskaya, who for once remains quiet while Brunhilda's sure, pale, fat fingers make strangely short work of the author's double and triple knots. The author retreats to her cats and her coffee, mumbling about divas and tugging on a strand of hair.
Over coffee, she reads Brunhilda's note from the evening before:
"Pratty-Pants called. Expressed concern that Slutskaya is known for being difficult. Wants more money, a masseuse of his own, and a new Mercedes as payment."
Swiftly, the author dashes off a note to Sir Pratty-Pants.
"Dear Sir Pratty-Pants:
You do realize I created you? Do not make me remind you again. As for difficult, my good sir, that is akin to the pot calling the kettle black, now isn't it?"
The author finishes her coffee and showers and dresses, little cartoon blue-birds bringing her her sweater and tying her freshly washed hair with ribbons, tweeting a sweet song. The author holds one on her finger as the 4 cats watch, trying not to lick their chops. "Fly away," she says softly.
Dressed, the author and her cats majestically and quietly make their way to the living room. Brunhilda is at her side in a heartbeat, refilling her mug and chattering about her youth. And then, there's an interruption. Of course!
"Like, this soap is like, unacceptable. I demand something from Paris, pronto!"
The author marches into the bathroom.
"Would you rather I give you the hose again?" she affectionately rubs the happy Polly's furry white head, not understanding why Lady Slutskaya stares at her oddly for doing so.
"Well, this is what we've got. Take it or leave it, Slutskaya. It shuts its' mouth, or it gets the hose again. Capisci?"
With a huff, Lady Slutskaya disappears into the shower. The author tries to shake a few images of Lady Slutskaya's wide, white arse from her mind. Sadly,the song, Moon River remains stuck in her head, and the images pop up as little distorted nightmares.
"Damn divas. Why I oughta..." mutters the author.
The phone rings, and Sir Pratty-Pants lets her know he is on his way.
"Oh, good," the author replies, with far less enthusiasm than Pratty-Pants might like.
"I am Sir Pratty-Pants, good scribe," says he, "Of Pratty-Pants Manor, Houndsdyke. I don't have to give you anything, you know."
"But you do, Pratty-Pants," the author replies more cheerfully, "You see, my dim-witted friend, you may be self-aware, but you have the brains of a cactus. Because I created you that way. I can tell you to dance the Hoochie Coochie, and you won't be able to help yourself."
"I will do no such thing."
The author hangs up with a smug smile. Sir Pratty-Pants will be meeting his match.
"Brunhilda, Pratty-Pants will be here at one. He is leaving the Manor now."
After sending Lady Slutskaya for a manicure to tame her talons, Brunhilda and the author sit to enjoy a peaceful moment.
Friday, March 4, 2011
In Which We Meet Our Dainty, Elegant Heroine
It was a dark and stormy night.
Like, excuse me, am I supposed to appear yet?
I am the author here, you are a character. You appear when I say so. Sheesh!
Where was I? Oh... It was a dark and stormy night, and a lone wolf howled a love song to the moon, and mothers began the slow task of tucking in their children.
"Like, excuse me, but, like, catering is like totally sucking here."
Like, excuse me, diva, but like, this isn't a movie. There is no catering.
Where was I? It was a dark and sto----screw it.
And Lo! But what to my wondering eyes doth appear? (Don't say it, I hold your fate in my two little hands.)
Like, excuse me, am I supposed to appear yet?
I am the author here, you are a character. You appear when I say so. Sheesh!
Where was I? Oh... It was a dark and stormy night, and a lone wolf howled a love song to the moon, and mothers began the slow task of tucking in their children.
"Like, excuse me, but, like, catering is like totally sucking here."
Like, excuse me, diva, but like, this isn't a movie. There is no catering.
Where was I? It was a dark and sto----screw it.
And Lo! But what to my wondering eyes doth appear? (Don't say it, I hold your fate in my two little hands.)
Why, the lovely Lady Slutskaya, all five foot nine and 160 pounds of pure daintiness.
Humph!
Humph!
Her raven black roots gleamed in the moonlight atop crimson tresses, and upon her dainty Hobbit feet little hooves absolutely delicate and tiny, flat, wide size 11 feet, she stomped- tiptoed to the window, and dramatically placed a hand over her forehead.
"Such tragedy! Such pain!" She proclaimed, in a voice like adying cow angel. "I am like, lost in this world, and forever, like, meant to be alone. I am like, my father's maid, and like, totally lost. Like, I like totally missed the Semi-Annual Sale at Victoria's Secret, too." (Madam, need I remind you who is the author, here? You say what I tell you to say!) (At this point, the author bangs her head upon her desk with a loud, alarming slamming sound. Lady Slutskaya is giving her a look that she thinks is cute, but would be better on a misbehaving child, not a woman of her, albeit youthful 50 38 years. The author sips more coffee and sighs.)
"Ahem," the author clears her throat. "Lady Slutskaya, I can scrap this right now. Sir Pratty-Pants really isn't keen on this project..."
"Such tragedy! Such pain!" She proclaimed, in a voice like a
"Ahem," the author clears her throat. "Lady Slutskaya, I can scrap this right now. Sir Pratty-Pants really isn't keen on this project..."
At this point, the author's loyal, kindly, 90 year old secretary, Brunhilda, refills her coffee cup and passes her a note. Brunhilda leaves after affectionately telling the author she is too thin, needs to eat, and should be in bed by now.
"Ok," says the author, with a sigh, rubbing her temple with one finger, "Let's start..."
"Like, totally, like, Sir Pratty-Pants of Pratty-Pants Manor, like, is like totally late now. It's like, all your fault."
As the thunder booms, Lady Slutskaya is heard to scream shrilly, as the author lunges for her.
"Ok," says the author, with a sigh, rubbing her temple with one finger, "Let's start..."
"Like, totally, like, Sir Pratty-Pants of Pratty-Pants Manor, like, is like totally late now. It's like, all your fault."
As the thunder booms, Lady Slutskaya is heard to scream shrilly, as the author lunges for her.
Moroccan Salmon With Calculations
Salmon is much-maligned in this household- I remember a few times I got served government canned salmon, all in the can with the Pepto- pink label, and all looking and smelling like something I wouldn't deign to feed a cat.
But a simple salmon steak is loverly, and I am in need of a good fish recipe. (Fish IS, after all, good for you, all those Omega-3s and what not)- and I liked the simplicity of this after I tweaked it for American measurements.
It's 3 ingredients, and I do know, I can tweak the rest as needed.
My thanks to the people at Listverse, who have alternately charmed and horrified me (The Edison recording of a castrato in the late 19th century comes to mind- a cat in heat sounds better.)
Ah--- marvelous... this is a "By Feel" recipe- as in, season to taste, and simplified. I can put away the fingers and pen-and-paper then.
Moroccan Salmon
Serves: 2 (HA!)
1)Place two salmon steaks on foil-lined baking sheet
2)Spray with macadamia nut oil spray. Hmmm... I think I may have to improvise a bit.
3)Coat thoroughly with Moroccan seasoning. This, I can find easily or mix together out of other spices.
Bake at 320 degrees Fahrenheit or 160 degrees Celsius.
This is going to be a hell of a busy kitchen.
But a simple salmon steak is loverly, and I am in need of a good fish recipe. (Fish IS, after all, good for you, all those Omega-3s and what not)- and I liked the simplicity of this after I tweaked it for American measurements.
It's 3 ingredients, and I do know, I can tweak the rest as needed.
My thanks to the people at Listverse, who have alternately charmed and horrified me (The Edison recording of a castrato in the late 19th century comes to mind- a cat in heat sounds better.)
Ah--- marvelous... this is a "By Feel" recipe- as in, season to taste, and simplified. I can put away the fingers and pen-and-paper then.
Moroccan Salmon
Serves: 2 (HA!)
1)Place two salmon steaks on foil-lined baking sheet
2)Spray with macadamia nut oil spray. Hmmm... I think I may have to improvise a bit.
3)Coat thoroughly with Moroccan seasoning. This, I can find easily or mix together out of other spices.
Bake at 320 degrees Fahrenheit or 160 degrees Celsius.
This is going to be a hell of a busy kitchen.
Thursday, March 3, 2011
She Abides...
Ways To Beat Stress That I'm Going To Attempt
1) Re-Take-Up Darts.
Those tiny Post-Its are good for more than book marks. When you absolutely, positively, cannot bear to look at a photograph of someone who pisses you off, then try this- write the name down, stick 'em up. Throw dart. Ahhhhhhhh... relief!
2) Think of Yoda Porn.
Yes, you're absolutely horrified imagining Yoda THAT way. No, you won't want to do it long (heh). BUT... imagining Yoda saying certain things-whether it be "Long time, me love you"... or "Delivery in rear, you must" are good for a little chuckle. Sure. You might tear up. Sure, it's horrifying. But, you can get at least a dry laugh. I really need to pray for forgiveness- the idea is just satanically awful.
3) Hot baths. Most often, I prefer the art of a shower to get clean. But... on occasion, I like to fill up the tub and just lay there in the hot bubbles. Until it gets cold or I get sleepy. I will not make the mistake of sleeping in a bath again!
4)Classic TV.
The stuff my parents remember from childhood, and I remember from my bundled-up sick days.
5) Pop in a movie. Zone out, or watch intently. Either/or. Food important. The dudette abides. Or, to quote the hilarious Two Gentlemen of Lebowski- really, check it out. I think even Shakespeare would like it- "The dude abideth".
6) I love buying books. I try to get a new one each month. It may take me a short time to get through most, and I do tend to re-read quite a few times, but it's something special. I toss, without guilt, those I don't like (No more cheapies!) and refuse romance novels.
7)Try my hand at parodying a romance novel. (Sir Prat and Lady Slutskaya stood in a raging windstorm. Slutskaya turns to Prat and inquires just why they're standing in a cyclone shirtless and with dress torn, "Do we look sexy or stupid?" "What the hell do YOU think?!" And then Shakespeare murders them in their sleep. Wait- I said slasher fiction, right? )
~Fin
1) Re-Take-Up Darts.
Those tiny Post-Its are good for more than book marks. When you absolutely, positively, cannot bear to look at a photograph of someone who pisses you off, then try this- write the name down, stick 'em up. Throw dart. Ahhhhhhhh... relief!
2) Think of Yoda Porn.
Yes, you're absolutely horrified imagining Yoda THAT way. No, you won't want to do it long (heh). BUT... imagining Yoda saying certain things-whether it be "Long time, me love you"... or "Delivery in rear, you must" are good for a little chuckle. Sure. You might tear up. Sure, it's horrifying. But, you can get at least a dry laugh. I really need to pray for forgiveness- the idea is just satanically awful.
3) Hot baths. Most often, I prefer the art of a shower to get clean. But... on occasion, I like to fill up the tub and just lay there in the hot bubbles. Until it gets cold or I get sleepy. I will not make the mistake of sleeping in a bath again!
4)Classic TV.
The stuff my parents remember from childhood, and I remember from my bundled-up sick days.
5) Pop in a movie. Zone out, or watch intently. Either/or. Food important. The dudette abides. Or, to quote the hilarious Two Gentlemen of Lebowski- really, check it out. I think even Shakespeare would like it- "The dude abideth".
6) I love buying books. I try to get a new one each month. It may take me a short time to get through most, and I do tend to re-read quite a few times, but it's something special. I toss, without guilt, those I don't like (No more cheapies!) and refuse romance novels.
7)Try my hand at parodying a romance novel. (Sir Prat and Lady Slutskaya stood in a raging windstorm. Slutskaya turns to Prat and inquires just why they're standing in a cyclone shirtless and with dress torn, "Do we look sexy or stupid?" "What the hell do YOU think?!" And then Shakespeare murders them in their sleep. Wait- I said slasher fiction, right? )
~Fin
That Was Copacetic
Over the past few years, I've heard numerous questions:
What should happen to pedophiliac priests?
Same thing you would any pedophile. Remove them from the source. Remove their Holy Orders. They ceased being servants to God when they acted in such a base manner. Put them in prison. Ensure they can no longer physically act on their desires. Take the case of Peter Abelard , who later became known as a great theologian, but whom impregnated his teenage lover. While Heloise's uncle did wrong...dispatching a small group to remove Abelard's manhood, I can see the good in removing capability to act on those desires. I can also see the idea of locking a repeat pedophile away for good. Away from his/ her temptations. (I must of course, be fair, and not only males are capable of this.) Make it easy for victims to speak up, maintain dignity, and make sure they have NO FEAR OF RETRIBUTION.
Should women become priests?
In which religion? Catholicism doesn't allow this. When JPII made the ruling, he was protected by that supposed papal infallibility. Which, actually has limits. First, I'll explain that.
Papal infallibility is the doctrine that by action of the Holy Spirit, is preserved from even the possibility of error.
See both Wiki Article... simplified English and The Catholic Encyclopedia for details, as well as Catholic Dot Com
In other words, on matters of faith, the Pope cannot be wrong and his rulings are final.
Now--- female Roman Catholic priests. It's iffy, particularly as I'm working on this myself, however, in my case, it's knowing I'd have to leave the Church if I chose to follow in the affirmative.
The idea is based not on Timothy... but on a letter FROM St. Paul TO Timothy.
"Thou shalt not suffer a woman to teach". (Do I also stone to death a child who tells me "no"?)
I read, and admittedly had a moment of confusion, reading a Catholic-based blog by a lay-person, which is informative, but occasionally, inflammatory. (And contains the scariest ticker: ____ babies have been aborted since you opened this blog). A Lenten project by some laity is to "Adopt a Priestess"- (do they get a puppy?)
Acts of the Apostasy Adopt a Priestess Program
Norma Jean Coon, Renunciation of Priesthood
I do not believe women should be precluded. Also, I know there are also married Catholic priests who converted to Catholicism and believe all priests should be allowed marriage. There must be more done to allow for health issues and addictions. The restrictions on the host and wine can also help turn away the faithful.
The Catholic Church, to survive, to reach those who need it, must leave behind inflammatory behaviors and words, make peace with the past, and focus on faith, NOT religion. Strict rules leave those with illnesses and those alcoholics who need an alcohol-free communion in the dust. Why shouldn't everyone spread the faith? Why shouldn't those, who abused in the name of a religion, abused children and their powers, be locked away forever, not just moved parish-to-parish? And why shouldn't everyone be safely able to commune with God?
*I am not writing this because I wish to inflame, nor is this an indictment of the Church as a whole. This is me "thinking out loud" while struggling, not with faith, but religion.
What should happen to pedophiliac priests?
Same thing you would any pedophile. Remove them from the source. Remove their Holy Orders. They ceased being servants to God when they acted in such a base manner. Put them in prison. Ensure they can no longer physically act on their desires. Take the case of Peter Abelard , who later became known as a great theologian, but whom impregnated his teenage lover. While Heloise's uncle did wrong...dispatching a small group to remove Abelard's manhood, I can see the good in removing capability to act on those desires. I can also see the idea of locking a repeat pedophile away for good. Away from his/ her temptations. (I must of course, be fair, and not only males are capable of this.) Make it easy for victims to speak up, maintain dignity, and make sure they have NO FEAR OF RETRIBUTION.
Should women become priests?
In which religion? Catholicism doesn't allow this. When JPII made the ruling, he was protected by that supposed papal infallibility. Which, actually has limits. First, I'll explain that.
Papal infallibility is the doctrine that by action of the Holy Spirit, is preserved from even the possibility of error.
See both Wiki Article... simplified English and The Catholic Encyclopedia for details, as well as Catholic Dot Com
In other words, on matters of faith, the Pope cannot be wrong and his rulings are final.
Now--- female Roman Catholic priests. It's iffy, particularly as I'm working on this myself, however, in my case, it's knowing I'd have to leave the Church if I chose to follow in the affirmative.
The idea is based not on Timothy... but on a letter FROM St. Paul TO Timothy.
"Thou shalt not suffer a woman to teach". (Do I also stone to death a child who tells me "no"?)
I read, and admittedly had a moment of confusion, reading a Catholic-based blog by a lay-person, which is informative, but occasionally, inflammatory. (And contains the scariest ticker: ____ babies have been aborted since you opened this blog). A Lenten project by some laity is to "Adopt a Priestess"- (do they get a puppy?)
Acts of the Apostasy Adopt a Priestess Program
Norma Jean Coon, Renunciation of Priesthood
I do not believe women should be precluded. Also, I know there are also married Catholic priests who converted to Catholicism and believe all priests should be allowed marriage. There must be more done to allow for health issues and addictions. The restrictions on the host and wine can also help turn away the faithful.
The Catholic Church, to survive, to reach those who need it, must leave behind inflammatory behaviors and words, make peace with the past, and focus on faith, NOT religion. Strict rules leave those with illnesses and those alcoholics who need an alcohol-free communion in the dust. Why shouldn't everyone spread the faith? Why shouldn't those, who abused in the name of a religion, abused children and their powers, be locked away forever, not just moved parish-to-parish? And why shouldn't everyone be safely able to commune with God?
*I am not writing this because I wish to inflame, nor is this an indictment of the Church as a whole. This is me "thinking out loud" while struggling, not with faith, but religion.
Wednesday, March 2, 2011
March Madness
I'm a little sad and a little irritated with me, lately.
That I can never just say what's wrong at any given moment and it ends up becoming a long, depressing, angry moment later. That, when others are sad, my sadnesses take that moment to rear their ugly heads. I thought I'd gotten into "comfortably numb"- a defense mechanism- which lets me deal with things at the point I'm able to, and not all at once... as I am not capable of handling about a thousand things at a time, sadly. It appears I have a while to get there.
On occasion, my tendency towards pure honesty, comes out more brutally than I'd like it to. I do hide things... except from a very select few. I admittedly take a lot of things out on myself, as I find myself shying away from most. I get agitated with myself for being mousy. My head ducking, my tendency to attempt to avoid more dark conversations- I hate having people made uncomfortable or depressed dealing with me- as opposed to "Ok, this happened. I'm fighting, but I'm slipping"- I'm still attempting to just be a goof... and waiting until I can be more objective.
I am letting my "Must be perfect" tendency, which I know, drives me to the impossible, as I cannot be, but can strive to be a good person- take over me on occasion. This won't help me... and won't help those I want to help. And, while I am making a lot of progress, I admit... I've slipped lately. But... no, I haven't dealt with a few demons lately--- just the nightmares- and my literal hair-pulling tendencies. But... as for all else, I am clean. And I thank my lucky stars for that. I am, all in all, extremely blessed. And grateful. So I'm a bit mousy. So be it.
I've got work to do--- and I'm, by God... not quitting 'till I'm done.
That I can never just say what's wrong at any given moment and it ends up becoming a long, depressing, angry moment later. That, when others are sad, my sadnesses take that moment to rear their ugly heads. I thought I'd gotten into "comfortably numb"- a defense mechanism- which lets me deal with things at the point I'm able to, and not all at once... as I am not capable of handling about a thousand things at a time, sadly. It appears I have a while to get there.
On occasion, my tendency towards pure honesty, comes out more brutally than I'd like it to. I do hide things... except from a very select few. I admittedly take a lot of things out on myself, as I find myself shying away from most. I get agitated with myself for being mousy. My head ducking, my tendency to attempt to avoid more dark conversations- I hate having people made uncomfortable or depressed dealing with me- as opposed to "Ok, this happened. I'm fighting, but I'm slipping"- I'm still attempting to just be a goof... and waiting until I can be more objective.
I am letting my "Must be perfect" tendency, which I know, drives me to the impossible, as I cannot be, but can strive to be a good person- take over me on occasion. This won't help me... and won't help those I want to help. And, while I am making a lot of progress, I admit... I've slipped lately. But... no, I haven't dealt with a few demons lately--- just the nightmares- and my literal hair-pulling tendencies. But... as for all else, I am clean. And I thank my lucky stars for that. I am, all in all, extremely blessed. And grateful. So I'm a bit mousy. So be it.
I've got work to do--- and I'm, by God... not quitting 'till I'm done.
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