Apartment Therapy, that lovely home design blog for all us small house/apartment dwellers, has some articles about St. Joseph's realty prowess. Here's the original post, and here's the follow-up. Be sure to read the comments- some of them are funny.
Last night while Mr. Man was dutifully giving me a foot rub, we were discussing the generally accepted truth that for women, a foot rub is just a foot rub, but for men, a foot rub equals sex. Then I unleashed this gem: "Provided that I was having sex regularly, if someone offered me an hour long professional massage or an orgasm, I'd choose the massage."
Mr. Man stammered his disbelief. No! Surely not! How can it be?!?!? (Of course, he's never had a massage, so what would he know?) Anyhoo, we called my sister to pose the question to her. She agreed with me. So now my husband thinks that this preference is a genetic defect. I maintain it is a truth of female sexuality.
So, dear readers, I ask you:
Given the option between an orgasm or an hour-long professional massage, which would you choose?
Oh, our poor Buffy. About 2 weeks ago she began making a sound that was very much like a rooster's crow. (Don't let any one tell you it's "cock-a-doodle-doo." It's more like "Ur-ur-ur-uuuuurr!") Anyhoo, I ran outside and pointed at her and said, in my voice of authority, "Stop that or I'll turn you into stew!"
She stopped for a week or two but is back at it again and no matter of threatening will stop her. Luckily, she only crows around 8am, and only about 4 or 5 times. The neighbors have been very nice about the whole thing since she's quieter than the dogs (and babies!) nearby. But sadly, keeping roosters is illegal where we live.
I really want to keep her, but her physical attributes are all pointing to the fact that she is probably a rooster, even if her friendly and docile personality makes me think she's a hen.
Well Crap.
Does anyone want a rooster that thinks it's a hen?
My 2-year old nephew, Joey, is starting become a real talker. His favorite word of the moment is "poop." While this is helpful in requesting a fresh diaper and making his aunties laugh, his fondness for fecal-related conversation is proving to be a bit over the top.
At lunch in the Basque restaurant the other day we were asking him what he wanted to eat. The waitress came up, looked at Joey and charmingly inquired, "How are you little man?" Joey swung around smiling, looked her straight in the eye and yelled, "EAT POOP!"
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pLrmYIhHPuY
Mr. Man's facial hair is getting a little scraggly and I think he resembles Lee Greenwood just a bit more than I'm comfortable with:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RssIN3ustUw
Of course, in my opinion, 4th of July is not 4th of July without a little Neil Diamond, but nobody would sing it for me. So here it is for you: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xtMmSU88PdA
When we got back at Midnight on Sunday, I remembered that my sister, Katie, was stopping by on a road trip to join the rest of the family in Idaho. So I decided I'd go along. You know, like you do. Yesterday was Katie's birthday and we spent it in downtown Boise, eating Basque food, floating the river and drinking. It's a tough life, I know. I might just need some anti-depressants to help me cope.
In honor of Independence Day, I would like to offer these examples of priests with a healthy sensse of Ignatian independence from the typical vocation:
The Rapper Priest, West Coast (that picture is just begging for an Ironic Catholic Caption Contest)
Do you know of any hypen-priests that deserve our attention?
Recently I've have two experiences that made me think: "I could do that so much better."
First was at the wedding of "the Dads," the family that my sister and I have been nannies for for ages. They had a commitment ceremony before we met them, maybe ten years ago, but with the recent legal strides in our fair state, they decided to go for the legal recognition.
At their (very brief) city hall wedding, the officiant, who could not find her way out of a liturgical paper bag, instructed Papi to say his vows and then began the exchange of rings, skipping Abba's vows, even after Abba gently reminded her about them. ("Later," she said, and by "Later" she apparently meant, "After this is over and you go home.")
As a liturgist, a specialist of ritual, I was royally pissed off. Ritual eases us into transition and marks sacred time and events. It's familiar enough that everyone knows the parts. We've been to enough weddings to know that both people get to say something. Abba knew he was missing out. But the officiant was oblivious. Who let this woman volunteer? How many weddings has she ruined? In Catholic circles, missing the vows makes the whole thing invalid. Luckily it's the paperwork, not the ceremony, that counts in civil circles. But nonetheless, what the hell?
I could totally do it better.
Then of course, there's the youtube video of a tour of Oakland's new Cathedral. The tour director is fine, but something about the way he talks ("The bronze is going to get rough and that's... beautiful?") that makes me think... I could do that better.
So today I'm sending in applications to volunteer for both civil ceremony officiant and Cathedral docent. It's probably a bad idea to volunteer based on prideful conceit, but I just like to call it "knowing my strengths."
Wish me luck, or pray for divine intervention (like lightening?), your choice.
At Molleen's wedding and at my sister's engagement party, I had the distinct honor of meeting people who asked, "Are you Dirty Catholic?"
It's an interesting experience to meet someone for the first time who already knows, say, that you are maybe infertile and have a dart board in your backyard. But it does clear up the awkward "What do you do for a living?" conversation.
But to all of you, Hey! Hi there! It was nice to meet you.
Molleen, the recently married, just created a Facebook group, "I Read Dirty Catholic". So I signed up for Facebook, (I'm surprisingly low-tech for a blogger) and holy fuck, all these people I know (and who don't know the DC of me) showed up in the finding friends section. It's kind of a little bit freaky.
The upside is that I got to see photos of other long-time readers and damn, you people are cute!
Anyhoo, go join the group, if you want to. I will look forward to lurking about in it.
Yesterday I did some work for the parish (need a bilingual Mass setting? I can now direct you to every single one in existence), tidied up the house, started the laundry, went grocery shopping, made muffins and organic rice krispie treats for Mr. Man's lunches, cooked Chicken Tikka Masala with my sister for dinner, bought and began some subversive cross-stitch, and watched the entire 6 hours of the BBC's Pride and Prejudice.
Today I slept in until 2pm.
I can only be so productive, it seems.
Mr. Man & I went to a wedding in the Oakland hills on Friday night, where we got to hang out with some old friends and enjoy the unusually warm evening. I was from the "Graduate school" contingent of the bride's friends, a group that is particularly fond of drinking and dancing. I love going to weddings with this group because we are usually the first ones on -and the last ones off- the dance floor.
But my friends, this time we were sadly outdone. The groom's aunt, a 75-year-old grandma, was our dancing queen. She danced indiscriminately, some would say promiscuously, with everyone there. She goaded reluctant men from their chairs for a boogie, freely broke in on couples to share a salsa dance, danced with old and young, men and women, the talented and the rhythmically challenged.
I left that night hoping that I could one day learn to be as free, friendly, and joyous as she was. I left hoping that I could learn to party like a grandma.
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