Today, the newsfeed on Facebook is rife with this symbol. I can't tell one friend from another because this has become the thumbnail picture for many of us. It came from George Takei, who posts a lot of really interesting commentary and pictures. This one stands for marriage equality.



It is astonishing that we are hearing the same sad arguments against this as we did when interracial couples wished to marry. The world didn't come to an end when they did that, and it won't come to an end now.

Today, the Supreme Court heard arguments that all Americans have the right to marry. It shouldn't matter that the people involved are of the same gender or not. A commitment between two people who love one another and wish to have that commitment sanctioned by law should be available to anyone.

I'm not going to argue the point in this space. I simply wish to add Herban Sprawl to all the other sites who support equality for all humankind. I also want to wish the plaintiffs good luck in this endeavor. Being the test case for this most important human right isn't easy and you are to be applauded for your bravery. Mazel tov!

I was being teased by a friend for wishing Facebook friends really good cake for their birthdays. (My friend knows what a food snob I can be.) I sniffed at that, but hey. I think it's a perfectly reasonable thing to wish for someone's birthday. Not all cakes are created equal.

Around here we have a cupcake craze that has spawned a few cupcake bakeries. I have been to one a couple of times. Once to sample a cupcake and the other to pick up a pretty one for a friend who was celebrating her birthday with a cast on her foot. Were those cupcakes worth the money? Not even a little bit. These are box cake cupcakes covered in way too much overly sweet frosting. They are lovely to behold, but beyond that, they taste completely store-bought.

I was standing in line at Wally, and they had single packages of decorated cupcakes. I read the ingredient label and just shivered. There was a list of unpronounceable chemical substances. I suppose that if I wanted to create an ingredient list for a home made cake, and had to break it down into its chemical make-up, it would be similarly scary, but then again, flour, butter, sugar, vanilla, eggs, baking powder, cocoa? No emulsifiers or stabilizers needed, y'know?

This has left me to ponder the popularity of cupcakes made from a mix, decorated with a half cup of sugary goop and presented like an artistic creation worthy of inclusion in the Louvre. What's the big deal? Why would people be so gaga over a single serving in a paper cup? Why not a slice of a home made cake created with the inner magic of a happy baker? I have to admit I am at a loss to explain this phenomenon, and that is why when I offer birthday greetings, I include the hope that there will be good cake. Cake not from a box or the Kroger bakery or any other commercial concern that doesn't make cakes from scratch.

That, my friends, is my idea of a good wish for you. Imagine it coming from my kitchen, baked with love and served with hugs. Are you feeling it?

Simon may be a slimmer version of himself, but at 4:11 a.m., his paws still feel like ReBar rods poking my sternum. I was aware of an approaching cat and when I heard him hop onto the banker box that's next to my side of the bed (he's not as sure of his jumps as he used to be), I knew who it was. What surprised me was that he climbed onto me like he'd just scaled Mount Everest, and planted those lethal paws with the same intensity of the Marines at Iwo Jima.

Normally I can drift back to dreamland with a cat comfortably parked against me, but on me? Not hardly. I hung in there for a bit before I secured him and rolled onto my side. Didn't matter. Couldn't find a cool spot on the mattress, Big Kitty began to snore, and I was hemmed in by a needy cat, and I knew all I could hope for was just some rest.

When I gave up, it was not yet 6:00, the world was still quiet before the hum of humanity ruined the peace, and it was dark, except for a slightly lighter shade of charcoal in the northern sky.

All colors have warm and cool tones. Greys in particular have them, and that sky had a mere hint of pink to it, but also a sniff of yellow. Elisir di Lavazza in hand, I burrowed into the fleece on the loveseat and peered out the front window. The hill was still black, but it was already punctuated by yellow rectangles near the top. There are some mighty early risers up there.

I had a very nosy neighbor across the street, so when I used to write morning pages, I did so with a tiny book light, which allowed me to look out the window without her figuring out I was awake. It was a little game I played, just to be capricious. But to this day, if I am up at that hour, I need to write and I still do it with a tiny light, even though my nosy nemesis has been laid to rest, as of a month or so ago. Her immediate relative lives next door, so now the game continues with my book light hidden from Gladys Kravitz. (The nickname is so appropriate - I cannot even begin to describe!)

We had a day of warmth on Saturday, that was just lovely enough to lull us into thinking that the Vernal Equinox would bring temperate weather. We often forget that we are not out of the woods until May 10th, our last date of frost. And so when Mother Nature brought rain and chill for St. Patrick's Day, we were shocked and put off by her insensitivity. After all, on Saturday the air was enlivened by the music of children's laughter, the sounds of bouncing basketballs and the shouts of fathers and kids as they passed, dribbled and shot. Couldn't Mother Nature have given us a pleasant Sunday, too? Twas not to be. She had to remind us that this is still winter because she is in charge of this seasonal show, and that is that.

It's okay. That one day served as a reminder that soon we'll have weeks of that, so whatever remains incomplete inside our domains must be finished up. We'll want to be outdoors, and if there are inside chores hanging over our heads, we'll become overwhelmed and unable to drink in the shifting of the seasons. Besides, Mother Nature, in all her wisdom, bestowed us with grains, the wit to distill them and on St. Patrick's Day weekend, a bit of the resultant gargle was enough to let me sing The Queen of Connemara - on key! Truly, that was a gift from the divine and I, a card-carrying member of The Singing Impaired Society of America, shall treasure that!

Yesterday I had something truly surprising happen to me. A message awaited me on Facebook. It was a "cold call," if you will, from a former student. Not only was it perfectly composed, but the spelling was accurate. That's the teacher part.

The heart part was that all these years later, he told me I'd been a positive influence on him! Holy smokes!

It took me a while to digest that. When you teach middle school aged kids, you certainly do not expect something like that. So much time is spent being the brick wall they run into when they get out of line, which is often. So much of the time is spent "dealing," as we used to say. At the end of the day, one is never certain what really got taught because the day is so electrically charged with hormonal imbalances, family crises, and the normal flotsam and jetsam of angst-ridden pre-pubescent youngsters.

When a message like that one is received, it's met with equal measures of pride and disbelief. I studied his picture. I teased him in my reply and said I'd have to go to the yearbooks to determine which cute little shrimp he'd been. Fact is, the more I looked at his young adult self, the light bulb went off and I remembered exactly who he was.

Quiet, smiling, and no drama. Now what lessons did I leave with that sweet kid? That's one I cannot answer. I know the rules I set, I know I enforced them, and I know the kids fought me tooth and nail a lot of the time. I was immune to a lot of their frustrations because that's the only way to stay focused on what is important: being as fair as possible (it isn't always possible to be fair, so if you have to be unfair, you have to state it up front and express extreme regret), not allowing the bullies to pick on their chosen prey of the day, and teaching the lessons required by the school board.

Aside from that, was it my gum policy? You can chew it, as long as you keep your mouth closed, don't pop it, don't blow bubbles and dispose of it properly. Break the rule and you have to dump it, but you can try again tomorrow. How else can you teach them to chew politely if you don't give them a chance to practice?

Maybe it was my "thou shalt not call anyone a faggot." I once brought in an example of faggoting in embroidery, and I drew a picture on the board of a bundle, referred to as a faggot. These are faggots, I told them. We will allow the use of this word only in these contexts. Anything else is going to land you in so much trouble you'll wish you'd never uttered the word. And yes, my friends, I followed up on that with the zealousness of Paul preaching to the Galatians.

I don't know what it was, but I'll consult Q. Q tells me that I left quite an impression on him. Not enough to ever get him to crack a book, but an impression nevertheless. (That causes both of us to collapse in laughter!)

Meanwhile, to all my teacher friends who are still in the classroom: I wish for this to happen to you someday. It will make EVERYTHING all worthwhile. Honest.

Bless you, Christopher. You were a sweetie then and nothing has changed!

Recently I was chatting with a friend who is a lifelong Catholic, and a very devout one at that. Ever since the death of a friend of mine who was a “recovering Catholic” and who found her way to the Unitarian Universalist church, I have been asked a lot of questions about my own beliefs. Word has gotten around that not all UUs are atheists like my late friend, so now they want to know about me. It’s almost like I’m having to pass a test.

What has been interesting is that they cannot wrap their heads around the idea that I could be Italian and not be raised Catholic. More confusing is that I am conversant with Vatican II Catholicism, but can’t follow a mass in English like I can one in Latin. You just cannot be raised in my hometown ‘back in the day’ and not have learned something about it. Especially not when almost all the rest of your extended family are Catholics, and you’ve attended all their weddings and funerals.

The discussion turned to the current woes of the church and she feels that the press has blown all of this out of proportion. In her words, it hurts her heart that this has gone on, but it bothers her that it’s all over the media.

I had said that I knew guys who served as altar boys, and the way they dealt with groping priests was that the older boys passed the word along to the younger boys who never, ever to be alone with. It was a quiet way of dealing with the Roman hands and Russian fingers, as we used to say. Also not unknown was a visit from a father to a priest, usually in the confessional. As one story went, the guy entered the confessional, knelt, crossed himself and said, “Forgive me Father, but you have sinned. If you ever touch my kid again, I’ll personally shove the solid gold candlesticks up your ass.” The priest retired sometime after that, or so the tale goes. I cannot vouch for the veracity of this, but given my home town, it sounds entirely plausible.

At what point does what appears in the press become sensationalism and at what point do we begin ignoring the stories? I’ve been wondering this as I’ve followed the stories about the impending conclave in the Vatican. The American cardinals are lobbying for the church to own up to its part in the Sin of the Centuries, and the cardinals based in Rome are against that. They are the ones who have kept the lid on all of this, so I suppose they feel they have the most to lose.

Ultimately, the facts must be faced. Celibacy is a modern concept for the priesthood. The practice sets up the institution for failure, not only in how it deals with the transgressions of the priest on vacation in Hawaii who loses his dog collar and gets laid by as many women as he can, but also in how it deals with priests who are gay. Pedophilia is, by the percentages, more apt to occur among heterosexuals than homosexuals, so I’m keeping that as a separate category. I’m leaning toward the school of thought that believes these are men who are horny, don’t necessarily want boys, but will pursue what’s available and also what they have the power to control in order to keep it all secret.

When girls were allowed to serve at Mass, they were not immune to the errant pedophiles, so that would appear to support the idea that if they could get a girl, they would, rather than risk meddling with a boy. Any port in a storm, as it were.

Another fact is that priests didn’t necessarily have to be unmarried. You only have to examine the list of popes to know that they were a randy lot. Many had illegitimate children they’d fathered after they had taken orders. Some had legitimate children.

Similarly, many of the nuns back in the day were widows who sought the peace and quiet of the abbey to live out their days. After all, it was room, board and a life of service – not much different than marriage to a man who was always off fighting a war.

So the publicizing of the sexuality of the clergy has gob smacked those who thought they could keep that problem under wraps and now they must deal with it. And once again, the gay priests (who are not the pedophiles) are stuck bearing the brunt of the outrage. Jesus never issued a bull decrying homosexuality. The New Testament is silent on this, except for Paul, and Paul’s own misogyny is suspect from the get go. Why would anyone want to listen to him, for heaven’s sake? Paul wasn’t around to get it straight from the horse’s mouth, so it stands to reason he injected his own self-loathing into his condemnation of the practice.

As they continue to debate their issues, I’m rooting for the American cardinals who want the facts laid bare and the policy put in place to deal with the problem up front and decisively. If they don’t succeed, well, there is more than one kind of Catholic and I’m betting they would be welcome in the American Catholic Church. Something tells me they won’t give up that easily. Good for them.

                                                                                                                                                                                               

I decided I'd had enough of my old blog site. I couldn't add pictures, comments were hard to post for the readers, and generally it was in need of a new look. So, thanks to a tip from BFG (Best Guy Friend), and with a nudge from Anita, I decided to take my domain name and run, as it were.

I hope we can have some fun here. There are some elements I've not yet mastered with this and there are some things I honestly do not like. This typeface is first on the list. It's not very readable, and for a wordy old broad like me, it takes up too much space. I dare not make it smaller or we'll all go blind.

We are still in the throes of winter here in the Star City, but fresh starts are in the air. I was at the garden center the other day, buying 10-10-10, as per Jake's instructions (okay, I bought it....now I hafta USE it!) and I noticed people checking out paint colors, asking questions about replacing carpets and all the things associated with the annual disease known as spring cleaning. I have it, too. Y'all need to feel sorry for Big Kitty (not!) because his fire-trap office area is worse than mine and unlike mine, which is in the cellar, his is right there in front of goddess and everybody in our bedroom.

Speaking of whom, the House Goddess was here today and even she is making plans. "Girl, we gotta go to that greenhouse. I need some new plants. I got some stuff at Rose's on layaway for my yard." This should come as no surprise to anyone. HG is a decorator and her yard is a playground for her creativity.

And so it goes. It's time to spring clean, inside and outside. A fresh blog was just what I needed to get it started.