Category: Howling Sea Lane

Howling Sea Lane

Listen to the Average Blogger

the outside lane

I’ve been observing a self-imposed moment of silence on the Gifford shooting. In part, it’s because I wanted to know more before I said anything. In other part, it is because I wasn’t sure what to say. Fortunately, The Average Blogger has already said it better than I could have.

Here, from the perspective of someone who covers politics for a living, is an opinion I can respect.

Go read the whole thing. Here’s a nibble.

And I suppose if there is a way to make some good come of this horrific event, this is as acceptable an avenue as any. I’m a big fan of anything that goads our generally savage natures into being a little more civilized and polite. I think we all — and I do mean all: politicians, my colleagues in the media, and most of all the Great Unwashed Commenting Public — would get a lot farther in getting things done if we could just say, “Hm. You know, from where I’m sitting that argument doesn’t really hang together, and here is why, let’s figure out how to fix it,” than when we do things like, say, compare our opponents to Hitler, or throw bricks through their windows, or start talking about how such and such a policy is the worst thing since forever and we are all going to die.

But that’s sort of the point. Most people don’t throw bricks. Most people don’t buy a Glock and rip into a crowd of bystanders. In a face-to-face exchange, only those brimming with vitriol who have zero interest in results bother to bring up Hitler.

My husband is fond of saying that we don’t write highway laws based solely on the way Gary Busey rides a motorcycle. I’m pretty sure we should not rewrite our mores based solely on the way Jared Loughner might have interpreted something someone said some time.

Howling Sea Lane, Lancient History, Religion

God! The Beginning.

the outside lane

Amy and I talk a lot about religion, namely because we met in a mire of religious misinformation and slipped through the nets one right after the other. We also talk a lot about religion because it is a passion of mine. I like religions. I grew up in among religious diversity, and was taught to appreciate and respect how people choose to (or not to) worship. I would say that I grew up in a loosely Christian household.

We did not go to church (outside the couple of times I can remember going with my mother–and I only remember that because I loved my fuzzy blue coat, and I thought the minister was yelling at me. he was actually yelling at everyone. Hell! Fire! Damnation!), or read the Bible, or do anything remotely religious for Christmas or Easter, but there was a Bible in the house, and I picked up a lot of my personal belief system through the Bible story books in the waiting rooms of doctors offices. Pretty pictures, you know?

In my tweens, after we had moved to Texas (which really cut down on my ability to go to Temple and to Mass with friends–sad) I visited a local Baptist church and was confused and frightened into something like salvation. That is, after visiting the church a few times, and being hounded by the Sunday School lady, I was in bed one night staring at the ceilng and suddenly became afraid I was going to die. I was afraid if I died, I was going to go to hell, and didn’t want to catch on fire. I went to my parents’ bedroom and told them that, and I told them I was going to be a Baptist so I wouldn’t go to hell. They were fine with that, and I announced my intention to be baptized. Mom, although she hadn’t darkened a door since I was two, agreed to go to church with me to see it done. Dad said no.

The next Sunday, when the altar call came–wait. Some of you might not know what an altar call is. In most Baptist churches, the service goes something like Singing-Prayer-Singing-Baptisms/Baby Dedications-Singing (to give the pastor time to get out of his hip waders)-Welcome of New Guests-Religious Announcements/Introduction of Speakers/Pastor-Soloist Singing/Awful Screeching-Prayer-20 minute Sermon-Collection of Offering-Prayer-Altar Call-Prayer-Introduction of those who answered the Altar Call to be Born Again, Baptized, or Become a Member of the Church-Congregation Accepts These People-Prayer-Dismisal.

The altar call goes like this: The pastor will pray and remind the congregation that none come to the Father, except by the son, and will ask everyone to bow their heads and close their eyes. Then, he will (sweetly or not, depending upon your flavor of Baptist–I’ve never heard a sweeter altar call than those given by Bill Skaar at First Baptist Church in Grand Prairie, unless it was by Jesse Duplantis, who is a Word of Faith evangelist) entreat those who are not yet Saved to accept Jesus as their Lord, and come declare their willingness to follow Jesus’ way of doing things, and leave off willful sin. He will also invite people who are Saved, but not yet Baptized, to come make a declaration of their faith through Public Witness (that’s just saying out loud, in front of people that you have chosen Christ) and announce their intention to be Baptized. Usually, those people get baptized the next week. He will also invite people to join the church family.

Those who answer the Altar Call walk down to the front where ministers are waiting. The ministers speak with, pray with, love on them, and write down their information on little cards. The choir will generally sing, very softly, repeating verses of a chosen hymn. My personal favorite goes, “Softy and tenderly, Jesus is calling…” I guess I like it because my Jesus is a tender Jesus. Anyway, when the pastor thinks everyone who is coming is there, he will go speak quietly to each one, determine their needs, and pray with them. The choir is exhausted by then, so the music goes a little more up tempo until the pastor returns to the pulpit.

Then, he will remind everyone that answering the Altar Call is a brave thing to do, and encourage those who did it. He will introduce each person or family, using the little cards to tell the congregation about them and why they answered the call. He will then ask for particular members of the church to come and stand with each person, picking out those he knows are good examples of what each person needs, and will ask those church members to take responsibility for introducing the Newbies around, and helping them feel connected.

After service is dismissed, all those people remain at the front of the church, and the congregation comes by to greet and congratulate, and hug them. The little old ladies are the worst for wanting to hug and smooch on you. Although, I have a strong feeling that when I am a little old lady, that’s where you’ll find me–though I’ve long since given up on being a real Baptist.

So, picture me, a very small eleven-year-old in a pink dress. When the altar call came, this one as gruff and unsanded as the proverbial old, rugged cross, I took a breath, set my jaw, and marched myself down that red carpeted center aisle, through the mothball scented rows of pews, to the front. The Sunday School lady asked me why I was down there. “I want to get baptized,” I told her. She said, “Have you made a public profession of your faith?” I said, “I don’t know. But I need to get baptized so I don’t go to hell.” And, they baptized me, told me I was saved and not allowed to sin anymore, and to come to more church services.

That’s the last time I went to that church, save for visiting once with Jamie.

So, you see, I did not accept Jesus or anything like that. I thought Jesus was a really nice man, and that it was super that he was the Son of God and all, and I wanted to be a really good girl, but there was no personal connection. I felt much closer to Aslan than to Jesus, in fact. I was just afraid of going to hell, so I jumped into his line.

I would not have any regular religious instruction again until 9th grade, when I transferred to Ursuline Academy, and began taking Catholic theology classes and going to Mass. Imagine my surprise at finding extra books in the Bible! I found that very suspect. The Bible Calvary Baptist had given me didn’t have all those extras in there, and I thought I was a Baptist, so I needed to stick to the bare bones of Protestantism. Sister Ann thought I would make a good nun, though. I thought I could not. I do think one of my classmates went on to join the sisterhood. She was a wonderful girl. I find myself hoping she did because religions need people like Jean. Jean would make the world better. You could stand next to her and feel her calm and warmth radiating, and believe everything was going to be all right.

Once I left Ursuline, with the exception of a few visits to a pre-Dr. Skaar FBC, with Karen, I didn’t bother with church. I still spent plenty of time on religion. There were a lot of them out there to read about, anyway. It wasn’t until college, when I followed a boy named Luther to a Campus Crusade group, that I started getting really involved.

Between December 1992 and March 1993, several things happened. First, I was date raped out of my virginity (I’ve never really counted that, since it wasn’t exactly my idea, you know?) and that put me quite out of my mind trying to act normal, since I chose to keep it a secret (save for telling a couple of friends and blurting it out to a group of near strangers, who were appropriately horrified at my outburst.) Next, Granny was diagnosed with aggressive cancer. And then, my father left very suddenly. Thus began my downward emotional spiral, which culminated with me sitting on my grandparents’ back porch in July, sobbing my heart out to God and making that actual personal decision that Jesus was going to be my Lord, and was going to be my model for how to live my life. My way wasn’t working, so I said I would give his way a try.

A month later, I was attending my first Southwest Believers Convention, then the Eagle Mountain Motorcycle Rally, then soon, I was a full-on member and volunteer at Eagle Mountain International Church. Those were the good days. They lasted about two years.

Chef Lane, Howling Sea Lane

Rolling Stones and Baked Ziti

the outside lane

My mother has battled with kidney stones since I can remember. I can vividly recall the agony she was in, when Dad drove us from Denver to Colorado Springs, where I would stay with my Uncle’s family while Mom got medical treatment. It was pretty horrifying. I was three.

Off and on, since then, Mom has dealt with varying levels of stone pain. Three surgeries and countless days and nights of writhing, sweating, and heaving in pain. So, when B started groaning last night and told me it was a stone, I had a good idea of what we were in for–better or worse.

Thor had been very excited about starting his new school, so I didn’t get him to sleep until after eleven, and that required sitting in his bed until he succumbed. I came downstairs and thought I would give my new Wii EA Active Sport personal training thingie a try, and did a short workout while I waited for the laundry to dry. That’s pretty nifty, by the way, and I’ll write about it in another post.

I was on my way to bed at midnight, but B was already hurting so much he couldn’t lie still. At one, I gave up and got up. I couldn’t lie there while he hurt, and I couldn’t do anything to help him, other than just leave him alone and offer him water now and then. I figured if I got up, I could do something useful while he suffered.

So, I started prepping for our Tuesday night dinner of Baked Ziti.

I got my pasta cooked, and my onion chopped before B said it was bad enough to warrant the emergency room (and this is a man who can take a lot of pain, people), but we had to wait for my mother to arrive to keep an eye on Thor before we could go. I didn’t think I could manage to help B, who was hurting so badly he was having a hard time staying upright, and Thor, who would have been a very unhappy zombie child in such wee hours. While I waited for Mom to come, since I was already dressed and had opened my ground beef packet (I buy the tubes of 97/4 beef–I like it lean), I went ahead and browned my beef in the onions I had sauteed while the pasta was cooking. And by the time I had finished that and put everything in ziplock baggies, we had agreed that an ambulance was in order. (Thank God! And thank God for 9-1-1.)

Nero fiddled while Rome burned. Lane cooked while her husband’s kidneys tried to pass a rock.

To my credit, I knew I was going to be exhausted today, and I needed to cook the beef before it went bad.

Mom arrived just ahead of the paramedics, and she went up to watch Thor while I headed to the hospital, arriving ahead of the ambulance. B’s parents were en route to meet me at the hospital because I needed to be home by 7 to get Thor to his first day of school.

Thankfully, the ER was empty, so B was well cared for, and drugged into a happy quiet. I’m sure our neighbors think we’re into some pretty kinky stuff from the loud sounds emanating from our bedroom last night. Kinky like crucifixion, the rack, drawing and quartering, and Draino cocktails. You know. Your average slap, tickle, and riding crop.

B’s parents arrived as he was being discharged, and it was all of us back to our tiny home. Two grown up bodies and one little person fit tidily in this space. We did not bring our sofa, only our loveseat, and we do not have another adult sized chair, only Thor’s little straightback and his saucer chair. Thus, five grown up bodies and one little person make for some embarrassment as a hostess, but there were bigger fish to fry.

My mom left to go to work, bless her. B’s parents split up, his dad going to fill B’s prescriptions, while his mother stayed to look after B. I got Thor dressed (and he was so dapper it hurt) and took him to his first day at his new school. He was a trooper, even though he was clearly striving to be brave.

Back to the house, since I hadn’t slept a wink since Sunday, I went to take a nap in Thor’s bed. Much like John Taylor’s bite of tuna sandwich (that was for the Duranies), it was not to be. The call that ruined everything came from the school. Some administrative error had placed Thor in the wrong classroom, and there is still a possibility that we may have to move him to another school entirely. Stay tuned for that rant if it needs writing. I gave up and went to work.

I do love my boss, though. Actually love her. She sat with family at my wedding. Love. And she called me Gorgeous even though I was much less that, and much more Gorgon.

The good news is that Thor liked school, and that he had a friend who rode the bus with him. His after school teacher/bus driver reported that he came out of the building hand-in-hand with this little girl, looking cute as could be. Of course Thor can’t remember her name or tell me anything other than that, “Yeah, she wasn’t Ba-loo,” who is another friend of his. He thinks girls are gross right now. They have cooties. I did not teach this to him, but am happy to let the feeling persist for as long as possible. (Side note: Abigail, Annabel and Autumn are not girls, he said. They are good people. Sadly, every other female who is not a mama or a grandmother is gross.)

We got home and I started the rest of dinner. It turned out to be a very good dish! It was cheesy, but not runny, and the spices were just right. I divided the leftovers into 3 packets and have frozen them to serve as side dishes with other entrees.

I did two more loads of laundry, including the sheets, did the dishes, cleaned the kitchen, helped Thor with homework, wrote an introductory email to his teacher, fed the chickens, slopped the hogs, scrubbed the castle stairs, wrote an unedited blog entry about what I cooked for dinner and to what success (great, both boys ate it) and am now allowed to go to the ball. The ball being bed. Can’t think of anywhere I’d rather be.

Howling Sea Lane, Style

Floral Arrangements

the outside lane

I have fifteen minutes before I need to be out of the house, on my way to work. Since Thor is spending it discovering the joys of He-Man and the Masters of the Universe, I am spending it with you.

Today, I am wearing what is commonly known as a “big ass flower”. Some days call for a big ass flower. Which days? Days that require mental armor.

I am going into a rough week and have gird up my loins with fashion accessories. You see, a big ass flower distracts the eye and the mind. No one can try to force you into a serious conversation when you are wearing a big ass flower. It is the sartorial equivalent of a clown nose. How do you even try to take a clown nose seriously? You don’t. The same way you don’t take a gigantic yellow posey seriously.

On the other hand, no one is going to mess with a woman whose huevos are so big that she will wear a flower the size of a baby’s head as an accessory. She might be crazy. She might have a Walther PK-5 hidden behind the stamen. She might be wearing that big ass flower to throw you off the fact that she’s ready to take off her shoe and stab you in the eye with the heel.

Some days just call for a big ass flower.

This is one of them for me.

(You will also notice that I have limited my accessorizing to the big ass flower. I might be crazy, but I’m still only dressed to a 6 for the office.)

Howling Sea Lane

Starbucks Scags

the outside lane

I stopped by Starbucks this morning, hoping for twelve ounces of energy or something, and walked into my local to stand in line. Behind me, lounging on a circle of sofas as you can usually find them in the mornings, were some of the younger retirees of the community. We’re talking late 40s, early 50s.

My local is close to work, situated in the town center of a very affluent community. It is highly likely that the men behind me drove cars worth more than my house. I digress.

While I was standing there, two girls in their school gym/track uniforms were walking out, and one of the men engaged them as they were trying to leave, asking what year they were in school. They picked up speed, said they were graduating, and then hurried out the door.

As they were leaving, while they were still within earshot, that man let out a low whistle and said, “They’re about to be fair game. Couple of months, and those little hotties are legal–fair game.”

I cannot even tell you how quickly that ignited my rage. I turned around in all my mother-of-a-pre-schooler glory and gave them the nastiest, most disgusted mother-look I could manage, and said, “Really? Ech.” I made eye contact with all three of them, shook my head and turned back around. They demurred, then giggled nervously, and changed the topic of conversation to baseball.

No. Tolerance.

Fair game? Like it is duck hunting season and they have targets painted on their backs.

I have news for you, Men. We are not prey. We are not objects. We are not here for your pleasure.

I realize that I am rapidly approaching an age of invisibility, where my lack of youth will make it easy for you to dismiss me and my opinion as not being worthwhile–after all, sagging breasts are a sign of dementia. I am past the point of being looked upon as something pleasurable. I’m sure you think that I am just jealous that you weren’t eyeballing me when I walked into the store, and I’m sure you think you’re quite the catches anyway. Let me tell you something: You’re not.

You are gross. You are disgusting. You are jokes. You were nasty when I was a cute teenager, and you’re nasty now that I am a grown woman.

How dare you invade those girls’ space with your leering and your commentary? Those girls went into Starbucks to pick up drinks on their way to school, wearing school uniforms-clothing they were required to wear, not outfits they had chosen–and you turned it into a gauntlet of drooling boobs they had to run in order to do something that should have been safe and mundane. You turned children, because those were children, into punchlines for your libido, and you didn’t give a damn how that made them feel. All you saw were parts, not people, and you treated those girls like tits and asses, not like human beings. You should be ashamed.

If I ever caught my son doing something like that, I would be ashamed.

I have no idea how to end this blog entry. So, I’m just going to wander away muttering about trash, and new money.