16 Weeks is 16 Weeks, Whether You Wanted it to Be, or Not

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This is one of the more ludicrous things I've read recently. TMZ, the trashy website that posts celebrity gossip/news, posted the above photo last week. The story was about Michelle Duggar, who recently miscarried her 21st child, and the photo of the baby's feet the family showed at the funeral for the child, Jubilee. TMZ blurred the baby's tiny feet in the photo and warned that "images may be disturbing." Really? Disturbing to whom? I'm very confused by this.The images of Jubilee's tiny feet may disturb TMZ's readers, yet it is perfectly legal to abort fetuses of this size and gestation in this country? I'm sorry, but it cannot be both ways. If it is legal and acceptable to kill a baby of this gestation, then no one should be "disturbed" by a photo of the wanted baby of married parents who died of natural causes. As a matter of fact, all fetuses should have an ultrasound image - hey, why not one of the 4D images that are so en vogue now for parents who want their baby to be born - captured and framed for posterity. Then, when the baby is killed, the image can be hung on a Wall of Shame somewhere. How about a museum dedicated to those killed in utero? There is a museum in Washington, DC, dedicated to the estimated 11 million victims of the Holocaust. Why not create a museum of abortion victims, of which there have been an estimated 50 million since Roe vs. Wade in 1973?

Whether you are "for" the legality of abortion or not, you should recognize the hypocrisy inherent in "protecting" people from the very images of what is being put to death. Of a life willfully ended. If we are confident enough of our right to end a baby's life, then we damned well should be confident enough to face up to the fact that there was a living human being there, and he or she had tiny fingers and toes, and was a person, not a blob. 

Here is what the photo of Jubilee really looked like:

Say there are two fetuses. Both have hands like this. One has a mother who has prayed for her to be. One has a mother who has prayed for her not to be. One continues growing until she is delivered into her mother's arms; one is killed and discarded. Basically, what we are saying is that the wanted fetus is a baby, a joyful happening, and the unwanted one is a thing, a problem to be resolved.  They are the same thing, no matter how the mother feels about them. I feel like a Vulcan and this is the most illogical thing I have ever encountered.

I don't understand.

The House Without a Christmas Tree

Well, I'm bothered.

I am considering not putting up a Christmas tree this year. I know, I know, we already don't do any decorating other than the tree. I mean, other people seem to enjoy putting lights on their houses and stuff, but my family has never been one for that. Actually, any lights that were ever draped over the bushes were done by me, and that includes the bushes from my childhood home. As a matter of fact, I was the person who put up the tree (it was an artificial one, with the metal branch ends color-coded to the holes in the "trunk") each year, and then put the lights and the ornaments (complete with the stupid white doves my mother liked) on it. Mom didn't care about it, Dad didn't care about it, and I don't remember if my brother did. I do remember, however, that I was the one who cared, and I was the one who put the damn thing together. One year I wrapped vinyl red plastic around the porch posts in an effort to decorate the house. I did that. No one else gave a crap. It looked about like you would expect - there is a picture somewhere of my brother and me (and I was wearing my ghastly 6th grade glasses and a windbreaker) sitting on the tiny porch with my feeble attempt at Christmas cheer.

The first year I was married, we did not have a tree. We were too poor to purchase an artificial one, and honestly, we were too poor to buy a real one, too. They were $40, and we didn't have an extra $40. So, the first year our apartment went undecorated. I don't remember caring. I honestly don't remember the second Christmas we were married, either. I do remember the first tree in our first house, but I don't remember if it was before or after our son was born. I know I went to Kmart on Parrish Avenue and bought lights (the tree was real) and the lights were ugly. They were orange and green because those were the cheapest. The ornaments were those simple glass balls. They were cheap, too.

I talked my husband into getting a tree every year after our first child was born; even he could see that it mattered when you had a kid. He became somewhat of a tree connoisseur - which type had soft needles, which ones didn't. My mother swore that vacuuming up the needles burned up vacuums, and the tree salesman convinced my husband that certain prickly needles would poke a hole in a toddler's hand. I have pictures taken every year of our tree with the presents under it. One year I even had a ring on the tree - it was in a gold ornament case,and my husband plucked it from the tree and presented it to me. That must have been a good year for us financially, and I don't remember why or how. I do, however, remember the year he had been injured in a fall from a building and wasn't working. His father gave us a choice of a TV or $300, and we chose the money. That was the only reason we had a Christmas at all.That $300 might as well have been $3,000; that's how important it was to us.

After many years of real trees  I decided to buy an artificial one. It bothered me that I couldn't put a real one up a month before Christmas, because it would dry out so much. Many years we put the tree up two weeks before, and then took it down the week after. That's a lot of work for 3 weeks of enjoyment! So, I eventually bought an artificial tree. My husband insists on storing it assembled in the basement, so someone must carry the thing upstairs every year. Although I hang all the ornaments, I guess carting it upstairs is just too much to ask. I can't do it myself, so I have to depend on him and the kids, and no one is interested. In 2008 I was stressed to the max with school and with no one cooperating with me, and I gave up on the tree. A week before Christmas my husband and my sons put the tree up, but with less than half of the ornaments. It was...ugly.

So, after asking nicely, cajoling, pleading, and begging for three days for someone to bring the tree up, I have decided there will be no tree this year. It ain't worth it. And now I am wondering why it bothers me so much. Is it because I have never lived in a family where the tree is wanted? Is it because I have always been the one to put up the damn tree? All I can think of is that stupid  TV movie from my childhood with Jason Robards as the asshole father who denies Addie her tree. And now I am living in "The House Without a Christmas Tree."

My goal remains: to spend Christmas on the beach. This just makes me more determined to get there.



















So, I obvious

The End of an Empire

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I am taking great pleasure in Rupert Murdoch's current misfortune. I won't be satisfied until Fox News is dead and buried, though. How ironic that one of the world's biggest liars managed to hoodwink some of the world's best-meaning citizens, including my friends and family...

http://mediamatters.org/columns/200906020036

The Face of Illegal Immigration

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This man's name is Jose Alfredo Gonzalez. Until last week, Fredo lived in Tucson, AZ, with his wife and daughters. Unfortunately, Fredo is here in this country illegally, and was picked up by the Border Patrol while driving a car with a headlight out. His family has not seen or heard from him since July 6. His wife recently wrote on Facebook:

As you may or may not know, my husband, Jose Alfredo Gonzalez, was taken into Border Patrol custody last Wednesday, July 6th. Since then I have not heard anything from him, and I have not been able to locate him. I have gotten little cooperation and no real answers. I do not know how or where my husband is. He is lost in a black hole somewhere in this dysfunctional system.

My husband came to this country illegally as a teenager, not to sell drugs, but to work in drywall to pay for his mother's dialysis. Now he is a stay-at-home dad to our two beautiful daughters, his pride and joy. He wasn't pulled over for a DUI, but because of a headlight that was out on his way to buy cat food.

I want answers, I want people to be aware of this broken and inhumane system and how it effects real people, but most of all I want my family reunited! Please do what you can to help, whether it's sharing this story, writing or calling political representatives, praying, or all of the above. This fight is far from over, and I will not rest until my husband back safely with us.

Secretary Janet Napolitano
U.S. Department of Homeland Security
Washington, DC 20528
202-282-8000

President Barack Obama
The White House
1600 Pennsylvania Avenue NW
Washington, DC 20500
202-456-1111

The Mexican consulate located Fredo today, in Eloy, AZ. As far as I know, Nicole has not yet spoken to him. This situation is in direct contrast to what I've read happens when an illegal alien is apprehended. Every person is supposed to be entitled to Due Process. I don't call disappearing off the face of the earth "Due Process." 

It not only bothers me that this can happen, it scares me. I understand that Fredo is not a citizen of this country, but he's a human being. Put him and every person in his situation through the same process. Period. Immigration, both legal and illegal, deserve more of our attention. I for one plan to learn as much as possible. I hope you do, too.

Down and Dirrrrrty

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I love a good dirty martini. On the one hand, it's odd, because I am not particularly enamored of either vodka or gin. On the other hand, I love salt and all things salty.  The first time I ever tasted a martini was in Florida. My father-in-law had ordered one at dinner, and my husband and I both tasted it. We were appalled. Why in the world would anyone ever drink that, I wondered? I had a Lemon Drop martini several years later and thought it tasted like Pledge furniture polish would. I was not interested in experimenting any further until a guy named Michael and I talked about it at dinner one night. After asking a few questions, he determined that I would like a dirty martini. I took his advice and ordered one. This was at Rosebud in Chicago.

Michael was right. I loved it.

Unfortunately, I did not understand that martini-making is an art, and, like all art, there is good and there is atrocious. I recently revived my interest in and taste for martinis, and have decided to try them when it seems there is at least a 50-50 chance for success. Here is what my small sampling has determined:

1. The dirty martini in Chicago. Maybe it was the novelty, maybe it was the night, but it remains the best one in my memory.

2. Z's Restaurant in Owensboro, KY. I was pleasantly surprised by it. The perfect mix and ice slivers in the glass. I really think that is what sets it apart from others. Gotta get that vodka cooooolllllddd.

3. Gambrinus Libation Emporium, Owensboro, KY. Before I tasted Z's version, this was my number 2. The ice in the Z's version decided it for me.

4. Colby's, Owensboro, KY. Excellent, and with ice slivers. Even so, I place it 4th. It may have been the olives. I didn't love the olives.

5. Briarpatch, Owensboro, KY. Thinking of my experiment, I asked the waiter if they had a full bar (having noticed the total absence of patrons in the "pub".) He said yes, so I ordered a dirty martini. How can I explain this? Let's just say that it was nasty. There wasn't anything dirty about it, other than the olives. Seriously. It was a martini with olives. Someone has no idea what he/she is doing....

6. Texas Roadhouse, Owensboro, KY. Why would I order a dirty martini at a steak house, you ask? Well, it might have been because it was my 40th birthday and I was riding a sawhorse with a saddle on it, or it could have been because of the awesome drink I had 2 months prior. Regardless, I gave it a shot. It was dirty, alright. I belched olive brine all night. Akin to drinking pickle juice, to be honest. With a shot of vodka. Not an experience I want to repeat!

I will continue to experiment. Interestingly, I haven't tried to make my own dirty martini.  For now, I want to keep this something I only try when out and about. I'll keep you posted!

Shut Yer Pie Hole, Michael Moore!

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Though it pains me, today my beef is with filmmaker Michael Moore. I generally admire Moore's outspokenness, but his comments about Osama Bin Laden's death this week were off base. Moore called OBL's killing an execution, and suggested that America was wrong for not putting him on trial. He said people who did not want a trial for Bin Laden were "saying that you hate being an American. You hate what we stand for, you hate what our constitution stands for. We stand for something different than that and we're better than them."

Moore is wrong.

I love being a citizen of the United States, I understand completely what our constitution stands for, and I know our values and ideas are better than most of the rest of the world. But let's be reasonable - there was no possibility of OBL receiving a trial, and the logistics of such a thing boggle the mind. In the end it was right to eliminate him. Of course his death was an execution. Moore should remember that this is war, and OBL's demise was a consequence of the jihad Bin Laden had been waging against us for 10 years.

Mr. Moore, you probably have some good thoughts and comments about Bin Laden and the mess we're in, but this was not one of them. Shut yer pie hole, won't you?

SHUT YER PIE HOLE!

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All the Sass proudly announces a new feature called "Shut Yer Pie Hole"! When we can no longer stand it we will beg the annoying news feature of the week to shut up, already! Today we are pleading with...

Donald Trump

This man's hair looked terrible back in the 1980's and it hasn't improved. Now "The Donald" is fast becoming famous not for anything he does, but for the ignorant things he says. Born in New York City in 1946, Trump eventually joined the family real-state business and used his astronomical talent for skirting the truth to secure loans with little collateral, thereby building an empire in real estate and casinos. By 1991 Trump's business was bankrupt, and he was on the verge of personal bankruptcy. Apparently, "The Art of the Deal," didn't include advice on how to run a debt-free life. Unfortunately, in 2003 Trump became the executive producer and host of the reality show, "The Apprentice." Now paid $3 million per episode, Trump seems to believe that he is smarter than most of the world, and is threatening to run for president. He recently engaged in public feuds with Bill Cosby, Jerry Seinfeld, the New York Times columnist Gail Collins, and Robert DeNiro. We just want him to take his horrible comb-over and go away.

Please, Mr. Trump, shut yer pie hole!

KEYS

The other day I realized that not one of us in this house has a key to the front or back door. This came to light after I witnessed my son start to climb into the kitchen window. "Oh, hey Mom," he said through the window when he saw me sitting in the living room, "I didn't know you were home." "What are you doing?" I inquired. He answered, "What I do every day. I don't have a key to the door," as if I had asked a stupid question.

I had no idea how this came to be. There must be at least 50 keys hanging from various key rings on the rack by the back door. Steve's key ring probably holds 30 more. Surely, I thought, someone in the world was in possession of a key to at least one of our doors. I decided then that Steve and I would solve this problem on Saturday. Today is Saturday, and as Seth left for work this morning he asked, "You're going to get keys today?" "Yes," I told him, "We are getting keys!" "That would be good," he noted.

I had no idea my kids were so unassuming and accommodating.

I took all the keys off the rack and had Steve try to find ones that fit the front and back doors. He managed to identify one, and that was to the front door knob. However, he could not find one to the deadbolt on the front door. As he went through them he threw away a few. I was reminded of the ashtray full of keys we inherited when we bought our lake house. They were in a drawer, and we never did find locks to match those keys.The previous owners, Ed and Peggy, probably had no idea what the keys went to, either. Like most of us, they probably just kept them, because throwing away a key is a scary thing. What if you encounter a locked door and can't find a key? We tell ourselves that maybe one of the 50 keys in the drawer will fit!

As if.

Steve ended up taking the lock from the back door out and to the locksmith. We had six copies of keys made, and he installed a new deadbolt lock on the front door (it came with two keys). I have handed out keys to family members, and hopefully no one will need to crawl through a window in the future. There are still a bunch of keys on the rack, but I choose to believe they are vital to our lives. Mission accomplished!

Koinonia

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This weekend I was lucky enough to participate in my parish's eleventh Koinonia retreat. "Koinonia" is a Greek word that means "community." Those who are interested gather together on Friday evening, all day on Saturday, and Sunday until done. Together we "die" to self on Friday, "rise" on Saturday, "go" on Sunday to spread the Word, and, at the end of the day, separate to once again join the real world on the "Fourth Day." Koinonia is a weekend full of testimonies, fellowship, the Holy Spirit, tears, laughter, renewal of the sacraments, song, rejoicing, bonding, praise and thanks. It gives us an opportunity to understand how our community comes together to form one body in Christ, to lean on each other in times of need, to acknowledge our many blessings, and to learn how we can minister to one another, our brothers and sisters in Christ. There are no words to describe the power the weekend holds, and the blessing it is for those who are called to participate. This was my seventh Koinonia weekend, and, as usual, I am reflecting back over the retreat and meditating on what I was shown. I think this passage from Romans sums it up:

For by the grace given to me I tell everyone among you not to think of himself more highly than one ought to think, but to think soberly, each according to the measure of faith that God has apportioned. For as in one body we have many parts, and all the parts do not have the same function, so we, though many, are one body in Christ and individually parts of one another. Since we have gifts that differ according to the grace given to us, let us exercise them: if prophecy, in proportion to the faith; if ministry, in ministering; if one is a teacher, in teaching; if one exhorts, in exhortation; if one contributes, in generosity; if one is over others, with diligence; if one does acts of mercy, with cheerfulness. Let love be sincere; hate what is evil, hold on to what is good; love one another with mutual affection; anticipate one another in showing honor. Do not grow slack in zeal, be fervent in spirit, serve the Lord.  Rejoice in hope, endure in affliction, persevere in prayer. Contribute to the needs of the holy ones, exercise hospitality. Bless those who persecute (you), bless and do not curse them. Rejoice with those who rejoice, weep with those who weep. Have the same regard for one another; do not be haughty but associate with the lowly; do not be wise in your own estimation. Do not repay anyone evil for evil; be concerned for what is noble in the sight of all. If possible, on your part, live at peace with all. Beloved, do not look for revenge but leave room for the wrath; for it is written, "Vengeance is mine, I will repay, says the Lord." Rather, "if your enemy is hungry, feed him; if he is thirsty, give him something to drink; for by so doing you will heap burning coals upon his head." Do not be conquered by evil but conquer evil with good. - Romans 12:1-21.

Thanks be to God.