It's not BlogHer, but it's a start.

On Saturday night, I left Al overnight for the first time ever. Remember how I wigged out over being more than 10 minutes away from him that time? Well, I learned this weekend that the way to deal with separation anxiety (mine, not his) is to apply large doses of shopping, drinking, and dancing. I can't think of any ailment that those three won't salve.

In honor of my sister-in-law's 30th birthday, five other drunks, one DW*, and I loaded up into a big ol' SUV and headed across the state line where the following highlights were witnessed by poor unsuspecting friends and strangers.

The weekend in numbers:

• One pair of ghetto-booty jeans, two halter tops, one cami, one lace shell, two tees, one pair of shoes, and two bags: The items that I bought upon learning that everyone else was wearing jeans and hoochie tops to the club that evening. I quickly decided that the sundress in my suitcase would not do at all and commenced to shopping my ass off and spending all of my self-imposed Back-to-School clothing budget.
  
• Two or three: The number of items that I can actually wear in the classroom. I'll do Back-to-School shopping next paycheck.
• Two: The number of us who couldn't quite get over the tastiness of the balls at Joe's Crab Shack. Those were some very moist and yummy balls.
• One: The number of people who hit on me that night. While most of the girls were being pursued by 21-year-old boys, my only suitor of the night was a very large, very tattooed and very aggressive woman who physically pinned me into a corner with her very frightening "dancing."
• One: The number of awe-inspiring renditions of the Ice, Ice Baby Dance performed by one of our group.
  
• Four: The number of us who stumbled downstairs to the Karaoke bar and stood on stage as we stammered through the lyrics of "Don't It Make My Brown Eyes Blue."
  
• Three: The number of hours of dancing and accepting free drinks (thank goodness my friends are pretty) that we had spent before reaching that point.
  
• Four: The number of girls who called it a night and went back to the hotel before midnight.
• Three: The number of us who stayed for more dancing before we too crossed the parking lot to the hotel. And decided to go swimming until the wee hours of the morning.
  
• Two: The number of girls in the group who either are or have been married to the Mr.**
• Five: The number of girls in the group who had that same look on their faces when they put it all together, too.
  

The Former Mrs. Mr., The Birthday Girl, and Me. (With black bars, a la Isabel)

*DW: Designated Walker. We arranged to stay in a hotel within walking distance from the club and the restaurant so we wouldn't have to drink and drive. We ordained the one nondrinker as our designated walker, because you never know what might happen with six drunk women between Point A and Point B.
**Yes, we're friends. Not like-sisters friends, but we get along very well. Some people think that's weird. I think it's fortunate.

From the Mouths of Men

The Mr., upon finding me at the computer with a glass of wine:

"If it weren't for booze and blogs, I don't think you'd survive ."



Indeed.

Good News and Bad News

Good News: I visited and toured four different day care centers yesterday.
Bad News: I visited and toured four different day care centers yesterday with a teething, clingy, stranger-phobic toddler.

Good News: Three of the four centers are good. One of those three is Exceptionally Good. The other one is bad, bad, bad. And ugly.
Bad News: The one that is Exceptionally Good is the one from whom I TURNED DOWN a spot when they reconfigured their baby rooms back in the spring because "No thank you, our child care situation is fiiiiiine." I'm such an idiot.

Good News: The director of the Exceptionally Good day care center said that she would return our waiting list form to its prior position.
Bad News: We will still have to wait.

Good News: One of the other good centers is new and has an immediate opening for Al. I signed him up to begin August 6.
Bad News: No matter what, when an opening is offered from the Exceptionally Good center, I will snatch it up. That means that I'll have to move Al twice.

Good News: I've lost two pounds since Monday.
Bad News: That just means that my anxious tummy was late to the party. I'm still worried, and I'm still stressed, and my gut has taken up residence in my throat. It's been so long since I had any real anxiety that I guess my digestive system had a delayed reaction.

Just Great

Once upon a time, worry and anxiety and stress would send me into a frantic mode of sleeplessness and loss of appetite. I would wake at 4:00am and run around like crazy trying to DO something to solve my problem and forget to eat because I wasn't hungry anyway. There was an upside to stress--by the time the situation had been resolved, I'd be 2-5 pounds lighter.

My, how things change.

The daycare woes are back. I have roughly a month to secure Al a place somewhere before I go back to work. What stresses me out the most is the fact that he is 18 months old, and have you ever met an 18-month-old? Have you ever tried changing up an 18-month-old's world? Yeah.

And in traditional Jeze fashion, I have been up since 4am, maniacally listing the names and phone numbers of potential child care providers and looking up their records on the Department of Protective and Family Services on the internet. I am not sleeping. I am trying to do something productive toward the resolution of the problem that will tide me over until the daycare centers start answering their phones this morning.

However, I am eating. Like a starving mad woman.

I can't win.

Cabin Fever

It has rained 17 out of the past 19 days. The last time we had this much rain in July was 1979. And we all know what happened the following year.

I try not to complain. Usually, we are entering the beginning stages of dusty parchedness as July begins. We'll be wishing for some of this wetness come August. At least that's what I keep telling myself.

This is a nearby spillway from one of our area lakes that flows into the Neches river:

Click on the photo for an annotated version. It's riveting stuff.

Here is a sad little boy who just wishes it would stop raining:

Here is a stir-crazy little boy who would rather throw himself into oncoming traffic than to face another rainy day:

*Please see note below.

*Note: NO, I DID NOT LET MY CHILD THROW HIMSELF INTO ONCOMING TRAFFIC. THIS ROAD IS NO LONGER TRAVELED BY ANY KIND OF MOTORIZED VEHICLE, EVER. IT IS BARRICADED WITH CONCRETE POSTS ON EITHER END. IT IS USED ONLY FOR PEDESTRIAN TRAFFIC. A CAR COULDN'T GET ON THERE EVEN IF IT WANTED TO. IF YOU DON'T BELIEVE ME, COME DOWN HERE AND I'LL SHOW YOU.

I felt I needed to make that clear, even if it negates every bit of funny that the photo may have contributed to the post.

A History of Religion: Part Five

Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4

The big question now is, "Where do I go from here?"

I wish I knew for sure.

I do know this: It is no longer about me.

While I completed the RCIA course in preparation for my own Catholic Confirmation, I often thought about how my experience with the Church was different from that of many "cradle Catholics." By entering the Church as an adult, I had time to internalize the Catechism and to appreciate the representations of the symbols and traditions. I'm not sure that I would have had the same kinds of feelings about the Church had I been indoctrinated (or "brainwashed," in the Mr.'s language) from childhood. During the process of becoming Catholic, I was thankful for the religious upbringing of my youth. Because of the lessons I learned in that fundamental Baptist church, my knowledge of the Bible and of the Christian faith as a whole is pretty advanced. I knew that I would draw on that knowledge later in life if I ever had a child, because in the Catholic Church, some things just aren't explained on a child's level very regularly or very clearly. In other words, if I were to raise my child as a Catholic, I planned to supplement his religious training with my stores of Born Again insight.

In other words, I've never been convinced that Catholicism is the best way to bring a up child to know God.

I still don't know what the best way is, but I'm working on what may be the best way for Alex and the Mr. and me. First of all, Al goes to a church daycare where Bible verses and songs about God are staples. That's a start. As soon as he begins to get over his "stranger danger," I think we will start attending services at the church that houses his daycare--their schedule is arranged so that the adults can attend worship services while the children attend Sunday School. I hope the Mr. will join us, but if he doesn't, I will still go with Alex and I'll make sure that he has the chance to hear the Word and to know God.

It's my responsibility. I do know that much.

A History of Religion: Part 4

Part 1
Part 2
Part 3

I was happy. Or content, rather. There is a difference, you know. I busied myself with grad school and my work and my Church and my gym. Instead of sidling up to the local bar 2-3 times a week as I had once been wont to do, I opted for research papers and academic forums. After a while, I realized that I was becoming a bit of a hermit, so I made a pact with myself to try to get out and socialize more.

One Wednesday afternoon at work, an IM from a friend popped up on my computer. Some people were going to get together for dinner, and he thought I might like to join them. My first instinct was to bow out, citing a large project that was due that week, but then I remembered my resolution. "What time?" I typed.

There really wasn't anything extraordinary about that outing, except that I met a couple who introduced me to the Mr. a few days later.

I don't think I need to explain in detail that the Mr. and I hit it off famously. He's the Mr., after all. A couple of qualities that particularly attracted me were his intellect and his attention to current events and world issues. He had very precise opinions about most matters, and if I happened to disagree, his arguments were clear and thoughtful and sometimes maddening.

Religion was, of course, a point of discussion. The Mr. was raised Catholic, then became Born Again later in adolescence. We had traveled completely opposite religious paths. While I found the rules and rituals and smells and bells of Catholicism comforting and reverent, he considered them rote and borderline cultish. I thought it reckless and assuming for a minister to choose whichever scripture he wanted to preach about on any old Sunday with total disregard to the Liturgical calendar. He believed that it was the pastor's responsibility to deal with issues that were most urgent and important to the congregation, regardless of years and cycles and testaments. I embrace my blind faith. He looks at everything from an analytical standpoint and therefore struggles with the concept.

For many months, I continued attending Mass, but the level of my devotion waned. I stopped going to Confession because I didn't plan to cease doing the one thing that I would confess. The Mr. attended Mass with me a few times, but his opinion remained firm. For the time being, we continued on our own religious journeys, and that was fine by me. My relationship with God was between God and me.

Then, the Mr. proposed, and because I was (and am) deeply in love with him and certain that there would never be another person with whom I would connect with so completely, I accepted. And with that acceptance, I made a choice.

I knew that we could not be married in a traditional Catholic Mass because of a variety of circumstances. We spoke to my mother's Methodist minister and he agreed to marry us only if we would commit to weekly premarital counseling sessions with him. For a few months before our wedding, we attended church with my mom and stepdad and then stayed for counseling each Sunday. This arrangement felt right. The minister had known my family for years and I had gotten to know him earlier when my stepdad had surgery. My mom loved him and he was like part of our family. In the end, he performed a beautiful and prayerful ceremony at our small chapel wedding.

After we had been married for a while, I finally worked up the nerve to research my "status" as a Catholic. I had continued to attend Mass and receive the Eucharist like always, but I wondered exactly where the Church stood on my particular brand of marriage. What I learned was that by having been married outside the Church and without a dispensation, I was not in a "state of grace" and not allowed to receive the Eucharist. So I stopped going at all.

I stopped going because I was angry at myself for taking a vow--my Confirmation vow--without having fully studied the obligations that it carried. I was ashamed that I hadn't held up my part of my commitment to the Church. And I was disappointed that the Church that I loved so much would not accept me as my husband's wife.

It all boiled down to the fact that I love my husband more than I love the Church. Whether or not I was fully aware of the ramifications at that particular moment, I chose to fall out of grace instead of returning to my solitary existence. More devout Catholics would argue that the right thing would have been to either insist on a Catholic wedding or break up with the Mr. I would do neither of those things.

Sure, I could return to my Church. I could attend Mass as often as I liked. I could receive the blessing of Spiritual Communion instead of the Body and Blood. Or, I could rest assured that my personal tête-à-tête with God has guaranteed my forgiveness (if, in fact, I am committing a Mortal Sin by being happily married to my loving husband with whom I joined in Holy Matrimony in front of God and a minister and a hundred some-odd witnesses, but that's another post for another day, right?), and carry on with my Eucharist-eating.

I could. But I haven't.

It has been three years.

A History of Religion: Part 3

Part 1 and Part 2 are here and here.

We'll need to back up just a hair:

Soon after my fiance and I got engaged, I sold my car and took him up on his offer to drive one of the vehicles from his collection. We also moved out of my townhouse into a house that his parents in Nashville had recently bought so that it would be lived-in until they were able to retire and move back to Texas. So, when he broke off the engagement and decided that not only did he not want to marry me, but that he didn't even want to date me anymore, I suddenly had no boyfriend, no home, and no car. Of course, he said I could continue living in the house as long as it took for me to find a new place and that I could drive the car for as long as I needed to, but still.

I was devastated. I'm talking about the kind of devastation that keeps a person from sleeping or eating or getting out of bed. Looking back now, I realize that there were several other issues playing into my depression, but the breakup was just the right shove I needed to fall smooth into the throes of darkness. Fortunately, I just happened to have an annual doctor's appointment that same week. My doctor urged me to try counseling, and she wrote my first prescription for my beloved Vitamin Z. A friend of mine recommended a counselor who turned out to be excellent, and a slew of girlfriends helped me move into a new townhouse in my old complex. Then, I drove into the Honda dealership, bought a car that I had been eyeing and called the ex to come pick up his porno-red 'vette. I was getting back to me and feeling pretty OK about it.

Around the same time, one of my best friends invited me to attend her daughter's First Communion. She and her family picked me up that Sunday morning at my new townhouse and we rode to the Cathedral together. When we arrived, they asked me to help them present the Gifts for the Eucharist, and I resisted, citing my total ignorance of all the Right Things To Do. It didn't matter, they insisted, and so I processed down the aisle with them at the beginning of the Mass. I felt honored to be there. During the service, I observed and followed the lead of my friend as we knelt and prayed and sang and listened to the Word. There was something about that place that made me feel at home. The kneeling, the choral responses, the reverence of that Mass, and the tranquil and thoughtful homily that the priest gave that day comforted me in a way that I hadn't known in many years.

I continued attending Mass with my friend, and a few times I even went on my own. Her daughter coached me on crossing my arms in front of my heart so that I could receive the priest's blessing during the Eucharist. After a few months, I arranged to meet with Sister Sue, the Church's director of education, to talk about joining RCIA classes. I still wasn't sure if I wanted to become a Confirmed Catholic, but I definitely wanted to know more.

As the months passed, I attended RCIA classes on Thursday evenings with a surprisingly large number of other adult catechists, and I learned more and more about the history of the Church and about its rich Tradition. While there were a few things that I felt somewhat conflicted about, for the most part, I was convinced that the Catholic Church was the One True Church. I was ready to sign up.

More than the classes and the lessons in religion, though, there was a feeling. I soon realized that despite the differences between the two religions, the feeling of worship and peace that I felt in the Catholic Church was very similar to the spirit that my growing-up church had nurtured in me.

The Catholic Church gave me a new sense of liberation. As strange as it may sound, the Church helped to free me from my past through the symbolic and literal demonstrations of washing sin away. During my first Sacrament of Reconciliation (a.k.a. "Confession") I went as far back as I possibly could and repented every wrong and evil and bad thing I had ever done. It was a long, nerve-wracking and marvelous experience. As I sobbed and confessed, the priest only nodded. Then he told me the most comforting words I'd ever heard: "God has already heard your prayers, and He has already forgiven you." My slate was clean. A priest had told me so.

During Holy Week, I was randomly selected to take part in the Holy Thursday celebration. I was seated with 12 others at the front of the church, and a pair of priests knelt before my chair, removed my shoe, and washed and dried my foot, just as Jesus washed the feet of the Disciples. Then two other catechists and I extended the ceremony to the entire parish as we washed the hands of the congregation. It was an humbling and beautiful experience.

I realized, too, that one day, I probably would want to remarry, so I began the process of having my first marriage annulled. That was one of the most difficult, yet cathartic tasks I've ever accomplished. I completed a 20-page questionnaire and solicited family members to complete testimonies on my behalf. It took almost exactly two years for that request to make its way through the correct channels, and eventually, my annulment was granted.

On April 22, 2000, during the Easter Vigil--the mother of all Catholic celebrations--I was confirmed and received my First Communion. My mother and stepdad and my brother and his girlfriend came to celebrate with me, and my friend whose daughter's First Communion I attended stood as my sponsor with her hand on my shoulder as I was anointed by the priest. It was one of the most special moments of my life.

I continued worshiping and actively serving in my Church after that. I had begun graduate school, and besides studying, my spare time was spent exercising, working on lessons and materials for my students, and going to Church. I dated some, but there was no serious relationship in the works. In fact, I resigned myself to the fact that I might live the rest of my life without a significant other.

For once, I enjoyed my own company, and I was content with my life.





Of course, no real-life story ever ends so simply and happily. Stay tuned for Part Four (and Five, maybe?).

A History of Religion, Part 2

Part 1 is here.

When my parents divorced, things took a turn toward the chaotic for me. We moved from the home where I had lived for 16 years, and I felt caught in the middle of my two parents who were competing for my attention and love, it seemed. I began skipping school, and I became determined not to be the goody-goody that everyone had always expected me to be.

During the summer between high school graduation and my freshman year in college, I started binge-drinking and I became loud and promiscuous. I'm sure I was an embarrassment to many of my friends. When I went away to college, things didn't get much better. I was lonely and homesick, and in between parties and one-night-stands, I would try to attend church. I finally began going to a non-denominational church with a girl from my dorm, but my heart just wasn't in it.

I left that university and came to attend school in the town where I live now. I fit in better here and I started living more responsibly--no more binge-drinking, a steady boyfriend, less attention-whoring. Throughout the remainder of my college years, I went to different churches sporadically, always Baptist churches. By the time I graduated from university and got married the first time, though, I wasn't going to church at all. We didn't even get married in a church--we flew to Vegas.

After I got divorced, I met a guy and we really hit it off. OK, let's be honest here--I was crazy about him. Crazy. After we had dated for about three years, he proposed. We decided that we should probably find a church to attend because hey, we'd need a preacher if we were going to do this wedding thing right, right? So, we began attending the Presbyterian church in our town. We chose that church for two reasons: #1, it is the most beautiful church in town (me), and #2, the congregation did not do the "greet your neighbor" hand-shake thing at the beginning of the service (him).

We were thinking of having a smallish wedding, something not nearly grand enough to warrant the use of the church's huge sanctuary. I had never seen the chapel, though, and I really wanted to check it out before we decided to throw a wedding there. So one afternoon, I slipped into the chapel and sat down on one of the pews. It was cozy, yet airy, with some of the same ornate architectural features of its larger and grander counterpart. It would most definitely be a beautiful backdrop for my eventually, one-of-these-days, upcoming nuptials. As I sat, I thought that since I was there already, I should probably pray or something. So I prayed. I prayed that God would guide my fiance and me down the right path. I prayed that He would help us make the right decision.

Two weeks later, my fiance broke our engagement.

A History of Religion: Part 1

When I was growing up, my family belonged to a rural, American Baptist church (Not to be confused with the Southern Baptists, those heathens. Really, that's what we thought.). There, I learned about how Jesus Loves Me and about the Roman Road and about Once-Saved-Always-Saved. When I was around seven, I sat down with my preacher in one of the Sunday School rooms and I prayed the "sinner's prayer." I had been saved. Born Again. The next Sunday night when they played "Just As I Am" during the invitation, I walked down the interminable sanctuary aisle to officially join the church by Profession of Faith. A few weeks later, I was submerged beneath the baptismal waters in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost.

After that, I lived my faith. I had no choice. We were at church, literally, every time the doors were open. Sunday School and "Big Church" on Sunday morning, Choir practice and BTC (Baptist Training Course) and "Big Church" on Sunday night, and Girls' Auxiliary (GAs!) on Wednesday nights. Two of my best friends and I alternated playing the piano for Sunday evening congregational singing.

At Christmastime, my mother would gather donated fruit from the local grocer, and all of the GAs would convene in the Fellowship Hall to assemble holiday fruit baskets under her direction. Then, we piled into the church van and delivered the baskets to the sick and shut-in of the church. In each of the homes, we would all sing a Christmas carol, and one of the girls would lead a prayer. There was one elderly lady that cried every time we visited her.

Our Sunday School teachers hosted slumber parties for us girls in the Fellowship Hall, where we would raid the closet full of Christmas decorations to assemble "evening gowns" for our mock beauty pageants. We would stay up all night long talking about boys, fixing each other's hair, experimenting with make-up, eating chips and dips and cookies, telling ghost stories and freezing the training bras of the girls who had dared to go to sleep before the rest of us. One time, one of the more daring of us sneaked in a cassette tape of Blondie. We were living on the edge that night, listening, red-faced, to the Devil's music through headphones in the dark.

In the summers after I was too old to attend children's Vacation Bible School, I helped the teachers during the children's VBS during the day and attended Youth VBS at night. After our VBS devotionals and Bible study, we'd all head out to the volleyball court to take part in the traditional VBS Volleyball Tournament. We were not allowed to wear shorts, so we played our volleyball games in blue jeans and T-shirts in the muggy heat of the East Texas evenings. Our summer church camps were always held at a pine-forested encampment far, far away from the real world. I can still remember the smell of the dining hall and hear the giggling of my best friends in the bunk above mine. I attended Music Camp, where we joined other American Baptist church groups in one big Baptist Tabernacle Choir and sang contemporary Christian music by artists like Michael W. Smith and Sandi Patty and Amy Grant, back before she crossed over to the dark side. And every year, I went to Youth Camp where we competed in Olympic-themed athletic matches (yes, in blue jeans) and never participated in "mixed bathing."

Writing it all out, it seems a little oppressive and suffocating, but it wasn't. I loved it. Some of my best memories happened there. It was all I knew.

But then, I got my driver's license and a waitressing job in a neighboring town. My parents got divorced. I made friends with some of those raucous Southern Baptist girls at school, and there were some close encounters with a boyfriend or two. By the end of my senior year in high school, I was getting curious and a lot more worldly. I began praying for forgiveness a whole lot more and attending church a whole lot less.