And I got confused.
There are myriad blogs out there about how to keep the marriage spicy; how to love well; how to honor your husband or love your wife; how twenty years later you’ll be more in love than ever…
This is not that blog.
It’s not that I don’t think those words are true or useful – I do. It’s just that, given the recent tumult of my own marriage, I’m wishing someone had warned me up front of this basic reality:
Marriage sucks. For everyone.
“It seems like, to me, a vagina—as a man—would be more desirable than a man’s anus. That’s just me. I’m just thinking: There’s more there! She’s got more to offer. I mean, come on, dudes! You know what I’m saying? But hey, sin: It’s not logical, my man. It’s just not logical.”
“I never, with my eyes, saw the mistreatment of any black person. Not once. Where we lived was all farmers. The blacks worked for the farmers. I hoed cotton with them. I’m with the blacks, because we’re white trash. We’re going across the field…. They’re singing and happy. I never heard one of them, one black person, say, ‘I tell you what: These doggone white people’—not a word!… Pre-entitlement, pre-welfare, you say: Were they happy? They were godly; they were happy; no one was singing the blues.”
- Phil Robertson, in GQ Magazine
1) Dear LGBTQ Friends of mine. You are not less-than.
So here’s my rant for the day.
I’ve seen a blog floating around, proclaiming that those who shop on Thanksgiving Thursday “are part the problem.”
I agree. Whole-heartedly.
But the idea that we can separate Thursday from Black Friday is absurd to me.
Because in both cases, we’re not merely interrupting the holidays of our friends who now have to work instead of eat more turkey; we’re not merely contributing to and bolstering a wholly consumerist culture. No, in any case – whether shopping on Thursday, Friday, or throughout the month for red hot deals and steals from standard retailers – we’re contributing to the global slave trade. We’re burying our heads in the sand and pretending that Wal-Mart and Target employees are the only ones who warrant consideration in this sordid tale of stuff hoarding, all in celebration of the Sweet Baby Jesus.
Even when we bypass Thursday’s sales “on principle” and shop Black Friday instead, we’re almost certainly purchasing things produced by slaves around the world.
I cannot emphasize this enough: If we’re shopping for deals and steals, demanding cheaper stuff, we’re not shopping with a conscience.
PS: A Post-Script to My Open Letter to Birthing Moms >>
Please keep rejoicing and celebrating your pregnancies out loud and on Facebook. We who can’t have babies don’t want to be the reason for your silence, anymore than we want to be wounded by your words. Most of the time, we’re excited for you and with you! We know what is to “rejoice with one another.”
We just hope that, even as we rejoice with you and celebrate your magnificent birthing bodies and growing babies, you’ll grieve with us and hear our hearts when we ask you to appreciate what you have, glory in this divine gift, don’t take it for granted even for a moment because it may be in that moment that you lose it forever.
Dear Birthing Mothers,
I’ve wanted to write this letter to you, to us, for a while. But until this moment, it’s been a thing of anger for me. I’ve read your comments, your Facebook statuses; I’ve read of your wishes and dreams and hopes and losses, and I’ve seethed with anger at your ignorance.
But right now, in this moment, I’m not so much angry with you as I am sad and hurt for those you unknowingly wound.
Like my hyster-sisters.
Like all the mothers who’ve lost their babies before they were born, or in the birthing suite, or long before they were ever unborn beauties and were only plans.
“My prayer is not that you take them out of the world but that you protect them from the evil one.” (Jn 17:15)
It’s everywhere: nudity, porn, the ceaseless bombardment of all things sexual, freely available to the immature, the sexually premature, the married and young alike. This recent experiment conducted by the former porn rag editor sheds haunting light on the fact that our kids – our kids – know more than they ever should before many of them have even hit puberty. And that it’s destroying them.
I love beer. It’s true. My husband, brilliant man that he is, has solidified my transformation from sweet-mixed-drink-consumer-only (think mojitos, margaritas, and anything involving coconut rum and juice) to beer connoisseur. I also like sweet red wine, and almost any wine at all from the Prairie Berry winery in Hill City, SD.
But I do love beer. Wheat beers and bocks especially. And a good seasonal pumpkin ale is always permissible.
Today I discovered I love Guinness.
I have never had Guinness. At least, not more than a sip or two here and there.
But now, I love Guinness.
And, after watching this, I bet you will too:
Throw back a cold one (responsibly, please) in honor of a great beer company.
I’ve read a LOT of blogs lately. Blogs about how girls should dress, how young ladies should protect young men, how the way a girl dresses defines her. I’ve read about how a girl is responsible for the looks she gets, for what goes on in a boy’s mind, for if and how much he lusts after her. I’ve read blogs from mothers of sons, who’ve warned girls of the impending Facebook block, should she show up too scantily clad on one of her son’s Facebook feeds (I applaud her, and I think I might want to try this).
As the youngest of four girls belonging to a pastor, I was very much raised to dress modestly. Constantly aware of the length of my shorts, the tightness of pants, the thickness of the straps on my tank tops, the cut of necklines, and the openness of dress backs. And Lord knows, two-piece swimsuits were simply out of the question.
And I don’t disagree. We women were created with a unique and curvy beauty, designed specifically to appeal to men’s physical and mind’s eyes. Knowing it, we have a responsibility to dress ourselves both in clothing and in dignity. For our own sake as much as anything else.
But here’s the thing: As the stepmom of a 16-year-old young man and mom of a 2-year-old toddler (whose world-in-14-years will undoubtably make me cringe in new ways), I’m annoyed.
I’m annoyed that all the preaching to “keep a boy’s mind pure” seems to be aimed at girls. Because that’s my sons’ job.
You have GOT to be kidding me. Two miles in? Already? No. NO. Too bad. This is it. I’m all in.
I’m doing this.
MILES 1 – 10.68 >> NORDIC SKI TRAIL LOOP
Saturday morning May 11, just six months after running my first ultra marathon, the Wild Duluth 50k on the Superior Hiking Trail – and swearing 27 miles into it that I would never, EVER entertain such a horrible idea ever again – I laced up my shoes for my second ultra, the Ice Age Trail 50 Mile race in the Kettle Morraine State Forest near La Grange, WI. I was poorly prepared and fairly convinced I’d DNF. Finishing under 12 hours was my only goal.
Since the WD50k, I hadn’t given my body the rest it wanted and needed. Instead, I signed up the very next day for the Ice Age 50, figuring if I could just sustain my fitness level I’d be fine. So over the course of the last six months, I overtrained and endured various ongoing injuries ranging from IT band issues in November and December, to metatarsal stress reactions in January and February, to running a half marathon on a sprained ankle in March and re-spraining it two weeks before the IA50.