My Pennies on Politics

The old adage must be true - you should never discuss religion or politics - because I haven't seen this much division among friends since Scarlett and Rhett danced at the Twelve Oaks Barbecue. The name-calling and mud-slinging has been endless. Opposing sides have accused each other of everything from near-sighted apathy to single-handedly ushering in the apocalypse. Lines have been drawn. Stands have been stood. Gauntlets have been thrown. Ridicule has been flung. ...and that's just the voters.

I have heretofore kept my distance from the arena. Not that I don't have an opinion - I always have an opinion - but...well...I guess I really just didn't want to get spit on.  And, in all honesty, even though I had pretty much decided how I was going to vote, for a long time I wasn't at peace with my decision. I didn't feel ready to go to battle on a position whose particulars I hadn't entirely worked out in my own head. ...that, and spit...I really hate spit.

So I kept my mouth shut, and my thoughts to myself. I watched the incessant baiting and badgering on Facebook - often amused, sometimes annoyed, and occasionally affronted by the vitriol that was freely doled out on all sides.

I am amused by the assumption that so many seem to hold that if one posts what one believes loud enough, long enough, and in ALL CAPS often enough, then everyone who holds an opposing belief will be so astonished and impressed by the poster's ability to use caps lock that they will instantly capitulate.

I am annoyed by the apparent inability of Americans to check their facts. A simple web search will inform you that, no, you could not purchase gas for ninety-seven cents a gallon when Bush was in office. Also, it is impossible for anyone (yes, even Obama!), to turn off the internet.

I am occasionally affronted by the downright hostile attacks that are directed at those who hold my position in the upcoming election. Just because I don't vote the same way you do on November 6th does not mean that I am single-handedly destroying our country. I don't hold that much power. If I did, I certainly wouldn't exercise it in the destruction of America.

I said before that I haven't always been sure of how I was going to vote. I've settled that decision through much prayer and research. If you want to know how I am going to vote, feel free to ask me. In person. I will tell you...and if you're nice about it, I'll probably tell you why. I am not afraid of my position, and I am not afraid to defend my position. I am, however, fully aware of the folly of public debate. Attacking people doesn't solve problems; it creates them.

So, in closing, I support your right to vote for the candidate of your choice. And I assert my right to vote for the candidate of my choice. And lest you call me a coward for refusing to fight it out: "Sometimes, the greatest courage is shown, not when you fight, but when you walk away."

Ode to an Idiot

Tomorrow is October. That means speeches. And stress. And sleeplessness.
October is when I begin preparations for Fine Arts Competition in March. ...I say "begin" as if I'm actually starting. As if I actually stopped preparing after last year. I didn't. I prepare all year. But October is when I "officially" begin working on speeches. October is when I put the list on the board and bully and beg and cajole students into signing up.
October is also when I pull out my handbook from last year's Nationals and go through my notes and ideas.
You see, every April, we go to National Fine Arts Competition. I spend hours watching students and schools from all over the States perform. I write down what they do, how they performed, and what my opinions are. Every afternoon, while my students are sleeping or shopping or just goofing off, I look over my notes and contemplate the next year's competition. I reflect on what I've seen and brainstorm new angles and new ideas. The majority of what we will perform the following year is decided then. ...and I write it all in the Nationals handbook.
A few weeks ago, I was cleaning out my office. Every now and then, I get the urge to purge, and I go through the massive piles of paper that I manage to accumulate. (I swear, those papers are getting together and making paper babies. There is just no other way I have all that stuff.) I found the purse that I carried at Nationals and was clearing out the papers. (It's one of those big, roomy deals that I can stuff everything in.) I came across the handbook from that week and thought, "Oh, I don't need this," and I threw it away.
...I'm going to repeat that because I don't think you caught it. I threw it away.
All of my notes. All of my ideas. All of my strategies. All of those authors from all of those speeches.
I. Threw. It. Away.
Gone.
Forever.
And the worst part is that I saw it in the trash can every day for about a week and a half and it never once hit me that I needed that. Not once did I have that small niggling something in the back of my brain that usually alerts me when I'm about to do something stupid. Nada. Nothing. My brain betrayed me. It let me casually destroy all my hard work.
I feel as if someone has died.
I feel as if I'm the one that killed him.
I really think I could cry.

Cleaning Out the Filter

Many, many times I think of witty and/or cutting things I would like to post on Facebook. However, there's a filter in my head that often stops me. (Oddly enough, that filter seems to have my mother's voice...) It saddens me to realize that my sharply or succinctly worded zingers will never be appreciated by the world at large...or...you know...my 53 Facebook friends...
But nothing is stopping you from using them... I make you free of them... Borrow to your heart's content...

Pancakes...EXPOSED!!

I...am a conspiracy theorist. There. I've admitted it. I am not ashamed.
However, I do not believe in such mundane ordinary conspiracy theories as, "The CIA was behind the attack on the Twin Towers" or, "American Bankers started World War II" or even, "Jefferson Davis sold the Confederacy to aliens from Mars and fathered little alien babies...and that's why we lost the War." Nothing so boring will do for me.
I am a believer in The Great Pancake Conspiracy.
Yep. Pancakes. It's a trap.
It goes something like this:
Little Miss Perfect over at the "How to Make Picture Perfect Meals and Pictures of How I Made Them Picture Perfect" blog will post about this totally awesome, mouth-watering (I mean, seriously drool-inducing) pancake recipe. And she'll post pictures. And they'll be perfect. Beautiful honey-gold disks swimming in warm butter (because these pancakes are sooo good, they don't even need syrup).
...and I fall for it...every time.
I'll be convinced that this time - this one time - the recipe will work. My pancakes will be as perfect as the picture. I'll just know that when I have flipped that perfectly flippable flap-jack, angels will sing. I expect gorgeous pillowy pancake goodness.
But what I invariably end up with is a messy, smoke-filled kitchen and a plateful of charred gooey glumps. (You read that right...charred and gooey. I am so talented, I can burn raw pancakes.)
And then the realization hits me. Of course. It's the conspiracy. Why didn't I see it before?
In red-faced shame (that has nothing to do with slaving over a hot griddle trying desperately to turn a quickly hardening disk of destruction that won't even get on the spatula, much less flip over!) I'll realize what must have happened behind the scenes...

A Rant...but a short one...

I'm a Fundamental, Independent Baptist...and I'm single. In our circles, that's akin to having leprosy. A woman, at my age, and still single...well! Let's just say...there must be a reason. The idea that single is bad and married (to anyone) is infinitely preferable is a philosophy that has inundated the very fiber of Baptist culture. [Just to clarify...I'm not IFB. That really isn't a thing, you know. And no one had ever heard that term until Dateline made up a story about it...just FYI.] But back to the topic at hand...
Saying, "I'm single" is sorta like saying, "I have cancer." People look at you with pity. They pray for you, try to encourage you, and tell you stories of their second cousin Betty who was single until she was 43, then God miraculously "blessed her with a man." They hope you won't die from it, but they are resigned to the fact that if you're too far gone, there really is no hope.
Being single - a single woman - in a Baptist church is an enigma. No one knows where you fit. You didn't follow the plan. You broke the pattern.
Well, let me help you. "The truth will set you free," and I'm about to lay a few truths on ya...

Fiery Darts and the Shield of Faith

Last Thursday, I spoke to our Ladies' Group at church. It was a nerve-wracking experience. ...Not because I'm afraid of public speaking - on the contrary - I revel in it. (I don't know if it's because my life is fueled by high-strung stress, or if it's because I just truly enjoy being the center of attention, imparting my well-researched, methodically organized, logically outlined and alliterated knowledge to the world.) But this...speaking before a group of ladies...occupying a lectern that so many Godly women - far more worthy than I - had occupied...sharing a burden, a calling, that God had so deeply impressed on my heart...this was terrifying.
I had prepared the lesson that I felt was what God would have me give - or at least I tried to. I had never written a more difficult devotion, or had more problems preparing a presentation. I researched and studied and prayed for months. My head and my heart were so full, but I couldn't seem to gather my thoughts and organize them into coherent form. I finally locked myself in my classroom Thursday after school and determined that, no matter what, I was going to speak that evening on what God had given me, and I was going to prepare as well as I could. I claimed Proverbs 16:3, "Commit thy works unto the Lord, and thy thoughts shall be established." I studied and prayed and wrote and organized, not pleased with the outcome, but desperately depending on God to work.
At our meeting that evening, the fellowship flowed around me. I smiled and chatted and enjoyed the food, all the while thinking, "What on earth am I thinking?! I don't need to give this devotion! I should change my topic!!" I reached in the recesses of my mind and began to dust off one of my many "prepared sermonettes," trying to calm my nervous heart. But I knew that was a futile and faithless effort.
When it finally came my turn, I blundered and blubbered through the entire thing - shaking because I was nervous, and crying (at times) when I was deeply touched. (I was highly embarrassed by that...I hate crying in public...my face gets all red and splotchy, and my nose gets all goopy and gross...it is not adorable in the least...) But I managed to survive. ...and I think...perhaps...I managed to impart just a little bit of the truth that God has been teaching me. A truth that, I hope, I will be able to share with you in a (somewhat) timely manner...

Murphy's Laws of Hosiery

If they're expensive, you'll get a run.
If they're your last pair, you'll get a run.
If they're that weird taupe pair that you have no idea how you acquired, and never go with anything, and are only worn in emergencies, you'll never get a run. That pair will last forever, and you will never be justified in throwing it away.
If you're in a hurry, they won't be clean.
If you're running late to church, and have just put lotion on your legs, you will struggle with putting them on, and will tear a HUGE hole in them with your thumbnail. You'll be wearing a short skirt, and the hole will be noticeable. You'll look for another pair, and realize that's your only one (except that weird taupe pair). You'll contemplate going without them, but you'll take one look at your translucent white legs with maps of spider veins and determine you're not that brave. You'll grab your fluorescent orange flip-flops and decide to stop at the drugstore on the way to church. When you reach the drugstore, you won't be able to find the hosiery section. The only employee you'll see will be an acne-encumbered 15 year old boy who will stare at your fluorescent flip-flops and call you ma'am. You'll ask if they carry nylons and he'll look at you as if you're speaking ancient Greek. "Hose," you'll say. He'll turn red. "Not your girlfriend, sweetheart, pantyhose." (It won't be your finest moment.) He'll stare at your glowing white legs and stammer that he doesn't think they have those, but he can check with the manager. You'll say no thanks and storm out of the store. You'll check two other stores before you finally find a pair that is twice what you'd normally pay for nylons. You'll buy them anyway. When you get to church, you'll scramble into the ladies' restroom trying to hide your legs. You'll open the box only to find that the pair you bought is defective and can't be worn...but it's ok because you forgot your heels, and the only shoes you have are your orange flip-flops...