Slumming with the Lutherans

I was raised Catholic. But, like my gender and my ethnic background, I’ve always thought of my religion as a bit of an accident of birth. I mean, it’s not like anybody asked me; they just poured water over my head at six weeks old and proclaimed me a Papist.

So I love to hang out with people from other religions – Christian, non-Christian, etc. – to see how the rest of the world views God, the Goddess, or whatever. I’ve always felt that the surest way to ensure tolerance is through understanding and exposure. So I “expose” myself as much as possible through friends, community and the like.

It’s a journey that my sisters also undertook; the results for them included adult choices that led one to Judaism, and another to Protestantism. I think that’s cool. [Actually, it makes me feel a little bit lazy for adhering (in whatever small way) to the Catholicism I was born to.]

But it’s cool, and the resulting syllogisms are baffling in their simplicity: I love my sister; my sister is a Jew; therefore, I love Jews. I love my other sister; my other sister is a Presbyterian; therefore, I love Presbyterians. Where’s my Nobel Peace Prize? I’ve also been trying to get my Mom to pursue an old interest she had in Wiccanism. I’m already picturing the bumper sticker: “That’s no Witch; that’s my MOM!”

And for the past couple of years, I’ve been teaching at a summer Vacation Bible School (“VBS”) program at one of the local Lutheran churches here on the Island. They have the same program at the local Catholic parish, but I thought it would be fun to hang with the Lutherans. So I grabbed my own kids, and the neighbors’ kids (Methodists), and off I went to teach four and five year-olds about love and forgiveness. Lutheran style.

VBS is the most insane week you can imagine: 140 kids running and screaming through the church and an attached school, trying to learn a few bible lessons and three songs over five three-hour days. And the Lutherans are great at it. The Pastor, whom everybody refers to as “Pastor Bob,” is a grandfather. [Of course, I find this totally amazing, because I’m used to celibate priests.] They run the whole thing like a boot camp, but everybody – and I do mean everybody – has a blast. So I’m going back again this year, and I'm taking my kids with me.

I called over to Pastor Bob this week and told him to be sure and include me on the teacher list for Summer 2006. “I’m the Catholic,” I reminded him, “from last year. Do you remember me?” He said of course he did. The fact that I’m not part of his congregation didn’t matter. Isn’t that great?

I've Been Tagged

This has never happened to me. A tag "virgin," if you will. And I can't imagine why anyone would care, but here goes ...

1. Do you have a nickname (other than your blogger nickname)? My college friends had one for me.
2. If so what is it? "The Apologizer."
3. What is your favorite memory as a child? Playing in our back yard sand box (which was most of the yard, really).
4. What relative did you like the most?
My Grandma Grace. I once broke a gigantic ugly vase in her house, and I cried like I wanted to die. She pulled me aside and said: "Why not come back over tomorrow? I have some other strange stuff I'd love for you to break!"
5. Who is your best friend? I've never had one (a "best" friend, that is). Is that weird?

I'm supposed to tag five other people, but I lack the self-esteem to obligate anyone. (What thinkest thou of THAT, Dr. Huang?)

Profanity "Lite"

I adore profanity. I really do. There’s just nothing like the feeling of letting loose with a really robust four-, five- or six-letter word describing some bodily function, sexual organ or (most commonly for me) the biological imperative. It’s like punching a hole in the wall, or kicking a clump of turf across the yard. It’s an actual physical release.

And, goddamnit, some days I just need it.

Men get to express their anger and frustration in all sorts of physical ways; they have sporting events (whether they are participating or simply hollering at their TV sets), hobbies (hunting comes to mind) and a thousand other diversions that permit them to release their anger in any number of socially acceptable ways. Women, on the other hand, have far fewer of these.

Personally, I find that screaming “FUCKER!!” at the top of my lungs as I drive around the lovely person who’s just drifted into my lane while endeavoring to dial a cell phone works pretty well for me. Calms me right the fuck down. So fucking shoot me.

There’s just one problem with my love of profanity, and my penchant for spewing it at my fellow drivers in particular: I have two small children, at least one of whom is in the car with me as much as 90% of the time. This presents a major problem for me. Not a minor can’t-make-the-mortgage-gonna-lose-the-house sort of problem. A MAJOR freakin’ problem. (By the way, “freakin” just doesn’t do it for me. I need the bleep-able version.)

So, as I have frequently done when faced with similar problems, I just negotiated myself a little solution. And now, when I feel the need to metaphorically crush the skull of someone who’s just stolen the last available parking space on 38th Street, I let loose with what I like to call “Lite” Profanity. Basically, I decided that my kids can handle a small amount of well-chosen, judiciously-applied profanity, especially if it means that Mommy will feel better and not crash the car into the nearest available postal box. Simply put, I have reserved to myself two profane words from among those that I consider to be marginally “kid-friendly”: crap and jackass.

And if I’ve ruined them for life, I’ll just have to live with the guilt. Jackass!