On Blasphemy:

 

A very well-reasoned response to the rioting and murders that occurred in Libya,
and the furor surrounding the short film “Innocence of the Muslims”:

“No one has the right to a world in which he is never despised.”

 

I’ve said it before,
and I will say it again:

If your faith is so weak, it cannot handle being
mocked, criticized, satirized, or even blasphemed
without resorting to violence,
you may want to rethink those beliefs.

After Two Years:

 
Darlings.

I got a call on Friday from Thought Equity.

They offered me a full-time job,
with benefits,
and an excellent salary.

I slept better last night than I have since August of 2009.

Thank you all for your prayers,
encouragement,
and for helping me to keep on trying,
even when all I wanted was to hide away.

Today,
I am so grateful.

 

(and I’m now going out to a raucous piano bar with faithful friends
Laura and Jessie.

I’m probably going to have a celebratory margarita. Or three. )

It’s the Little Things:

As of late,
life has been a bit full of fuckery.

January is always creaky around the edges with resolutions and bad weather and tax statements from the IRS.

But this last week?

Kinda made me catch my breath with how…bad…it was,
just with a multitude of petty things.

I dropped my car off for an expensive routine maintenance that *had* to be done,
along with trying to get an electrical problem fixed
in order to get my fix-it ticket dismissed
(oh, L.A.!).

When I came to pick up the car,
I tried paying for it with a credit card that I got and activated through my bank,
just for this purpose.

Guess whose card was denied?

It took me almost three hours, four different people, and five “CARD DECLINED” tries before that problem was resolved,
and I drove out $500 poorer.

I went to the police station to get my ticket signed off,
since it was due Monday.

I was informed that the City of Sierra Madre needed twelve dollars,
in cash, exact change,
in order for an officer to leave his desk,
walk twenty feet to my car,
and see me flick my headlights on.

I ran to the bank,
ran back,
and was then told that I didn’t have the correct paperwork,
and needed the actual ticket.

Ran home.
Spent almost an hour searching frantically for said ticket.
Found it.
Went back.
Signed off.
Ticket in the mail, along with an additional $25
to the DMV to indicate that I had not, in fact, done anything wrong.

(For those keeping track at home,
I am now $547 poorer on Friday than I was Wednesday)

In an attempt to alleviate some of that poorness,
I had a yard sale on Saturday morning,
and managed to both be pleasant to other humans before 8 o’clock AM
and pull in about $50,
which is pretty darn good for a bunch of neglected crap pulled off of our balcony.

Saturday night was…
bad.

Just.

Bad.

I decided to hide from the world under my covers for most of Sunday
(this has been happening often around here),
but got some good out of the day watching “True Grit” with friends
(beautiful cinematography, great dialogue, and a fantastic cast).

I was woken up this morning by a Sierra Madre PolicePerson banging on my door.

That woman had the audacity to demand eleven dollars for a “yard sale permit”,
and to tell me that if I “had questions about it” I should have called City Hall to see if a permit was needed.

It’s not just the fact that I was charged for something
that I had no way of possibly knowing,
post-fact, and by an incredibly rude human being.

It’s that eleven dollars?
For me?

That’s a loaf of bread, 1/2 gallon of milk, and five apples.
It’s enough to feed me for a little over a week.
That’s three gallons of gas.
That’s a dance class.
It’s a bag of food for my dog.
It’s not nothing, in other words, not to me.

Additionally,
I still haven’t heard back from either of the two interviews I went on this month,
in spite of following up.

(I also feel like a whinging brat because almost all of my troubles
boil down to finances. And that just seems so…pathetic.
I mean, I could sell a kidney or something.)

 

It’s the little things.

I honestly feel like if I just lock my bedroom door and refuse to come out,
maybe nothing will go wrong.

I keep hoping for an end to the bad,
and in spite of what I said on my birthday
about not letting a year trample all over me,
it’s still happening.

And I’m wondering if,
this time,
I just shouldn’t bother getting up again.

(re)Test:

A year ago,
I turned down a fairly lucrative job possibility at UCLA.

It was for their stem cell research department.
I asked if they used adult stem cells,
but no,
it was all embryonic.

I walked away from that possibility
because I knew I couldn’t stand before God
and admit to being a part of killing children
just because I was afraid I couldn’t pay the rent.

And I’ve been able to pay my rent,
in spite of that
(because of that?)
decision.

One week ago,
I got a call to interview with a company called Break Media.

I called The Boyo,
excited to have an interview after so many months without one.

He looked up the company.

And I heard hesitation in his voice.

They’re a company that “knows guys”.
Because “guys” flock in droves to their sites,
Holyta*co being my favorite example of the unapologetic misogyny they represent.

If I took this job,
I would lose any right I have to speak up about
unfair representation of women in the media.
I would be a part of the industry that contributes to
my eating disorder on a regular basis.
I would be a part of pretending that it’s “normal” for guys to behave like animals.

It isn’t.

And that’s probably the most insulting part of this company’s M.O.–
it would almost be better if they were *actually* dealing in porn,
instead of dismissing their onslaught of photos and videos of girls in
compromising clothing and positions as “boys will be boys”.

That’s a lie.

Boys can be Men.

If I took that job,
I would never be able to ask that of any man I love or care for.

What went through my head as I found out more about this company was something like this:

“Again?

Another job possibility I can’t follow up on for reasons of morality?

But I passed this test!
Why must I take it again?”

I didn’t understand.
I don’t understand.

I know that God’s ways are mysterious,
but sometimes?

I wish He would pull back the curtain,
just a little.

One of the hardest bits of this whole hellish year
has been feeling as though I have to bite my tongue–
I’m healthy.
I have a roof over my head,
clothes on my back,
shoes I can hock if I need to,
amazing friends who have covered my ass in more ways than
I could possibly count.

When I think about what Friend Mary went through–
cancer-losing-her-house-in-a-fire-chronic-pain-surgeries-surgeries…
my problems are so…beige.

But that doesn’t make the hurt
and the disappointment any easier to bear.

There are a few ordeals that happened this year
that I still don’t talk about with anyone, really.

It just feels like one test
after another
after another,
and no matter whether I make good decisions,
right decisions,
decisions that continue to imperil me on the graces of
unemployment and uncertainty,
the tempest still comes.

It is a hard hard thing to realize
that happiness is not my inalienable right.

Um…Yes:

Professional Weaker Brethren

I don’t even think you have to be a Christian to appreciate this article–
forcing others to walk on proverbial eggshells is a character trait found in humanity at large.

I know I do this.

And, ohhhh, I need to knock it off.

As a Christian,
adhering to the faith I believe in is one thing;
getting my panties in a knot about issues or behaviors
that are not declared a sin according to the Bible is entirely another.

If I’m made uncomfortable by someone’s behavior,
is it because it is offensive to God?

Or,
more likely,
is it just offensive to *me*?

(and even when it comes to sin, I have to be gracious in my response. ‘Coz guess who else is a sinner? Yep. This girl. Right here.)