Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," bleary-eyed on a Thursday morning! I feel like the bored deity in my sidebar today who has to hold the whole world up with His two hands.
Anyone who has children knows that you worry your brains out about them, even if they go from looking like the Gerber baby to grabbing that Ph.D. at Harvard. Their trials are your trials, and when things go awry for them, you inevitably blame yourself ... up to a point.
Because we all have free will, and the person you raise into young adulthood may make decisions that wrench you in twenty different directions -- but you still have to let go and let Gods.
I say this by way of introduction for a blog in which a father is writing a real-time chronicle of his son's tortured journey through depression and drug addiction. If you have a child that you are worried about, you can take real solace from this blog, just feeling that you aren't alone in the struggle. If you don't have a child with problems (yeah, right ... liar, liar, pants on fire!), please read this blog occasionally just to hold the writer in the comforting circle of the Many Gods and Goddesses.
Here's a terrific link. I know this man. He and his wife are wonderful people.
http://mylifeas3d.blogspot.com/
Thursday, May 31, 2012
Wednesday, May 30, 2012
Welcome, "Seekers!"
I have a feeling that I'm getting a few nips today from Debra, She Who Seeks, one of my personal favorites here in the sphere. If you're peeping in from over there, howdy howdy howdy!
Quick nutshell about "The Gods Are Bored":
We're all about praising and worshiping all deities of all pantheons, through all historic and prehistoric eras. The Forgotten Ones are not forgotten here, by golly! I've built a shrine in my back yard just for Them. Heck, your great-great-great-times-x-to-the-tenth-power granny prayed to one of Them. It's only fitting that we respect all that is, and ever was, holy.
The spotted hawk swoops by and accuses me. He complains of my gab and my loitering.
I too am not tamed, I too am untranslatable.
I sound my barbaric yawp over the roofs of the world.
--Walt Whitman
Oh! It's gonna be May 31, and I'll be too put upon to post! Happy birthday to Walt Whitman, our bard and our joy, our Natural Man!
Please keep me in the light.
Quick nutshell about "The Gods Are Bored":
We're all about praising and worshiping all deities of all pantheons, through all historic and prehistoric eras. The Forgotten Ones are not forgotten here, by golly! I've built a shrine in my back yard just for Them. Heck, your great-great-great-times-x-to-the-tenth-power granny prayed to one of Them. It's only fitting that we respect all that is, and ever was, holy.
The spotted hawk swoops by and accuses me. He complains of my gab and my loitering.
I too am not tamed, I too am untranslatable.
I sound my barbaric yawp over the roofs of the world.
--Walt Whitman
Oh! It's gonna be May 31, and I'll be too put upon to post! Happy birthday to Walt Whitman, our bard and our joy, our Natural Man!
Please keep me in the light.
Tuesday, May 29, 2012
One Good Turn Deserves Another
Well, my lieblings, this is going to be a very interesting week indeed. As in the Chinese curse: "May you live in interesting times."
The week sort of began in the wee small hours of Sunday morning, when I was wakened and could not go back to sleep. Thus begins a sermon on paying forward -- a "Gods Are Bored" staple.
Where to begin? Ah yes. Startled awake, couldn't go back to sleep, got restless way before dawn, and set out for the beach. (Now that my farm in the mountains is no longer mine, I am trying to bond with the beach. It's only 50 miles away.)
A few months ago, one of my colleagues, who is a zealous and passionate collector of sea glass, showed me the beaches where she gets her best stuff.
If you are a passionate collector of anything found in nature, you understand how reluctant people are to reveal their collecting grounds. I was very, very grateful to this gal, not because I'm going to make it a great quest to find sea glass, but because finding sea glass calms me. The stuff is a great tranquilizer, especially combined with the soft swish of surf on sand.
Back to square one. I drove to the sea glass beach. It's not in a tourist neighborhood. There were some really weird people there, but enough fishermen that I figured I'd be safe.
I started picking up sea glass.
One section of the beach is now a deserted wasteland of bleached oyster and scallop shells, but it used to be a thriving -- and huge -- tourist trap. The business was there from the 1920s until the 1980s. It closed. And instead of auctioning off all the stuff (it had a big restaurant, for one thing), it was just bulldozed straight into the Atlantic. With all its contents.
You can't believe what washes up on that beach. Bathroom tiles, flooring, creamers, mugs, plates, flatware. Mostly in pieces, because, after all, the ocean is a punishing place for ceramics.
There were a few sanderlings on that stretch of beach, and I didn't want to disturb them. Just as I was turning to head back toward my car, I saw, at my feet, a small tan coffee mug buried in pebbles and mud.
On the bottom it said "Inca Ware, Shenango China, New Castle, Pa."
It could only have come from the business that got dozed into the drink.
And it was completely intact. When I washed it, it shone like new.
I searched all the usual online sites, looking for a similar mug. Didn't see one. Couldn't even get a Google image of this particular item. It may have been made specifically for that business, and that business only.
A few hours ago, I handed the mug over to the gal who showed me the beach in the first place. She was tickled pink. She said she had found bits and pieces of that particular kind of ceramic, but never a whole mug. She couldn't believe what good shape it was in.
As happy as she was, I was happier. She showed me a place where I can go to deal with my issues and come home again with a bag full of sand-scoured glass shards. The least I could do was hand over my best "find" to date. It's called "paying forward," and we at "The Gods Are Bored" highly recommend it.
Now, I want all three of you who are reading this to hold me in the light for the next six days. I am about to undergo a test of character unlike any I have ever experienced before. By this time tomorrow, the test will have commenced, and it will not conclude until Sunday, after which I pretty much expect an extended aftermath. Please petition your bored deities to come lend Their strength to mine. Where deities are concerned, no crowd is too large.
The week sort of began in the wee small hours of Sunday morning, when I was wakened and could not go back to sleep. Thus begins a sermon on paying forward -- a "Gods Are Bored" staple.
Where to begin? Ah yes. Startled awake, couldn't go back to sleep, got restless way before dawn, and set out for the beach. (Now that my farm in the mountains is no longer mine, I am trying to bond with the beach. It's only 50 miles away.)
A few months ago, one of my colleagues, who is a zealous and passionate collector of sea glass, showed me the beaches where she gets her best stuff.
If you are a passionate collector of anything found in nature, you understand how reluctant people are to reveal their collecting grounds. I was very, very grateful to this gal, not because I'm going to make it a great quest to find sea glass, but because finding sea glass calms me. The stuff is a great tranquilizer, especially combined with the soft swish of surf on sand.
Back to square one. I drove to the sea glass beach. It's not in a tourist neighborhood. There were some really weird people there, but enough fishermen that I figured I'd be safe.
I started picking up sea glass.
One section of the beach is now a deserted wasteland of bleached oyster and scallop shells, but it used to be a thriving -- and huge -- tourist trap. The business was there from the 1920s until the 1980s. It closed. And instead of auctioning off all the stuff (it had a big restaurant, for one thing), it was just bulldozed straight into the Atlantic. With all its contents.
You can't believe what washes up on that beach. Bathroom tiles, flooring, creamers, mugs, plates, flatware. Mostly in pieces, because, after all, the ocean is a punishing place for ceramics.
There were a few sanderlings on that stretch of beach, and I didn't want to disturb them. Just as I was turning to head back toward my car, I saw, at my feet, a small tan coffee mug buried in pebbles and mud.
On the bottom it said "Inca Ware, Shenango China, New Castle, Pa."
It could only have come from the business that got dozed into the drink.
And it was completely intact. When I washed it, it shone like new.
I searched all the usual online sites, looking for a similar mug. Didn't see one. Couldn't even get a Google image of this particular item. It may have been made specifically for that business, and that business only.
A few hours ago, I handed the mug over to the gal who showed me the beach in the first place. She was tickled pink. She said she had found bits and pieces of that particular kind of ceramic, but never a whole mug. She couldn't believe what good shape it was in.
As happy as she was, I was happier. She showed me a place where I can go to deal with my issues and come home again with a bag full of sand-scoured glass shards. The least I could do was hand over my best "find" to date. It's called "paying forward," and we at "The Gods Are Bored" highly recommend it.
Now, I want all three of you who are reading this to hold me in the light for the next six days. I am about to undergo a test of character unlike any I have ever experienced before. By this time tomorrow, the test will have commenced, and it will not conclude until Sunday, after which I pretty much expect an extended aftermath. Please petition your bored deities to come lend Their strength to mine. Where deities are concerned, no crowd is too large.
Saturday, May 26, 2012
My Cult
After being all snarky about Mormons (below), I thought I would remind all three of my readers that I belong to a cult called the Polyphonic Spree. Here's a representative video. The Tabernacle Choir pales in comparison.
My Personal Experience with the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints
Awhile back, one of my three readers asked me what I thought about the LDS Church, given that Mitt Romney is a choir boy therefrom.
It happens that I personally brushed up against this particular branch of religion many decades ago, when I was a late teen. I can't remember if this was before or after God told the church's bishop that black men could be Elders.
I had a high school boyfriend who was deeply dedicated to the LDS church. As I was dedicated to the boy, we talked about his church quite a bit. It seems that at a dark time in his family's life, some missionaries had come to the door and amended things. (Apparently this family patch was incompletely applied, because my boyfriend lived in the projects with his mom and four siblings, Dad having disappeared.)
My boyfriend loved his church, and he was deeply distressed that he didn't have the money to go on mission. He had to work to help support his family -- and the church, which skimmed ten percent, whether it came from Marie Osmond or the kid making milkshakes at the Dairy Queen.
One night my boyfriend asked to talk to me outside my house. He was deeply agitated. He had met with the leader of the local LDS church to confess that he had committed the sin ... the sin ... he couldn't say the word, but it has to do with self-pleasure. The church leader chided him and suggested that he either get me to convert and marry me, or dump me and keep himself in a state of exhaustion with a cold shower nearby.
I really liked the guy, but I was 18 and a newly-minted college freshman. I also was skeptical of a church that had such a low opinion of turtledove love (my term, I like it better than "masturbation"). I became further skeptical when I took a stab at reading the Book of Mormon, which seemed to me incomprehensible.
Still, I thought I should suspend my disbelief and attend church with boyfriend a few times. I thought I was in love with the guy, and although the prospect of a hasty early marriage did not appeal, I wasn't ready to dump him.
I attended the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints Sunday service twice.
It wasn't the crazy extra book that appalled me.
It wasn't even the rules against turtledove love.
It was the women.
Here is what I saw on those two Sunday mornings: Profoundly exhausted women sitting in pews with stair-step children (as many as eight in one case), often holding another baby, or pregnant. Whew. When you're a young girl at life's doorstep, you need only take one or two good looks at that to run in the other direction, screaming for The Pill.
When I demurred from further immersion in the LDS church, the boyfriend dumped me. After crying over him for a few days, I got to thinking about the bullet I'd dodged.
I often think about that bullet today. I can still picture those wretched mega-moms, slumped in the plain pews, fighting to stay awake or to keep the kids quiet, or to contain the squirming toddler despite a bloated, pregnant belly. What kind of life is that? What kind of church sets that up as an ideal, in an overpopulated world?
This is a site with a big, broad, flexible outlook, so I say, if you want to be a Mormon, knock yourself out. But every time I look at Mitt Romney, I wonder whether he was successful in the daunting task of abstaining from turtledove love. I also wonder if I want a president who looks at such a thing as a sin. After all, he does belong to that church. And that church lists its sins. And why does he only have a few kids? Suspicious. He should have about a dozen.
Church of Jesus Christ of LDS? Not for me. And they must know it, because I get Jehovah's Witnesses at my door all the time, and I've never gotten a pair of those pinch-faced Mormon missionary boys. If I do, I will be hard-pressed not to torment them with questions about turtledove love.
I've labeled this post with an alternate spelling for Mormon. I suspect I will be using this alternate spelling in future posts about Mitt.
It happens that I personally brushed up against this particular branch of religion many decades ago, when I was a late teen. I can't remember if this was before or after God told the church's bishop that black men could be Elders.
I had a high school boyfriend who was deeply dedicated to the LDS church. As I was dedicated to the boy, we talked about his church quite a bit. It seems that at a dark time in his family's life, some missionaries had come to the door and amended things. (Apparently this family patch was incompletely applied, because my boyfriend lived in the projects with his mom and four siblings, Dad having disappeared.)
My boyfriend loved his church, and he was deeply distressed that he didn't have the money to go on mission. He had to work to help support his family -- and the church, which skimmed ten percent, whether it came from Marie Osmond or the kid making milkshakes at the Dairy Queen.
One night my boyfriend asked to talk to me outside my house. He was deeply agitated. He had met with the leader of the local LDS church to confess that he had committed the sin ... the sin ... he couldn't say the word, but it has to do with self-pleasure. The church leader chided him and suggested that he either get me to convert and marry me, or dump me and keep himself in a state of exhaustion with a cold shower nearby.
I really liked the guy, but I was 18 and a newly-minted college freshman. I also was skeptical of a church that had such a low opinion of turtledove love (my term, I like it better than "masturbation"). I became further skeptical when I took a stab at reading the Book of Mormon, which seemed to me incomprehensible.
Still, I thought I should suspend my disbelief and attend church with boyfriend a few times. I thought I was in love with the guy, and although the prospect of a hasty early marriage did not appeal, I wasn't ready to dump him.
I attended the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints Sunday service twice.
It wasn't the crazy extra book that appalled me.
It wasn't even the rules against turtledove love.
It was the women.
Here is what I saw on those two Sunday mornings: Profoundly exhausted women sitting in pews with stair-step children (as many as eight in one case), often holding another baby, or pregnant. Whew. When you're a young girl at life's doorstep, you need only take one or two good looks at that to run in the other direction, screaming for The Pill.
When I demurred from further immersion in the LDS church, the boyfriend dumped me. After crying over him for a few days, I got to thinking about the bullet I'd dodged.
I often think about that bullet today. I can still picture those wretched mega-moms, slumped in the plain pews, fighting to stay awake or to keep the kids quiet, or to contain the squirming toddler despite a bloated, pregnant belly. What kind of life is that? What kind of church sets that up as an ideal, in an overpopulated world?
This is a site with a big, broad, flexible outlook, so I say, if you want to be a Mormon, knock yourself out. But every time I look at Mitt Romney, I wonder whether he was successful in the daunting task of abstaining from turtledove love. I also wonder if I want a president who looks at such a thing as a sin. After all, he does belong to that church. And that church lists its sins. And why does he only have a few kids? Suspicious. He should have about a dozen.
Church of Jesus Christ of LDS? Not for me. And they must know it, because I get Jehovah's Witnesses at my door all the time, and I've never gotten a pair of those pinch-faced Mormon missionary boys. If I do, I will be hard-pressed not to torment them with questions about turtledove love.
I've labeled this post with an alternate spelling for Mormon. I suspect I will be using this alternate spelling in future posts about Mitt.
Wednesday, May 23, 2012
Free Advice on spell work
I just totally and completely forgot to tell my three readers that next year, 2013, I will have some entries in the Llewellyn Spell Calendar! I wrote them last summer, and Llewellyn took a few of them. This is very humbling, given the many folks out there who know so much more about spell work than I do. Much of the spell work in my tool kit concerns predicting the future, and it comes from my grandmother, who learned it from her mother, who learned it who-knows-where. All those foremothers of mine were deeply into omens.
The tricky part about spell work is that you don't want to harm anyone, either directly or indirectly.
I did a spell out in Western Maryland to save a tract of land from being bulldozed and developed into an uber suburb. When the project was scuttled, amidst widespread disdain in the Maryland press and among the state's environmentalists, I thought my spell had turned out just dandy. Then I read that the developer who planned to execute the super-burb had gone bankrupt. He was unable to construct required street lights in developments he had already built -- and the good citizens who had the bad luck to buy from him were being attacked and burgled in the darkness of their neighborhoods.
See how you have to think out spell work like a spider-web, considering all the contingencies and possibilities before doing the spell?
It's pretty paralyzing, I must admit.
The easiest spell work for intentions is done for self-improvement, but think through that as well. Someone who likes you the way you are now might not like the spell-enhanced you.
It never ends. Exercise caution. Think deeply before working an intention.
Update on that developer. He has found new investors and is making noises about the super-burb again. He still owns that tract of land out in Western Maryland. Do you see my dilemma? I want to do more work, but:
1. I will not be going out to my farm anymore (it's in the vicinity), and
2. I don't want some little kid hurt in a dark house because of this developer moron.
Any suggestions you have about this and any other intentional spell work will be warmly welcomed.
The tricky part about spell work is that you don't want to harm anyone, either directly or indirectly.
I did a spell out in Western Maryland to save a tract of land from being bulldozed and developed into an uber suburb. When the project was scuttled, amidst widespread disdain in the Maryland press and among the state's environmentalists, I thought my spell had turned out just dandy. Then I read that the developer who planned to execute the super-burb had gone bankrupt. He was unable to construct required street lights in developments he had already built -- and the good citizens who had the bad luck to buy from him were being attacked and burgled in the darkness of their neighborhoods.
See how you have to think out spell work like a spider-web, considering all the contingencies and possibilities before doing the spell?
It's pretty paralyzing, I must admit.
The easiest spell work for intentions is done for self-improvement, but think through that as well. Someone who likes you the way you are now might not like the spell-enhanced you.
It never ends. Exercise caution. Think deeply before working an intention.
Update on that developer. He has found new investors and is making noises about the super-burb again. He still owns that tract of land out in Western Maryland. Do you see my dilemma? I want to do more work, but:
1. I will not be going out to my farm anymore (it's in the vicinity), and
2. I don't want some little kid hurt in a dark house because of this developer moron.
Any suggestions you have about this and any other intentional spell work will be warmly welcomed.
Monday, May 21, 2012
Frank Talk about Divorcing the Word from the Act
Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," cheating death on the New Jersey Turnpike edition! I'm your host, Anne, home from a rain-drenched excursion to scenic Union, New Jersey... if the term "scenic" includes a post-apocalyptic landscape of smokestacks and chemical plants, that is.
A friend of mine was musing about the fact that some Pagans seem bothered by the "f" word. The friend wondered if this was a carry-over from Christianity, from which most Pagans have escaped at some point in their lives.
You may have noticed, if you stop by here, that I rarely use the f bomb. Doesn't mean I don't like to f. In fact, I rather love f-ing. It's a fun way to spend the hours, depending upon partner and circumstance.
I just think this is a word that has gotten away from us to the point of absurdity. It's thrown around as an insult, it's combined with other gentle words, like "mother," as an insult, and except for occasions where it is used in private moments of sexual rapture, it's just not appropriate for the instances in which it is used.
The f bomb has definitely cornered the market on insulting and over-used words. When I was a kid, you very rarely heard it from anyone. We cursed, of course, but f*** was not the epithet of choice. (Trust me, my mother used every curse word in the English language except ones that included the f bomb.)
Therefore, I would say that my aversion to the f bomb stems not from the act which it is purported to describe, but rather to the way it is used in conversation. Which is way too much and for all the wrong reasons.
Let's ditch the f word for a term that could be coined to describe the act of love in all its wonder and beauty.
"Make love" is too long. "Fornicate" is too clinical. "Sexual intercourse" sounds Medieval.
You know what I like? "Lay." As in, I wanna lay you, baby! Sounds nice and relaxing. And we aren't chickens, so no one's going to expect a nest of eggs to appear in the satin sheets.
Everybody, go get laid! Leave the f word out of it.
A friend of mine was musing about the fact that some Pagans seem bothered by the "f" word. The friend wondered if this was a carry-over from Christianity, from which most Pagans have escaped at some point in their lives.
You may have noticed, if you stop by here, that I rarely use the f bomb. Doesn't mean I don't like to f. In fact, I rather love f-ing. It's a fun way to spend the hours, depending upon partner and circumstance.
I just think this is a word that has gotten away from us to the point of absurdity. It's thrown around as an insult, it's combined with other gentle words, like "mother," as an insult, and except for occasions where it is used in private moments of sexual rapture, it's just not appropriate for the instances in which it is used.
The f bomb has definitely cornered the market on insulting and over-used words. When I was a kid, you very rarely heard it from anyone. We cursed, of course, but f*** was not the epithet of choice. (Trust me, my mother used every curse word in the English language except ones that included the f bomb.)
Therefore, I would say that my aversion to the f bomb stems not from the act which it is purported to describe, but rather to the way it is used in conversation. Which is way too much and for all the wrong reasons.
Let's ditch the f word for a term that could be coined to describe the act of love in all its wonder and beauty.
"Make love" is too long. "Fornicate" is too clinical. "Sexual intercourse" sounds Medieval.
You know what I like? "Lay." As in, I wanna lay you, baby! Sounds nice and relaxing. And we aren't chickens, so no one's going to expect a nest of eggs to appear in the satin sheets.
Everybody, go get laid! Leave the f word out of it.
Thursday, May 17, 2012
Slate.com: Epic Fail
Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," just about as tolerant as the average human being ... which means we need work. Admitting it. If you consider yourself tolerant, blessed be! Work in progress here.
I always thought Slate.com was a serious site, but a video making the rounds proves otherwise. I saw the repulsive thing over at The Wild Hunt Blog (in my sidebar), and I will now try with my extensive superpowers to place the link below:
http://bcove.me/l3bz7b44
This pathway will take you to a little video of "advice" offered by one of Slate.com's contributors. Apparently a Christian wife wrote in to complain of her failing marriage. When she married "Mr. X," he was an atheist, but he would occasionally attend church with her. Then he became Wiccan, and that is just too much for "Mrs. X." She considers it a personal affront.
The advice columnist (this loathsome project is called "Dear Prudence") peppered her anti-Wiccan commentary with ridiculous images of Satanic beings drinking goat's blood ... and many other stereotypes that do Pagans an injustice. Then, in her moment of seriousness, this "advisor" told the woman to go ahead, dump her husband, and get on with her good Christian life.
I'm really offended by the cavalier way Slate.com treated a serious philosophical difference in a marriage, particularly since they made such a joke of Wicca.
So, let's be serious about this topic for a moment, which is something Slate.com seemed unable to be.
When one marries, he or she enters into a contract that assumes a static situation. In other words, you pledge to love a person as he or she stands before you at that moment. But life isn't static. It's dynamic. People change, sometimes drastically. Honestly I would say about 50 percent of the changes are good, and 50 percent are bad. The only constant is that change happens.
I admit, on this one I am stumped. When someone you have married changes beyond your wildest expectation, and you don't like it one bit, do you stay? Do you go?
Let's flip-flop the situation that Slate.com treated with such contempt. Suppose you're a Pagan, and your spouse is an atheist, and suddenly your spouse becomes a Christian. It goes without saying that your newly-minted Christian spouse is going to try to convert you ... otherwise, according to the busy god, you go to Hell.
Kinda hearing rock lyrics in my head. "Should I stay, or should I go?"
A Pagan could go without qualm. Things have changed, the marriage isn't working out, and we must harm none, including ourselves.
Now, if the woman who wrote in to Slate.com is really as Christian as she claims, however, she has absolutely no grounds upon which to end her marriage. The New Testament is silent on many things, but explicit in its denunciation of divorce. Therefore, if she divorces her Wiccan spouse, she will go to Hell, while he may get a posh Summerland full of fabulous bored deities.
My very serious advice to this woman is that she should try to maintain her marriage and be a bit more open-minded about her husband's dynamic change. Truth be told, Wiccans have no particular axe to grind with Christians, so long as the latter are respectful. And the Bible tells women to respect their husbands. So there you have it.
See, this is why I pay you to take my free advice. If you consult moron websites like Slate.com and run up against "Prudence," and she makes light of your plight, well, you could have come here to "The Gods Are Bored" for the big, broad, flexible outlook!
You want a good advisor? Tell your troubles to the mirror.
I always thought Slate.com was a serious site, but a video making the rounds proves otherwise. I saw the repulsive thing over at The Wild Hunt Blog (in my sidebar), and I will now try with my extensive superpowers to place the link below:
http://bcove.me/l3bz7b44
This pathway will take you to a little video of "advice" offered by one of Slate.com's contributors. Apparently a Christian wife wrote in to complain of her failing marriage. When she married "Mr. X," he was an atheist, but he would occasionally attend church with her. Then he became Wiccan, and that is just too much for "Mrs. X." She considers it a personal affront.
The advice columnist (this loathsome project is called "Dear Prudence") peppered her anti-Wiccan commentary with ridiculous images of Satanic beings drinking goat's blood ... and many other stereotypes that do Pagans an injustice. Then, in her moment of seriousness, this "advisor" told the woman to go ahead, dump her husband, and get on with her good Christian life.
I'm really offended by the cavalier way Slate.com treated a serious philosophical difference in a marriage, particularly since they made such a joke of Wicca.
So, let's be serious about this topic for a moment, which is something Slate.com seemed unable to be.
When one marries, he or she enters into a contract that assumes a static situation. In other words, you pledge to love a person as he or she stands before you at that moment. But life isn't static. It's dynamic. People change, sometimes drastically. Honestly I would say about 50 percent of the changes are good, and 50 percent are bad. The only constant is that change happens.
I admit, on this one I am stumped. When someone you have married changes beyond your wildest expectation, and you don't like it one bit, do you stay? Do you go?
Let's flip-flop the situation that Slate.com treated with such contempt. Suppose you're a Pagan, and your spouse is an atheist, and suddenly your spouse becomes a Christian. It goes without saying that your newly-minted Christian spouse is going to try to convert you ... otherwise, according to the busy god, you go to Hell.
Kinda hearing rock lyrics in my head. "Should I stay, or should I go?"
A Pagan could go without qualm. Things have changed, the marriage isn't working out, and we must harm none, including ourselves.
Now, if the woman who wrote in to Slate.com is really as Christian as she claims, however, she has absolutely no grounds upon which to end her marriage. The New Testament is silent on many things, but explicit in its denunciation of divorce. Therefore, if she divorces her Wiccan spouse, she will go to Hell, while he may get a posh Summerland full of fabulous bored deities.
My very serious advice to this woman is that she should try to maintain her marriage and be a bit more open-minded about her husband's dynamic change. Truth be told, Wiccans have no particular axe to grind with Christians, so long as the latter are respectful. And the Bible tells women to respect their husbands. So there you have it.
See, this is why I pay you to take my free advice. If you consult moron websites like Slate.com and run up against "Prudence," and she makes light of your plight, well, you could have come here to "The Gods Are Bored" for the big, broad, flexible outlook!
You want a good advisor? Tell your troubles to the mirror.
Wednesday, May 16, 2012
Moron's Guide to Medicine
Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" Hoping you're in great health ... and always will be.
Because Gods forbid you get sick in this country.
I've been seeing the same doctor for more than 10 years, in a tiny little office built for one doctor. I know my doctor. He knows me. This is the way family practice doctors ought to be. Seriously, I once took in my wand to show him! Don't know about you, but I hardly ever show anyone my wand.
Yesterday I had to go in to see Doctor Mushroom. (That's my pet name for him -- he's into holistic stuff and pretty open-minded, and if he's wearing anything other than a Hawaiian shirt it's because all his Hawaiian shirts are dirty.)
When I arrived at Dr. Mushroom's office, I had to give the new desk girl my driver's license so she could scan it into my records. This disheartened me, readers. Imagine that you are so desperate for health care that you would try to get it on someone else's account! That's the only reason I can think of that the health conglomerate that swallowed Dr. Mushroom's practice would need a photo ID of me. As I said, Dr. Mushroom knows me.
I already knew that I wouldn't be seeing Dr. Mushroom, because I was told that a new doctor had joined his practice. This doctor is a young woman who looks like she ought to be dressing for a prom, not dressing wounds.
Anyway, a new nurse (temp) took my vitals, and then the new doctor came in. Of course I asked why she had suddenly appeared. Turns out she was "transferred" from an office out in the country that didn't get enough business.
She was very nice, but completely detached, the way the vast majority of doctors are these days. I won't be showing this gal my wand, trust me. I only reluctantly pulled up my pants leg to let her look at my case of poison ivy. Out the door I went two minutes later with a prescription for steroids and a stern warning that they cause osteoporosis.
Dr. Mushroom would have turned a case of poison ivy into a 20 minute chat. That's how he rolled. Note that I use past tense. He's still alive, but so is Big Health. They must be after him to ratchet up the billables.
The only nurse I recognized told me that Dr. Mushroom and his new associate will be moving to a larger office on the region's busiest commercial highway. The little office a mile from my house is too small for two doctors.
Just now I sent a freakin Facebook friend request to my freakin doctor! This. Should. Not. Be.
Because Gods forbid you get sick in this country.
I've been seeing the same doctor for more than 10 years, in a tiny little office built for one doctor. I know my doctor. He knows me. This is the way family practice doctors ought to be. Seriously, I once took in my wand to show him! Don't know about you, but I hardly ever show anyone my wand.
Yesterday I had to go in to see Doctor Mushroom. (That's my pet name for him -- he's into holistic stuff and pretty open-minded, and if he's wearing anything other than a Hawaiian shirt it's because all his Hawaiian shirts are dirty.)
When I arrived at Dr. Mushroom's office, I had to give the new desk girl my driver's license so she could scan it into my records. This disheartened me, readers. Imagine that you are so desperate for health care that you would try to get it on someone else's account! That's the only reason I can think of that the health conglomerate that swallowed Dr. Mushroom's practice would need a photo ID of me. As I said, Dr. Mushroom knows me.
I already knew that I wouldn't be seeing Dr. Mushroom, because I was told that a new doctor had joined his practice. This doctor is a young woman who looks like she ought to be dressing for a prom, not dressing wounds.
Anyway, a new nurse (temp) took my vitals, and then the new doctor came in. Of course I asked why she had suddenly appeared. Turns out she was "transferred" from an office out in the country that didn't get enough business.
She was very nice, but completely detached, the way the vast majority of doctors are these days. I won't be showing this gal my wand, trust me. I only reluctantly pulled up my pants leg to let her look at my case of poison ivy. Out the door I went two minutes later with a prescription for steroids and a stern warning that they cause osteoporosis.
Dr. Mushroom would have turned a case of poison ivy into a 20 minute chat. That's how he rolled. Note that I use past tense. He's still alive, but so is Big Health. They must be after him to ratchet up the billables.
The only nurse I recognized told me that Dr. Mushroom and his new associate will be moving to a larger office on the region's busiest commercial highway. The little office a mile from my house is too small for two doctors.
Just now I sent a freakin Facebook friend request to my freakin doctor! This. Should. Not. Be.
Time To Pray
In the interest of keeping up with some of the Dominionist agenda, I subscribed to a couple of their email lists. Yesterday I got an email from Charisma Media that said "IT'S A NATIONAL EMERGENCY."
Curious as to what this national emergency might be, I opened the email.
The nature of the national emergency was not revealed in the email. Instead, through a big, bright picture, Charisma Media urged its readers to pray every day at 9:11.
The email didn't specify a.m. or p.m., so I assume that is up to you.
Readers, I urge you to pray every day at 9:11. Your deities need to be kept up-to-date on nebulous national emergencies. I would go farther and say that as Pagans, our deities need to be part of this prayer agenda, because what we see as a process of civilized growth might be viewed by some people as a NATIONAL EMERGENCY.
Pray today and every day!
If you need a deity to pray to, there's a new bored god posted in my sidebar every 24 hours, thanks to GodChecker.
Peace,
Anne
Curious as to what this national emergency might be, I opened the email.
The nature of the national emergency was not revealed in the email. Instead, through a big, bright picture, Charisma Media urged its readers to pray every day at 9:11.
The email didn't specify a.m. or p.m., so I assume that is up to you.
Readers, I urge you to pray every day at 9:11. Your deities need to be kept up-to-date on nebulous national emergencies. I would go farther and say that as Pagans, our deities need to be part of this prayer agenda, because what we see as a process of civilized growth might be viewed by some people as a NATIONAL EMERGENCY.
Pray today and every day!
If you need a deity to pray to, there's a new bored god posted in my sidebar every 24 hours, thanks to GodChecker.
Peace,
Anne
Sunday, May 13, 2012
Frank Talk on Proving Gender
Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," where we are crafting Constitutional Amendments! It's really fun. Kind of like a connect-the-dot on a diner place-mat!
Let's craft an amendment that defines marriage as between one man and one woman.
Now it's time to file for the marriage license.
How are you going to prove that this license is being issued to a man and a woman?
In my opinion, since this topic is ever so much more important than the inability of college graduates to find jobs, the proliferation of "part-time" work that offers no benefits, and the continuation of predatory banking, we ought to set some pretty strict standards for what exactly qualifies as a "man" and a "woman."
ANNE'S FAIL-PROOF TEST OF GENDER!
Before issuing a Constitutionally-mandated marriage license, observe the following rules:
1. If it likes cats, make it strip naked.
2. If it arrives at the courthouse in a hybrid car, make it strip naked.
3. Any kind of left-wing or Pagan bumper-sticker, make it strip naked. Pat down for strap-ons.
4. Males in button-down Oxford shirts: strip naked.
5. Females wearing Converse sneakers: strip naked.
6. Multiple tattoos or piercings: strip naked.
7. Civil wedding outside a church: strip naked.
8. Suspiciously recent manicure/haircut: strip naked.
9. Lived above the Mason-Dixon Line for more than two months: strip naked, query relentlessly about "lifestyle."
10. Blogger: strip, query, DNA test.
ANNE'S FAIL-PROOF GENDER-CERTAINTY
A marriage license can be issued immediately to:
1. Anyone with one of those fish thingies on the bumper, so long as it's the real thing and not a knock-off.
2. Anyone who applies shirtless.
3. Anyone who has a nursing baby in their arms. (Baby must be actively nursing.)
4. Anyone wearing a kilt ... what are the odds?
5. Navy Seal/NFL defensive tackle/heavyweight boxer/Teamster ... why risk it?
6. Anyone who just ate at a Chik-Fil-A. Sniff their breath.
7. Anyone who is so young they come in with Mom and Dad. Parents don't lie.
8. Anyone who can produce a Brownie sash or a Cub Scout sash with identifying characteristics.
9. Anyone willing to vote the way you want them to vote in the next election.
10. Anyone who hands you a big wad of cash and winks at you.
Now, see? That wasn't really hard, was it? You can think this stuff to death. Not necessary. The less thinking we all do, the better. Dudes, buy that kilt. Gals, root around the attic for your Brownie sash.
I'm old enough to remember a time when prospective couples had to take blood tests before they could get married. Come on, folks.. Marriage is a sacred institution... just like that liberal arts college in the middle of nowhere. These things need to last forever.
Let's craft an amendment that defines marriage as between one man and one woman.
Now it's time to file for the marriage license.
How are you going to prove that this license is being issued to a man and a woman?
In my opinion, since this topic is ever so much more important than the inability of college graduates to find jobs, the proliferation of "part-time" work that offers no benefits, and the continuation of predatory banking, we ought to set some pretty strict standards for what exactly qualifies as a "man" and a "woman."
ANNE'S FAIL-PROOF TEST OF GENDER!
Before issuing a Constitutionally-mandated marriage license, observe the following rules:
1. If it likes cats, make it strip naked.
2. If it arrives at the courthouse in a hybrid car, make it strip naked.
3. Any kind of left-wing or Pagan bumper-sticker, make it strip naked. Pat down for strap-ons.
4. Males in button-down Oxford shirts: strip naked.
5. Females wearing Converse sneakers: strip naked.
6. Multiple tattoos or piercings: strip naked.
7. Civil wedding outside a church: strip naked.
8. Suspiciously recent manicure/haircut: strip naked.
9. Lived above the Mason-Dixon Line for more than two months: strip naked, query relentlessly about "lifestyle."
10. Blogger: strip, query, DNA test.
ANNE'S FAIL-PROOF GENDER-CERTAINTY
A marriage license can be issued immediately to:
1. Anyone with one of those fish thingies on the bumper, so long as it's the real thing and not a knock-off.
2. Anyone who applies shirtless.
3. Anyone who has a nursing baby in their arms. (Baby must be actively nursing.)
4. Anyone wearing a kilt ... what are the odds?
5. Navy Seal/NFL defensive tackle/heavyweight boxer/Teamster ... why risk it?
6. Anyone who just ate at a Chik-Fil-A. Sniff their breath.
7. Anyone who is so young they come in with Mom and Dad. Parents don't lie.
8. Anyone who can produce a Brownie sash or a Cub Scout sash with identifying characteristics.
9. Anyone willing to vote the way you want them to vote in the next election.
10. Anyone who hands you a big wad of cash and winks at you.
Now, see? That wasn't really hard, was it? You can think this stuff to death. Not necessary. The less thinking we all do, the better. Dudes, buy that kilt. Gals, root around the attic for your Brownie sash.
I'm old enough to remember a time when prospective couples had to take blood tests before they could get married. Come on, folks.. Marriage is a sacred institution... just like that liberal arts college in the middle of nowhere. These things need to last forever.
Thursday, May 10, 2012
Lull
Life is going to be very interesting around here over the next few weeks. But remember that the Chinese curse is this: "May you live in interesting times."
Ever notice how we try to lull ourselves into a sense of peace?
I don't count praise and worship of the bored gods as lulling us into a sense of peace. Proper deities challenge you to confront the social ills around you, to guard the planet and do right by those who want to harm you.
We at "The Gods Are Bored" applaud those of you who confront the world head-on and hold your banner high. You go.
It's just that, right at this particular moment, we at "The Gods Are Bored" need some lulling. Therefore it has been hard for me not to drop everything I ought to be doing to go ogle the many fabulous pictures of the May Day Fairie Festival at Spoutwood Farm, now pouring into the Spoutwood site.
When everything is topsy-turvy, it's really tempting to sit for hours and watch a slide show of beautiful people, dancing in the sunshine. Beautiful children with big smiles and face paint. Performers. Faerie houses. Some crazy muddy guy with a gorgeous dog. Men in kilts. Tattoos. Dancers and drummers.
I'm going to let the world go on without me while I watch Fairie Festival photos. Tra lull lull.
Photo of Spare and Friend, Spoutwood 2012.
Ever notice how we try to lull ourselves into a sense of peace?
I don't count praise and worship of the bored gods as lulling us into a sense of peace. Proper deities challenge you to confront the social ills around you, to guard the planet and do right by those who want to harm you.
We at "The Gods Are Bored" applaud those of you who confront the world head-on and hold your banner high. You go.
It's just that, right at this particular moment, we at "The Gods Are Bored" need some lulling. Therefore it has been hard for me not to drop everything I ought to be doing to go ogle the many fabulous pictures of the May Day Fairie Festival at Spoutwood Farm, now pouring into the Spoutwood site.
When everything is topsy-turvy, it's really tempting to sit for hours and watch a slide show of beautiful people, dancing in the sunshine. Beautiful children with big smiles and face paint. Performers. Faerie houses. Some crazy muddy guy with a gorgeous dog. Men in kilts. Tattoos. Dancers and drummers.
I'm going to let the world go on without me while I watch Fairie Festival photos. Tra lull lull.
Photo of Spare and Friend, Spoutwood 2012.
Wednesday, May 09, 2012
A Warm, Wonderful "Gods Are Bored" Welcome!
Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," tolerating love, love, love since 2005! Two people, happy together! Or more! What could be better than that?
Therefore, we at "The Gods Are Bored" extend a welcoming hand to the citizens of North Carolina who have felt the sting of their fellows' votes on marriage.
Come on up to New Jersey! Sorry we don't have mountains as pretty as yours, but our beaches are nice (not so snobby), and we will enjoy having you as neighbors and friends. Despite the pestilence that is our current governor, we New Jerseyans would never do something as moronic as add a definition of marriage to our state constitution. We will legislate the length of sandwich rolls before we do that.
So pack up your troubles in your old kit bag, all ye GLBT North Carolinians, and hie ye northwards to the Garden State!
Look at it as a colossal brain drain from a state where you aren't wanted.
See you soon!
From Anne and the bored gods
P.S. -- check out the video below. Poor Henri! I laughed until I turned blue.
Therefore, we at "The Gods Are Bored" extend a welcoming hand to the citizens of North Carolina who have felt the sting of their fellows' votes on marriage.
Come on up to New Jersey! Sorry we don't have mountains as pretty as yours, but our beaches are nice (not so snobby), and we will enjoy having you as neighbors and friends. Despite the pestilence that is our current governor, we New Jerseyans would never do something as moronic as add a definition of marriage to our state constitution. We will legislate the length of sandwich rolls before we do that.
So pack up your troubles in your old kit bag, all ye GLBT North Carolinians, and hie ye northwards to the Garden State!
Look at it as a colossal brain drain from a state where you aren't wanted.
See you soon!
From Anne and the bored gods
P.S. -- check out the video below. Poor Henri! I laughed until I turned blue.
Tuesday, May 08, 2012
Update on The Heir
It is with great pleasure that I announce the graduation of The Heir, YourMoney College, Class of 2012.
She needed 56 points to pass the final in Neuroscience. She got 63. If you don't think this is the work of bored gods, toddle off now, take Neuroscience, and see how you do it without their help!
I fear that Neuroscience is the easiest test Heir will face this year. She comes home to find a job in this sour economy. Although she has many useful skills and has worked part time since she was 16, she doesn't know where to begin looking. Her college helped her not at all in this respect.
We live in tough times, folks. Either you're working too hard or not working at all. Stay tuned at Ground Zero of a college graduate's search for a job. Any job.
She needed 56 points to pass the final in Neuroscience. She got 63. If you don't think this is the work of bored gods, toddle off now, take Neuroscience, and see how you do it without their help!
I fear that Neuroscience is the easiest test Heir will face this year. She comes home to find a job in this sour economy. Although she has many useful skills and has worked part time since she was 16, she doesn't know where to begin looking. Her college helped her not at all in this respect.
We live in tough times, folks. Either you're working too hard or not working at all. Stay tuned at Ground Zero of a college graduate's search for a job. Any job.
Thursday, May 03, 2012
Off to the Fairie Festival!
Spare is tearing her room apart in search of faerie wear. My bedroom is awash in neon tie-dye. The car is full of rocks and dragons.
This can only mean one thing. The May Day Fairie Festival at Spoutwood begins tomorrow!
And Saturday night is a maximum full moon ... time to drum and dance in the May!
I hope you find springtime in your heart. To be truthful, I often struggle with the blues. Best way to kick 'em is to grab a drum, find a spot in the sunshine, and bang out a rhythm for the Great Bored Gods.
Proudly Mountain Tribe ... by way of New Jersey. Okay, that peg is really gonna fit that hole.
This can only mean one thing. The May Day Fairie Festival at Spoutwood begins tomorrow!
And Saturday night is a maximum full moon ... time to drum and dance in the May!
I hope you find springtime in your heart. To be truthful, I often struggle with the blues. Best way to kick 'em is to grab a drum, find a spot in the sunshine, and bang out a rhythm for the Great Bored Gods.
Proudly Mountain Tribe ... by way of New Jersey. Okay, that peg is really gonna fit that hole.
Wednesday, May 02, 2012
Nail-Biting in Snobville
Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," and I hope that any and every, and every EVERY bored deity drops His or Her knitting and comes here post-haste!
My daughter The Heir is scheduled to graduate from college a week from Friday. She has never gotten below a B in any of her courses, and she managed to double-major. Her collection of paintings won a prize for creativity bestowed by some well-heeled alumnus.
This young woman has crossed every t and dotted every i through 16 years of education, and most of it has been stuff she didn't like doing.
Try though she might to schedule a course, she was unable to fulfill her university's science requirement until the final semester of her senior year. Then, she had scheduling conflicts for the courses that might have been easy.
She wound up in Neuroscience. If she doesn't pass it, I don't know if she'll be wearing that cap and gown the university loaned her last week. Going into the final, she's sporting an encouraging "D."
The Heir has been trying to find out what the procedure is for students like herself, and the university is being less than helpful. Her advisor won't answer her emails. The deans are playing pass-the-buck. And Heir is trying, really trying to pass Neuroscience, a discipline she knew nothing about before taking it.
So, along with the bored gods, I'm asking for your energy and support as Heir takes the final exam on Thursday.
Our country needs to re-think the whole idea of "liberal arts education," if an honor student can't get a degree without a rigorous and completely irrelevant science class.
Gods and Goddesses, please be with The Heir.
My daughter The Heir is scheduled to graduate from college a week from Friday. She has never gotten below a B in any of her courses, and she managed to double-major. Her collection of paintings won a prize for creativity bestowed by some well-heeled alumnus.
This young woman has crossed every t and dotted every i through 16 years of education, and most of it has been stuff she didn't like doing.
Try though she might to schedule a course, she was unable to fulfill her university's science requirement until the final semester of her senior year. Then, she had scheduling conflicts for the courses that might have been easy.
She wound up in Neuroscience. If she doesn't pass it, I don't know if she'll be wearing that cap and gown the university loaned her last week. Going into the final, she's sporting an encouraging "D."
The Heir has been trying to find out what the procedure is for students like herself, and the university is being less than helpful. Her advisor won't answer her emails. The deans are playing pass-the-buck. And Heir is trying, really trying to pass Neuroscience, a discipline she knew nothing about before taking it.
So, along with the bored gods, I'm asking for your energy and support as Heir takes the final exam on Thursday.
Our country needs to re-think the whole idea of "liberal arts education," if an honor student can't get a degree without a rigorous and completely irrelevant science class.
Gods and Goddesses, please be with The Heir.
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