I think I forgot to say that I went to a Scissor Sisters' concert last week. Well, I say 'concert'... it was more of a down-and-dirty 'gig' in a dive bar. And it was FABULOUS. I cannot believe I haven't written about it yet.
I'm a big fan of tunes with heavy basslines, clever lyrics, and a beat you can shake yer ass to, and the Scissor Sisters fill those requirements beautifully. Their first two albums were really disco-ey and funky, and their third has become a more mature sound, with a focus on really filthy lyrics. They played stuff from all three albums at the gig and because I am, by nature, a woman who insists on knowing ALL the lyrics to ALL the songs she loves, I sang my throat sore to everything they performed.
It may not be cool to love disco, soul, and funk as much as I do, but I do. I cannot help it. I MUST dance and shake my ass as much as possible when I listen to music, and after D sent me Paloma Faith's album I have been cranking up the volume on that too (yeah... I know it came out last year, but I live in Cheeseland, Wisconsin, and we don't get funky shit released that much over here). I'm not cool. I know that. But I'm okay with it, because it means I get to meet fabulous gays and too-cool lesbians at dive bars in Milwaukee that play host to the Scissor Sisters. I fuckin' LOVE IT.
Driving home from the gig I felt drunk. Or high. Something, anyway. I'd only had a single Malibu and Diet Coke so I knew I wasn't actually drunk, but it was the most beautiful feeling. My throat was hoarse and my ears didn't stop ringing for three days, but I felt so energised and... well... happy. I truly felt like I deserved a night out with J & G and my new 400+ friends in tight jeans, and while I was dancing and singing away I honestly forgot where I was and who I was. I was no longer in Cheeseland or a wife and mother; I was just a silly, happy party beast. It was a fantastic feeling and it really invigorated me the following weekend. Don't get me wrong: reading and writing and massages and taking walks are all lovely, relaxing things to do. But they don't speak to me like a gig like that one did. I didn't have any responsibilities at all for three whole hours, and I got to feel the way I did when I was younger, boogy-ing my way through university.
Honestly - and I know this sounds crap - I think I had a spiritual moment. I think the music gods of the sky were patting me on the back and telling me it's okay for me to stop being Tina the Wife and Tina the Mother once in a while, and just be Tina the Magnificent. It was fucking unbelieveable.
I want to do it again.
Tina.
Showing posts with label God. Show all posts
Showing posts with label God. Show all posts
Friday, September 10, 2010
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
A few new ideas
We went away to Minnesota for Thanksgiving last week and it was really nice for Owen to spend time with his extended American family (the fact they can occasionally drive me bananas is neither here nor there).
While we were out there I basically stopped wearing make-up. For Friday, which was when Owen got baptised, I put on some warrior paint again and I actually enjoyed it. It's made me stop wearing it since we got back (except for a touch of concealer, because I'm still vain and embarrased about my teenage-style spots) and I'm determined to keep it up. I like to think that while I may be plain under my eyeliner, actually it doesn't matter to anyone but me. And then, when I do put some slap on again for a special occasion, it feels like a treat and I'm happy to devote some time to it.
I think the thing that bugs me the most about make-up is taking it off again at the end of the day. I absolutely HATE getting ready for bed because I have to use the loo, take off my make-up, take out my contact lenses and clean them, brush my teeth, put on lip salve because the teeth-cleaning dries them out, put on hand lotion because washing my hands after everything else dries them out, and finally get into my pyjamas. This all usually takes place shortly before midnight because I forget to do everything before Owen's last feed of the day... SO... if I can skip taking off the make-up because I didn't put any on in the first place, all the better.
It's incredibly emancipating and I reckon I'm going to save a few pennies too. :)
In other news, I spent many an hour talking to my brother-in-law last week and we got into a very interesting discussion one night about Catholicism. As we were talking about the concept of Original Sin (it having been Owen's baptism earlier that day), a theory occured to me. Forgive me if someone else has already come up with this, but it really did enter my head entirely on its own.
Before women's reproductive systems were really understood, women were considered "dirty" and "the other" because they bled once a month. (Misogynists still believe this today, but that's because they're idiotic trolls and not necessarily because they're uneducated.) Now, the process of childbirth is also very messy. It's often primal and the experience reaches into the very core of a woman in labour in a way that no other experience can. It's animalistic and private, and when your child emerges they are covered in white goo, or blood, or even their own bowel movements. They snort and they drool and they cry, and if you've never watched a birth before you'd probably be very surprised that babies don't emerge all clean and dry and swaddled in a receiving blanket.
So it occured to me that because children come from a place that is traditionally misunderstood and unclean - being the inside of a woman - the founders of Catholicism decided that not only did the outside of the baby have to be washed when it was born, but also the inside needed cleansing too. Hence the idea of Original Sin. Seeing as humans cannot reach the inside, or the soul, baptism serves that purpose. Yes, Jesus may have been baptised by John, but the concept of Original Sin didn't emerge until hundreds of years later, when the women of the Bible had been all but erased (see the virgin/whore dichotomy throughout) and men could really get to twist its words.
Well, that's what I think, anyway. Original Sin is essentially misogynistic and I'm not buying into it. Owen's baptism was NOT Catholic and it had no mention of such nonsense. My beautiful baby boy would have gone to Heaven whether he'd been sprinkled with holy water or not, but now he gets to embrace his faith fully and celebrate it with his family.
Original Sin can kiss my arse.
Tina.
While we were out there I basically stopped wearing make-up. For Friday, which was when Owen got baptised, I put on some warrior paint again and I actually enjoyed it. It's made me stop wearing it since we got back (except for a touch of concealer, because I'm still vain and embarrased about my teenage-style spots) and I'm determined to keep it up. I like to think that while I may be plain under my eyeliner, actually it doesn't matter to anyone but me. And then, when I do put some slap on again for a special occasion, it feels like a treat and I'm happy to devote some time to it.
I think the thing that bugs me the most about make-up is taking it off again at the end of the day. I absolutely HATE getting ready for bed because I have to use the loo, take off my make-up, take out my contact lenses and clean them, brush my teeth, put on lip salve because the teeth-cleaning dries them out, put on hand lotion because washing my hands after everything else dries them out, and finally get into my pyjamas. This all usually takes place shortly before midnight because I forget to do everything before Owen's last feed of the day... SO... if I can skip taking off the make-up because I didn't put any on in the first place, all the better.
It's incredibly emancipating and I reckon I'm going to save a few pennies too. :)
In other news, I spent many an hour talking to my brother-in-law last week and we got into a very interesting discussion one night about Catholicism. As we were talking about the concept of Original Sin (it having been Owen's baptism earlier that day), a theory occured to me. Forgive me if someone else has already come up with this, but it really did enter my head entirely on its own.
Before women's reproductive systems were really understood, women were considered "dirty" and "the other" because they bled once a month. (Misogynists still believe this today, but that's because they're idiotic trolls and not necessarily because they're uneducated.) Now, the process of childbirth is also very messy. It's often primal and the experience reaches into the very core of a woman in labour in a way that no other experience can. It's animalistic and private, and when your child emerges they are covered in white goo, or blood, or even their own bowel movements. They snort and they drool and they cry, and if you've never watched a birth before you'd probably be very surprised that babies don't emerge all clean and dry and swaddled in a receiving blanket.
So it occured to me that because children come from a place that is traditionally misunderstood and unclean - being the inside of a woman - the founders of Catholicism decided that not only did the outside of the baby have to be washed when it was born, but also the inside needed cleansing too. Hence the idea of Original Sin. Seeing as humans cannot reach the inside, or the soul, baptism serves that purpose. Yes, Jesus may have been baptised by John, but the concept of Original Sin didn't emerge until hundreds of years later, when the women of the Bible had been all but erased (see the virgin/whore dichotomy throughout) and men could really get to twist its words.
Well, that's what I think, anyway. Original Sin is essentially misogynistic and I'm not buying into it. Owen's baptism was NOT Catholic and it had no mention of such nonsense. My beautiful baby boy would have gone to Heaven whether he'd been sprinkled with holy water or not, but now he gets to embrace his faith fully and celebrate it with his family.
Original Sin can kiss my arse.
Tina.
Monday, November 16, 2009
God in my life
I've been thinking really hard about my spiritual leanings recently, what with Owen's baptism next week and his blessing at Stan's Christening in January. I haven't reached any conclusions yet, but I will say that my feelings towards God change on an hourly basis at the moment.
When Owen is clearly in pain and screaming so hard he makes me cry too, I shout at God. I ask Him why he's chosen MY family to go through this; why Owen, why me? It breaks my heart every single day to see my child live in such discomfort and to realise that he has known nothing else his entire, short, sweet life. Why would God put such an awful disease on the planet, and why would He decide that Owen is one of the ones who should suffer? I have taken to venting my frustrations out on Him because I find it a lot easier and safer than talking to Mike or anyone else. After all, God doesn't really answer me back, and I know He'll forgive me if I say something I shouldn't.
But it's so hard to understand it sometimes. It's just so damn hard to watch my little boy suffer so much and to not be able to control it. I find myself looking at the children of friends and longing for their lives instead of our own. That isn't right. How can it be right to covert their lives; their children? And it isn't even as though I want THEIR child - I just want MY child to have THEIR child's easy life. I find it very, very hard to listen to people when they say, "Well yes, Little Susie spat up too", or, "Little Jimmy did XYZ today!" So bleedin' what?! My child is delayed developmentally because he has GERD and there's not a lick of a thing I can do about it.
Those jealous feelings lead me to believe that perhaps God isn't in control of my situation. Perhaps He skipped this house. Perhaps He meant to fix Owen's health issues but He got caught up in Darfur or Iraq, helping those mothers with their frail little ones instead. I couldn't blame Him - they probably need Him more.
Which leads me to my other feelings about God.
I heard a lovely phrase the other day: "Special babies are given to special mothers". I don't know whether this is true, but it's certainly nice to think it is. Perhaps God does have a hand here. Perhaps Owen was given to me because I am the one Mama in the whole wide world who is suited to exactly meet each and every one of his needs. Maybe God thought that Owen is a strong enough baby to live like this and we are a strong enough family to cope with watching him struggle. Maybe these problems had to be given to somebody and it was just a matter of choosing the strongest recipients.
I don't know. In times of despair, I find all that very hard to believe.
Tina.
When Owen is clearly in pain and screaming so hard he makes me cry too, I shout at God. I ask Him why he's chosen MY family to go through this; why Owen, why me? It breaks my heart every single day to see my child live in such discomfort and to realise that he has known nothing else his entire, short, sweet life. Why would God put such an awful disease on the planet, and why would He decide that Owen is one of the ones who should suffer? I have taken to venting my frustrations out on Him because I find it a lot easier and safer than talking to Mike or anyone else. After all, God doesn't really answer me back, and I know He'll forgive me if I say something I shouldn't.
But it's so hard to understand it sometimes. It's just so damn hard to watch my little boy suffer so much and to not be able to control it. I find myself looking at the children of friends and longing for their lives instead of our own. That isn't right. How can it be right to covert their lives; their children? And it isn't even as though I want THEIR child - I just want MY child to have THEIR child's easy life. I find it very, very hard to listen to people when they say, "Well yes, Little Susie spat up too", or, "Little Jimmy did XYZ today!" So bleedin' what?! My child is delayed developmentally because he has GERD and there's not a lick of a thing I can do about it.
Those jealous feelings lead me to believe that perhaps God isn't in control of my situation. Perhaps He skipped this house. Perhaps He meant to fix Owen's health issues but He got caught up in Darfur or Iraq, helping those mothers with their frail little ones instead. I couldn't blame Him - they probably need Him more.
Which leads me to my other feelings about God.
I heard a lovely phrase the other day: "Special babies are given to special mothers". I don't know whether this is true, but it's certainly nice to think it is. Perhaps God does have a hand here. Perhaps Owen was given to me because I am the one Mama in the whole wide world who is suited to exactly meet each and every one of his needs. Maybe God thought that Owen is a strong enough baby to live like this and we are a strong enough family to cope with watching him struggle. Maybe these problems had to be given to somebody and it was just a matter of choosing the strongest recipients.
I don't know. In times of despair, I find all that very hard to believe.
Tina.
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