Holy Week: Pine Straw Sunday

(CAVEAT: IF YOU ARE EASILY OFFENDED, WHY ARE YOU READING MY CRAP ANYWAY?? IF NOT, READ ON MCDUFF!)

Those of you who've been following along with me since the beginning know: Easter and I do not get along. (If you haven't read last year's "The Easter Curse", scroll down to the Blog Archive and do so now. It's a prerequisite.) Easter and Mother's Day as a matter of fact. There's a very untidy history there making this my "troubled time of the year": A time of wearing garlic, rubbing rabbits' feet (still attached), and listening to Joan Armatrading's "I'm Lucky" non-stop.

While I'm not walking under ladders--nor palm branches for that matter--I'll tell you about my morning so far. On the first day of holy week my breakfast consisted of: Four small apples, three turkey bacon strips, two dry packs of oatmeal, and a glass of herbal iced tea. That might seem odd or extreme--I assure you, sadly it is neither--you should also know that someone (whom I will later persecute) left the light on in the hallway bathroom. Now this light shines down said hallway, looks at the closet then turns, with a smirk and a grin to fly golden rays of Wake-The-Fuck-Up under my bedroom door. This usually takes only a few hours. I was up at 2:45 a.m.

To my...let's say "delight", CSPAN was just set to re-air the Wisconsin Faith and Freedom Conference, giving me the opportunity to hear our old pals Newt Gingrich, Paul Ryan, Mitt Romney, Alberto Gonzalez, Ralph Reed, and Rick Santorum. (It's a wonder I could eat breakfast at all.) These little "peeps" brought out some internal vitriol which I assume fueled my hunger. To my credit, my inner editor also came out; not the one that says "yes everyone in this room IS an empath and they all have siblings in the media", rather the actual editor. In a past life (for money) and in a recurring role on my life's sitcom, I am a consummate editor. Well, not HERE nor on Twitter, but when I cannot let my guard down and be myself. You see I wanted to compare Newt to Hitler as he spoke out of both sides of his mouth, rallying the sold on his poison. And I wanted to tell him that Lech Walesa, whom he referred to as a friend with whom Raygun and Pope saved the world--"superfriends, really"--would have a thing or two to say about Governor Scott Walker's attack on unions. I wanted to tell Paul "Get My Widow's Peak" Ryan and Mitt Romney that President Obama is not dead set on taking away all that is precious about America. And when Romney related The Tales of People Along the Campaign Trail, I resisted the urge to paint our modern-day Chaucer as an anthropologist studying our quaint little tribe of the unwealthy.

I didn't tell Alberto (I can still hear W pronouncing it) that Hispanics don't need to be put at odds with other people of color for the price of a vote--look under the waving palms of Sanford, Florida for the real price of that one. (Here the editor told me not to wander into the crucible concerning men of color and unjustified homicides--cruci-facts and cruci-fictions.) And as for Ralph Reed, he wants us to actually believe that religious persecution is our national nightmare. Can you say "Jet Blue"? (Joan sez: "Drop the Pilot.") Pick your own low-hanging fruit here; it just isn't sport for me to shoot fishes in a Darwin...I mean, barrel. So spent was I from self-editing at this point that I drifted off during Santo's bit--I'll let you know what subliminal hell that will bring later. But when I came back to consciousness, CSPAN was teasing a documentary called "The Armed Campus" where essay winning-kids were reading their position papers on why they should be armed at school. Middle school, even. How cute. I remember Ralph Reed saying there was a lot "we" could do about judges, that "we" should demand that teachers teach "the truth". That sort of wove itself into Wayne LaPierre's confusing of the First and Second Amendments, at which point I decided my time and attention were better spent in the kitchen.

For those of you who profess/believe/practice religion without judging others/trying to convert others/forcing your beliefs on others...I'm happy for you. Move along on the path of loving your fellow creatures with my blessing. It's the "other kind of 'religious person'" I'm on about. The ones who are so fragile in their faith that they cannot coexist with those of other traditions or no tradition at all. No, Newt: No one is attempting to impose Sharia Law on America. (Except maybe the Republican Party when it comes to the rights of women.) And no, "Fox & Friends", even I wouldn't segue from April Fool's Day to Rome. (Oh, and their prank is attempting to spread the internet rumor that Oprah Winfrey, and possibly even Keith Olbermann, are going to join the show. Meanwhile I'm trying to start the rumor that anyone among the show's fan base even has the interwebs.) The fact that we're having the conversation is proof that religion is not now nor will it ever be marginalized in this country...no matter how many of us may wish it to step out of the political arena, at least.

But let me not leave you with the tail-end of a tired woman's rant, rather let me give you the signs of hope, the seeds of holy harmony as they have been visited upon me this fine day. Let's call these the Holy Week Miracles!

Miracle #1: Fully cooked turkey bacon, as imagined by the prophet Oscar Mayer, fits seven slices to a standard sheet of paper towels (for microwaving). There were 21 slices in the 12 ounce package, fitting perfectly on three sheets of doubled over paper towels. Oh, the power and the glory: Divine!

Miracle #2: The impromptu sauce of packaged sundried tomato-flavored powder plus the remnants of McCormick's "Mexican Fiesta" powder to which I added some olive oil and water exactly covered two salmon filets for baking. Heavenly hosts of hostesses with the mostesses!

Miracle #3: A silk palm tree (really) fell over in the living room and missed all four dogs. Potted Pious Pontius Pilate!

I readied myself for this week by raking pine straw for two days. I have another half of my yard to go, but I will get it done in time for, something. As I raked, I uncovered a large patch of wild strawberry plants and a Kansas quarter. I hope to be picking strawberries in a couple of months. But if you want to act on the Pine Straw Sunday signs before then, bet on the Jayhawks in the NCAA Men's Final.

After all, wouldn't "You Know Who" go with the underdog?