Friday, October 19, 2012
Wednesday, October 17, 2012
Tuesday, October 9, 2012
Modesty-The New Mod
"Train up a child in the way he should go; even when he is old he will not depart from it."
Proverbs 22:6
For years, I've been talking a great deal about the dire need for the morale pendulum to swing far the other way in this nation. Where the oversexualization of little girls sporting spray tans and sweatsuits with provocative words stamped across their prepubescent asses falls prey to the rise of imagination, back to homemade dolls and mud-pies. A nation where mom's protect their daughters from mainstream media's gnashing teeth and relish in their innocence. When did we lose hold of teaching reverence for one's body and succumb to our adolescents' lipgloss rings on the heads of penises?
My Aunt sent me a book about her maternal grandmother growing up in Montana in the late 1800's. This was without a doubt a simpler time, but what struck me was the joy that permeated the story. A time where pureness was a mainstay, family was essential, and the gift of a cinnamon stick in a stocking on Christmas morning stopped the clock.
Today, Tablets for Tots tops the wish list for the holidays. And Honey Boo Boo gets renewed for another season. Now, I'm not preaching piety or virtuousness. I grew up far too fast.
And this rise in sanctity for the youth is not because I am, as the nuns say gravid.
But I profess with every fiber of my being that I believe we the people are lost and our perpetual identification with the degradation of society and it's lewd behavior will continue to make for a weaker race.
My generation can help reverse this decline, starting with re-runs of Little House on the Prairie.
What bad could come from bringing goody two shoes back?
For years, I've been talking a great deal about the dire need for the morale pendulum to swing far the other way in this nation. Where the oversexualization of little girls sporting spray tans and sweatsuits with provocative words stamped across their prepubescent asses falls prey to the rise of imagination, back to homemade dolls and mud-pies. A nation where mom's protect their daughters from mainstream media's gnashing teeth and relish in their innocence. When did we lose hold of teaching reverence for one's body and succumb to our adolescents' lipgloss rings on the heads of penises?
My Aunt sent me a book about her maternal grandmother growing up in Montana in the late 1800's. This was without a doubt a simpler time, but what struck me was the joy that permeated the story. A time where pureness was a mainstay, family was essential, and the gift of a cinnamon stick in a stocking on Christmas morning stopped the clock.
Today, Tablets for Tots tops the wish list for the holidays. And Honey Boo Boo gets renewed for another season. Now, I'm not preaching piety or virtuousness. I grew up far too fast.
And this rise in sanctity for the youth is not because I am, as the nuns say gravid.
But I profess with every fiber of my being that I believe we the people are lost and our perpetual identification with the degradation of society and it's lewd behavior will continue to make for a weaker race.
My generation can help reverse this decline, starting with re-runs of Little House on the Prairie.
What bad could come from bringing goody two shoes back?
Monday, October 8, 2012
Aftermath
As suspected, Obama supporters are not looking at their candidate. In defeat, they are resorting to the easiest strategy of calling his challenger, a liar, liar, pants on fire.
Yet days ago on CNN, Obama's campaign manager Stephanie Cutter conceded that Mitt Romney isn’t actually planning to run up a $5 trillion tab via tax cuts and she and President Obama grossly inflated that number.
And yesterday, Intelligence surfaced that the Secretary of State, her department, and the President made false claims about the truth behind the Libyan terrorist attack and their part they played in the murder of our US Ambassador by pulling out security.
But, the adoring pundits leave these facts out of their rundown.
This is playground antics and bad journalism.
Yet days ago on CNN, Obama's campaign manager Stephanie Cutter conceded that Mitt Romney isn’t actually planning to run up a $5 trillion tab via tax cuts and she and President Obama grossly inflated that number.
And yesterday, Intelligence surfaced that the Secretary of State, her department, and the President made false claims about the truth behind the Libyan terrorist attack and their part they played in the murder of our US Ambassador by pulling out security.
But, the adoring pundits leave these facts out of their rundown.
This is playground antics and bad journalism.
Friday, October 5, 2012
Thursday, October 4, 2012
Oh The Places You'll Go...Sniff. Sniff.
“You have brains in your head. You have feet in your shoes. You can steer yourself any direction you choose. You're on your own. And you know what you know. And YOU are the one who'll decide where to go...” Dr. Seuess
Monday, October 1, 2012
19 Weeks
“You made all the delicate, inner parts of my body and knit me together in my mother’s womb. Thank you for making me so wonderfully complex! Your workmanship is marvelous—how well I know it.” Psalm 139:13-14
In the past I would have called myself multifaceted. Intricate in my thought patterns. These days I wonder...
I haven't been writing. I've been reading. Vonnegut, Hemingway, and now Bradbury.
Damn, they make it look so effortless. They make me question my capacity to let my most inner dialogue pour out and into the lives of my greatest critics or those near that thought they knew me. They make me reexamine my aspirations of opening a vein, letting it bleed out exposed, while naysayers throw salt and call a heart a spade.
Still I'm compelled.
Not everybody is gonna be a fan. So it goes.
I want to write about the short nine month time span it takes to miraculously make a human being of flesh, blood, soul, and my DNA. I want to candidly write about the modifiers I would use to describe this blessed event. And I want to do this with full intention, knowing I run the risk of having no fans or sympathizers.
First, it is impossible for me to look at another woman who has carried a child and not mouth the words with complete sincerity, "You're Amazing."
Secondly, if I hear one more woman describe her "gentle" pregnancy as a beautiful experience where she glowed with radiance from within without a tinge of nausea, I might bite the tip of her nose off and violently throw it up with my daily dose of bile that ends up in the closest toilet, sink, or bucket I can reach.
With that said, I begin the written pilgrimage that could be just for me. Pulling on my threadbare stretch pants whatever time of day and wrestling with the conflicting feelings of grateful, awestruck elation and a downright miserable existence where raising my head off the pillow is my greatest feat of accomplishment.
Won't you join me?
In the past I would have called myself multifaceted. Intricate in my thought patterns. These days I wonder...
I haven't been writing. I've been reading. Vonnegut, Hemingway, and now Bradbury.
Damn, they make it look so effortless. They make me question my capacity to let my most inner dialogue pour out and into the lives of my greatest critics or those near that thought they knew me. They make me reexamine my aspirations of opening a vein, letting it bleed out exposed, while naysayers throw salt and call a heart a spade.
Still I'm compelled.
Not everybody is gonna be a fan. So it goes.
I want to write about the short nine month time span it takes to miraculously make a human being of flesh, blood, soul, and my DNA. I want to candidly write about the modifiers I would use to describe this blessed event. And I want to do this with full intention, knowing I run the risk of having no fans or sympathizers.
First, it is impossible for me to look at another woman who has carried a child and not mouth the words with complete sincerity, "You're Amazing."
Secondly, if I hear one more woman describe her "gentle" pregnancy as a beautiful experience where she glowed with radiance from within without a tinge of nausea, I might bite the tip of her nose off and violently throw it up with my daily dose of bile that ends up in the closest toilet, sink, or bucket I can reach.
With that said, I begin the written pilgrimage that could be just for me. Pulling on my threadbare stretch pants whatever time of day and wrestling with the conflicting feelings of grateful, awestruck elation and a downright miserable existence where raising my head off the pillow is my greatest feat of accomplishment.
Won't you join me?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
