You May be Jésus to Your Mama, but you're Jesus to me

It probably could have been easily predicted that I was destined for trouble when my parents colluded to lie to a Catholic priest in order to have me baptized.  Christening under false pretenses is, no doubt, a venial sin at the very least.  Because my parents had not been married in the Catholic Church, and because my grandfather called my mother, and then subsequently me, a heathen, they decided they better christen me. This was not such an easy matter for them.  When I was six months old they finally were able to get me baptized at St. Stanislaus, the only church in the borough of Queens who was willing to christen the child born of two people who were not even considered married in the eyes of the Church.  And while they could have chosen to depart completely from Catholicism (and I truly believe my father would have been all over that), my parents chose to raise my brother and I as Catholics because, truth told, what else did they know?

Because I went to public school, my parents sent me to catechism classes beginning in the first grade.  Clearly, one needs an early start to get properly indoctrinated.  Once a week, me and all the other Catholic kids left our own school right after lunch in order to attend the nearest Catholic school for lessons, while all the kids who regularly attended the parochial schools had a half day every Wednesday and could be seen at the pizza place and park while we sat in their abandoned classrooms.  This weekly schedule of half days lasted all the way through fifth grade and beginning in the sixth grade we attended catechism classes on Monday nights after dinner.  This particular situation worked out well for me for two reasons: one - I didn't have to witness all the parochial school kids having fun while we sat in class all afternoon, and two - my cousin Joann and I could sneak cigarettes on the walk from her house to the Catholic school under a cloak of darkness. 

In all those years I learned all the things I was supposed to learn in order to become a fully functioning member of the Catholic Church.  I memorized prayers, beatitudes and commandments.  I made sacraments, attended masses, received ashes, and figured out when to kneel/sit/stand without the aid of clicking dog training tools.  I also learned the importance of confession, and the joy that accompanies having unloaded all your misdeeds on a weekly basis and starting all over again.  Ah, sweet absolution.  Although much information had been passed along to me, nothing that I learned could have quite prepared me  for the nuggets of wisdom that my own children would pass on to me from their Catholic preschool experiences.

My son's first Christmas season in Catholic school found him eagerly anticipating the upcoming holiday.  School days included all sorts of seasonal art projects and countdowns to gift exchanging (and possibly Advent?).  My son returned home from school on one of these December days to inform us that there was a new guy in his class.  My husband and I heard somewhere that good parents listen and ask questions of their children,  and so after our son telling us for a few days about this new guy, my husband broke down and asked all about him.  Enthusiastically, our son told his father that the new guy was a baby.  A baby?  Yes, a baby who had a birthday coming up. The baby's name was Jesus and his birthday happened to be on Christmas.  Pretty cool, huh?

Deciphering pre-school talk is a pretty daunting task, and if you've never been around a four year old, think of an overly talkative, occasionally annoying, drunk friend.  When we entered the Easter season, our son was again fairly keyed up.  He talked endlessly of guys sleeping behind rocks and rabbits bringing eggs.  It was at this time that we were told that our son had solved the mystery of why we celebrate Easter.  As it turns out, this guy Jesus (not recognized by him as the same baby who had been in his class in December) had some friends who nailed him to a tree.  Then they put him a cave and let him out after a few days.  When he came out, there was a party with colored eggs, ham and chocolate.  Pretty cool, huh?

Our daughter now attends the same school as her older brother did.  This past Christmas season she returned home from school one day wearing a Dora birthday party hat.  When asked where she got the hat, she informed us that their was a birthday party at school that day.  Whose birthday was it?, we asked her.   Jesus.  As it turns out, Jesus enjoys a Dora themed birthday party as much as the next guy.  Pretty cool, huh?  I'm looking forward to her Easter revelations.

My son now attends the local public school and his sister will follow his lead.  The indoctrination process in our home ends at the age of five.  I highly recommend not correcting the half truths and misunderstandings that come out of the mouths of babes.  If nothing else, they will have an interesting worldview and you will be provided with a lot of laughter.

This weeks tip:  You need not buy egg dyeing kits in order to do your Easter up right this year.  You can use produce that you probably have around your home in order to dye your hardboiled treats, such as: red cabbage juice (for blue), boiled yellow delicious apple peels (for greenish yellow) and red wine for violet.

dank u wel

So, it has been brought to my attention that I get lots of comments on facebook with new posts, but never on the actual blog - not a complaint, just an observation.  Additionally, I had another blogsite that also had a bunch of comments. I copied some of the posts from that site (mostly because I'm lazy, and not terribly creative) but the comments were left behind.  I decided that it would be a good idea (mostly because I like to pat myself on the back) to put all of these comments in one spot.  What this means for readers is that you will see comments that have been posted by me, but are actually words written by my few misguided readers.  Anyway, thanks for reading and further thanks for taking a minute to tell me you enjoy (or not, if that's where you're at).   It means a lot to me that you take the time to read what I've written.

Life in the Provinces

At the tender age of twenty three I made the bold decision to leave the great state of New York (and my family and friends) and leap into the unknown world of living in the West.  Prior to a three month tour of the country, in a big daddy Caddy, I had considered Pennsylvania to be the west.  As it turns out there's a whole shitload of country between Pennsylvania and the Pacific Ocean.  Not only is there lots of land, but there are cities, people and running water to boot.

Armed with a duffle bag filled with jeans, short shirts and sandals, eighty bucks and a one way ticket to Oakland, off I went.  If you've never been to California, I would heartily suggest that you don't make Oakland your starting point. My family was confounded.  Why would I want to leave New York to go live out there with a bunch of fruits and nuts?  This is not an uncommon lament for East Coast folks. I once spoke to a gal who works for a large credit card company and she told me that people on the East Coast are more likely to get their credit applications approved as they are very easy to find because they don't leave. If you can't find them, you can find someone in their family; across generations, East Coasters generally tend to stick around.

After living on a teacher's salary, for a number of years, in the glorious city of San Francisco I realized that I didn't always want to have three jobs and moved to Denver. I have been living here for the past twelve years and have come to terms with being an outsider.  I have learned a great many things about living out west and have made adjustments accordingly.  My Ohio bred husband often makes fun of my disbelief (and outrage in some cases) when it comes to my expectations and begs me to pardon everyone living outside of New York; apparently those residing in the provinces know not what they do.  My grievances and personal adjustments made accordingly fall into three major categories:  food, apparel and transportation.

FOOD

• GOOD bagels are hard to come by. Offerings of round, chewy pieces of bread with fruit infused flavorings (cranberry pumpkin???) are not bagels, they are some weird amalgamation of cake and possibly muffin.  While I would like to applaud people for their efforts and creativity, I can only shake my head and laugh.  If you are among the lucky and do happen upon a decent bagel shop, you will fork over nearly three dollars to get your onion bagel with butter fantasies fulfilled. I don't even want to talk about getting a hard roll or a bialy.
• Cold cuts (also known as lunch meat) are sliced as if you are going to use only one piece of meat and cheese to make an entire sandwich.  If you dare request that they are thinly sliced, you will be looked at like the suspect in a major homicide and will run the distinct possibility of having your lunch for the week being tainted by someone else's saliva.
• Pizza hut, Domino's, Little Cesars and all those other 'pizza' chains are not only actually considered pizza, but are actually preferred by many who have had the luxury of eating REAL pizza.  I have been fortunate enough to find a few (actually two) really good pizzerias (owned by actual New Yorkers), and realized the important lesson I had passed on when my son refused Domino's at a sleepover.
• Chopped meat is called one of three things: ground beef, hamburger - as if this is the only thing you make with it, and hamburg (for those who just can't bear to pronounce that last syllable).  I learned this the hard way when requesting one pound of chopped meat at a butcher.  They had no idea what I was talking about & quite frankly I didn't know another way to say it.  I wound up pointing to the meat in the case and pantomiming eating a hamburger.    
• Soda, I mean pop, I mean Coke.  Um, actually I mean soda, you know that stuff made from soda water with sugar and all kinds of crap you can't pronounce?  If I ask for a pop, assume either that I would like you to punch me in the face or I am asking after your grandfather.  And if I ask for a Coke, please do not ask me what kind.  Coke is brown soda and should not be confused with anything else unless we are hanging out with Charlie Sheen.

Apparel

• Even if you have never been within ten feet of a tennis court and/or tennis racket, sneakers are called tennis shoes and more annoyingly tennies.  The sheer lack of logic here goes unheeded and even in Spanish they are referred to as such.  I suppose I could handle them being called gym shoes, because most people have at least stepped foot into a gym, but despite my protests (and obvious superior knowledge of important matters like this), people insist on the name they know.
• Sandals with socks are allowed all over the place.  This hot mess of a combination is, remarkably, not reserved strictly for Eastern Europeans with gold teeth.  Anyone with a Birkenstock or a Teva finds it completely acceptable to throw on some bunchy socks and slip into these sandals, critics be damned.  This sock/sandal wearing phenomenon is not relegated to just one sex either - both male and females equally enjoy this fashion don't.  

Transportation

• People really, and I mean really love their cars.  So much so that I have met an impressive number of people who have never even ridden public transportation.  When I first started working in schools in Denver, I took the bus to work and after getting off the bus, I walked the few blocks to school. I once commented that I couldn't get over how poor a job people did with shoveling in front of their homes.  I was told that my problem was that I walked.  I have to admit, this was the first time I'd ever heard of walking as a problem and a possible detriment to my well being.
• Public transportation outside of New York actually runs on schedules.  Schedules that are kept.  And there are phone numbers that you can call to complain about a bus or train like conveyance that missed it's schedule or didn't show up.  What crazy, novel ideas.  Other than the fabric covered seating - I try my very best not to think about the thousands of filthy people that may have sat on them before me - public transportation outside of New York City was an adjustment that wasn't too hard to make.

This weeks tip:

Before consideration of moving out of your hometown, wherever that may be, do your homework.  I'm not talking about contacting the Chamber of Commerce for maps, or looking up housing or cost of living comparisons.  I am talking about finding a person who may have blazed that trail already.  Find out the names for things, where to get a decent meal, how much a beer costs and the time difference so you know exactly what time to call your mother crying about homesickness.