Kind of drifting into the abstract in terms of how I see myself
When I get stuck on Pale Sky, I turn to fanfiction, and when I get stuck on fanfiction, I turn to livejournal, and when I get stuck on livejournal, I just shut up. Unfortunately, I never reached that last step this time.
You know what I like best about Victoria Beckham? (Actually, there's very little I like about Victoria Beckham. Not that, you know, I really dislike her personally or anything. I just have intense aversions to certain words and "posh" is one of them. "Smex" is another, just so's you know. Using the two in conjunction with each other would very likely cause me to have an aneurysm.) But I love the fact that no matter where she is or what she's doing, she always looks ready to choke a bitch.
I mean, stick-thin body and ridiculous hats and bare feet aside, I would not get in this woman's way. She looks like she'd totally cut you for that last designer handbag.
Anyway. I was thinking about religion a bit, what with all the recent family church-going-time engendered by the holidays.
I don't hate my religion. I am often frustrated with it, often annoyed with it, often tired by it, but in general it is something I've gotten used to and that I would miss should it go away. We disagree on a lot of issues, but generally we are amiable with each other; plus, I got in the habit of it when I was, like, born into it. Like family, you know?
In fact, it is a lot like dealing with an elderly relative who is more than a little crazy but can tell some awfully good stories when you prompt it to, even if it is just as likely to go off into a rant on The War of Northern Aggression and slosh bourbon all over the place.
Anyway, so, the whole Catholicism thing has its perks, but man, I have had some huge crises of faith over going to mass versus sleeping in. Because it's not like I get to sleep in all that often, what with this thing about becoming a semi-responsible adult and working a real job, that fucking bullshit. So I, like many other lazy Catholics, looked at the Christmas schedule this year and had the same bright thought.
"Aha!" (thought I) "Christmas is on a Monday! I can go to the midnight mass service and technically cover both my Sunday and Christmas requirements!"
Except apparently that's totally uncool with the church, and both days are required. Which I did find out, and had planned to merrily disregard anyway, had my mother not barged into my room and asked when the hell I was planning to get up and go to service. When I grunted something about midnight mass, I was read the riot act on double-dipping, but it concluded with an ominous, "well, it's your choice."
And it really, totally isn't. My mother uses heavy emotional blackmail to keep all of her children going to church. Of course, that isn't really in the true spirit of religion, and it means that I occasionally go to church for completely the wrong reason-- to keep her off my back, as opposed to genuinely wanting to-- but it's not an unwilling thing all the time. It's just a pain in the ass when I'd rather be sleeping. So, I found myself dragging on clothes and stomping out the backdoor, thinking dark and unseasonable things. The church is located very close to my house-- you go through our backyard, our neighbor's backyard, cross the street, and hey presto, you're there. It's less than a two-minute walk.
It was a low-attended service. I made it in as they were singing the opening hymn, and headed towards an empty pew. A tiny, elderly Indian lady going down the other side of the aisle made a beeline for the same place; we realized simultaneously we were headed for the same pew and picked up our paces respectively. It was the most forcibly sedate race ever. I had the speed and leg length advantage on her, but I was hindered by interference through a man carrying his crying kid in front of me, whereas as she had a clear path.
It ended in a tie, where we both hit the pew at the same time and slid towards the middle, only to retreat sulkily to opposite ends of it. I wasn't too unpleased, though. There was still a lot of space, and the only real reason I was heading for an empty pew was because I like to keep the kneeler down so I can rest my legs on it; most people prefer it up, and I don't get the chance to control a whole kneeler without interference too often. Besides, the last time I was in a race with an elderly person in a religious setting-- when I was competing for an empty bus seat with a nun in Rome-- I totally lost, and got bodychecked, to boot. So, less with the rib-elbowing and loss of dignity this time.
Eventually I relaxed and got into a better mood, even if we did have the priest who does the longest homilies. But I started to think about how, for all that I'd rather sleep, there is quite a lot to be concerned with during the service.
Choosing a Particular Service
5:00 Saturday Mass - For elderly people and people who like sleeping on Sunday. Not too noisy. Generally peaceful. This is usually my favored mass, even if the cantor keeps going flat.
7:00 Sunday Mass - For the early-rising elderly people and people like my mother. Not heavily attended. I avoid it at all costs.
8:30 Sunday Mass - Also for early risers. I also avoid this one, even if I could technically sleep until 8:23 and still make it on time. However, it is usually shorter than the others, which is a bonus. Also quiet.
10:00 Sunday Mass - For families and people who like to sleep in a bit and people who like donuts. Everyone brings their children to this one, and it is by far the noisiest and most crowded mass. The Children's Liturgy Services go with this mass, and all the little children attend. I avoid this one because there are too many crying children; however, they often serve coffee and donuts afterwards, which is a powerful draw.
11:30 Sunday Mass - For families and people who really like to sleep in. If I miss the Saturday mass, I usually head for this one. No donuts, though. Also very noisy.
1:00 Sunday Mass - Conducted in Spanish. Lots of families. Usually the only reason I go to this one is because I'm being guilt-tripped, and I've missed all other possible services. Singing tends to be more exuberant. Usually pretty friendly.
6:00 Sunday Mass - The "youth" mass. The Youth Group of the church do all the usher duties; the Youth Choir sings. Usually has guitar and drum accompaniment, and more modern hymns. Often crowded. I like this one because it reminds me of Bible Camp; however I don't like going to mass on Sunday evenings, because it throws off my schedule. Also, it tends to have the longest services.
Covertly Reading The Church Bulletin During The Homily
Although it depends on who’s giving the homily. If it’s one of the interesting priests, I wait. If it’s one of the ones who rants about stem cells, I kick back and leisurely scan over recaps of the Youth Group’s recent trip to the amusement park, or check out who’s selling a ping-pong table. There’s also the saint of the week and a mini-biography, which is generally worth checking out to see how much detail they’ll go into depending on how much filler is needed. St. Stephen only gets two paragraphs, while St. Rose of Lima got nearly half a page.
Checking Out Ass of Person in the Pew Ahead
Self-explanatory, really.
Wincing at Whale-Tail on Person in the Pew Ahead
JESUS DOES NOT NEED TO SEE YOUR THONG UNDERWEAR. NEITHER DO I, FOR THAT MATTER.
Seriously, it can be horrifically mesmerizing. I've gone entire mass services barely aware of what the priest is saying because my eyes are helplessly caught on the bit of cloth yanked up in the ass crack of whatever sullen teenage girl is in front of me.
Singing Like A Mofo
Does anyone know the “People Look East” hymn that always gets sung during Advent season? Am I the only one who remembers the lyrics as being--
Angels announce to man and beast, Him who cometh from the East
Set all the peaks and valleys humming…
As opposed to--
Angels announce with shouts of mirth, Christ who brings new life to earth
Set all the peaks and valleys humming…
I could swear that it was the first way. I wonder if the second way is supposed to be more PC. Maybe I’m remembering wrong.
Watching People Eating
I always thought you got cut off from eating in church after you were, like, six. And even then, all you were allowed was Cheerios or those mini-boxes of raisins. Little-kid food, you know. Finicky things that keep the rug rat’s attention on each individual piece and not on screeching right at an especially holy bit. But the other day, I saw some guy eating a sandwich in mass, and that kind of blew my mind.
Maybe he was diabetic. Still, I had a hard time keeping a straight face when he turned around for the peace shaking.
Intimidating Small Children
One of the best parts of going to mass!. Points awarded depending on the facial expression and how much they were misbehaving beforehand and afterwards.
Watching People Scratching Themselves In Unduly Intimate Places
And generally thinking, “Man, am I going to have to shake hands with that guy later on? Better have a plan for this.”
Rating The Way People Are Kneeling
I think I bitched about this a long time ago, how some people kneel in a ninety-degree angle with their backs straight, and other people kneel slouched with their ass resting against the pew behind them, and I disapprove of the latter. Part of it is spite-if I have to kneel standing straight up for a long time, I want everyone else to share my discomfort-but part of it is also just the simple awkwardness of the fact that if I kneel straight up and the person in front of me slouches back, their head and hair are inevitably in my face, and I feel like a pervert.
The rule about airplane seats should also apply here-if someone on an airplane reclines their chair all the way back into you and crushes your knees, you are legally allowed to spit gum in their hair. In this case, you’d probably not have gum, but I guess you could spit a communion wafer in there, although the sacrilege rules dictate that you’d get in more trouble than they would.
Trying Not To Laugh When The Altar Server Trips Over The Bells
Heh.
Deciding Who To Shake Hands With First
I have such quandaries over this. If I’m with my family, I start with whoever is standing next to me, work my way through all family members, and eventually maybe throw in one or two handclasps with the people either in front of or behind me. If I’m on my own, I never have any idea where to begin. In front? Behind? Side to side? Do I need to do the awkward grin first before extending my hand? Should I shake hands with that girl who was coughing and sneezing the whole time? Or the guy who looks like he has clammy palms? What about the person who’s just far away enough so that we would both have to lean over to shake? Does it look desperate to lean? How hard should I shake the hand of the tiny elderly lady in front of me?
You laugh, but it is totally high-pressure.
Deciding How To Receive Communion
I go for the hands, usually. I’ve never been able to just open my mouth and let the priest put the wafer on my tongue. I’m afraid my baser instincts would kick in and I would bite him. Or I’d accidentally drop it, and then have to not only endure hellfire but also eat carpet fluff.
Contemplating To Go For Wine Or Not
It takes longer than the host, so it kind of causes a pile-up in line. Sometimes it’s easier just to skip. When my grandmother was still alive, this was also my cue to start sprinting to the pew so I could stand there, sentinel-like, and keep her from bypassing the pew, looping around the back of the church, and getting right back into the line for communion again. I failed once or twice, and we ended up doing the whole circuit together. What a look the priest gave us.
Monitoring Communion Wine For Pieces Of Host
I’m usually okay with the amount of backwash that the cup surely contains as long as I don’t think too much about it, but it does give me a start whenever I see a chunk of wafer floating by. Of course, that always makes me wonder if the priest has to swallow it. I assume he does, since that’s part of the ritual.
Trying To Get God Down From The Roof Of My Mouth Without Being Blasphemous Or Jabbing Him Too Much With My Tongue But Really He Gets Stuck Up There Pretty Good.
Back in second grade before first Communion, our religion teacher trained us on the proper way to eat the communion wafer, which is apparently to let is sit on your tongue and dissolve. Except mine never worked that way-possibly a genuine miracle-and God inevitably got stuck to the top of my mouth and showed no signs of dissolving. We were taught that chewing or jabbing God was disrespectful, and we were to just let it “be taken care of.”
However, the Lord helps those who help themselves, so we all learned how to lever it off the roof of the mouth without too much overt jaw movement.
Wondering For The Billionth Time ‘Why Aren't Communion Wafers Flavored?’
Seriously, why not? One million dollars.
Trying To Figure Out Where My Pew Was If I Didn’t Leave A Coat To Mark My Spot
You’ve no idea how many times I’ve hesitated and nearly gone into the wrong row. No wonder my grandmother always got confused.
Counting All The People Who Leave Mass Right After Communion And Trying To Make Eye-Contact With Them To See Their Reaction
Some of them scuttle and look guilty, others walk tall and proud. Most of them are just trying to get out before the parking lot gets too crowded because our church is laid out oddly, but since I usually walk to mass anyway, it’s never been a real issue. Eh.
Trying To Work Out When It’s All Right To Stop Kneeling
I think the official rule is when the chalice and hosts go back into the tabernacle, but everyone is always unsure anyway. There’s sort of a domino effect, as people sit back and thus force whoever’s behind them to sit back as well, until it’s all confused.
Applying Religious Trivia and Sacraments to Perverse Writing Ideas
I’m sure everyone does this, anyway. I mean, might as well get something out of having had to memorize the corporal works of mercy, and the deadly sins, and the virtues, and the sacraments, and all the articles of clothing that the priest wears.
Shaking Hands With The Priest Afterwards, Greeting Him Warmly, Asking After Him Personally, And Seeing If He Remembers Who I Am Or If He Is Just Going To Try And Bullshit His Way Through It.
I shouldn't do that to him, really. I just really miss our parish's previous priest, who had known me all my life, was at all my major religious sacraments, and was transferred to another parish a couple years ago. He was kind, caring, always knew what to say, when to say it, funny as hell with a great sense of humor, gave wonderfully interesting and eloquent sermons, and who handed out great candy at Halloween. I still see him at the odd wedding or funeral.
But anyway, I give our current priest props for at least faking like he knows who I am. He brings his best to the game, and I respect that.
Avoiding The Dread Gaze Of The Massive Pope Benedict XVI Portrait Hanging In The Vestibule
Its gaze follows you around the room. You cannot escape it.
Making Dumb-Ass Lists Of Things To Do During Mass
Spot-on.
I just had a phone call from a member who was very anxious about one of our meetings being held in DC. He is afraid of terrorists, you see, and he does not want to be on a plane that gets flown into a federal building. I spent ten minutes gently reassuring him that yes, even though we have a high ratio of federal and Generally Historically Significant buildings, we’re not normally in the habit of having had planes flown into them. And even though we have recently been the Murder Capital of the country-in your face, New York!-we’re totally working on that, and now we are only the thirteenth most dangerous city in the country.
What about Baltimore? he asked me. I pretended not to hear him.
In that the thing I’ve been gibbering about for all of December has finally happened, and now I have a new job, after waiting on tenterhooks all month to find out. I can now stop gibbering about whether or not I’ll get the job, and promptly start gibbering about whether or not I’ll be any good at the new job and all the responsibility that comes with it. So now, I’m apparently the managing editor of our society’s journal, and I have to work down at a military medical center which means some kind of clearance and background check, and I’m terrified that they’re going to be asking me for retinal scrapings or pints of blood or something like that. God forbid, what if there’s probing?
Mind you, I’ve become strangely fond of the medical society I work for, in a weird Stockholmish sort of way. So, I’m not leaving the society, nor the weirdos who accompany it. Actually, it’s kind of bizarre how the job came about. Back in December, I got a call out of the blue from one of the board members of the society, saying he had a potential job opening that he thought I'd like to hear about. My first reaction was-- uh, paranoia. I wasn't sure if I was supposed to be demonstrating loyalty to my position or whatever. But it sounded good. So, I made arrangements to meet him at his house in two days to discuss the opening, and then hung up the phone and had a quiet nervous fit.
Spent the next two days trying desperately to bludgeon my resume into shape. Didn't want to say anything to anyone because I thought I'd jinx it. At the meeting at his house, he mostly talked while I scrawled notes on a pad and tried desperately to keep track of the questions he hadn't answered yet so I wouldn't sound retarded when it was my turn to actually say something. Also, it was kind of weird because he’s in the army and this was the first time I’d seen him out of his uniform and in something as casual as sweatpants.
After about an hour and a half, we shook hands and went our separate ways (and he didn’t even read my damn CV that I’d been worrying over the whole time) and I spent the rest of December trying to figure out where the hell it was all coming from. As it turned out, it all relates back to free chocolate. Back at the November meeting, one of the guys who randomly stopped by my section of the conference for the free Hershey’s Miniatures had been the editor of the publishing company doing our society’s journal. He wanted some candy and a quiet place to check his Blackberry, so I pulled up the spare chair he wasn’t using and let him sack out there.
While he was doing that, we had a conversation on scientific journalism and what we’d both done in college. We introduced ourselves; I asked a bit about the journal’s plans; he took a handful of brochures and cards. And then we parted ways again, and then I got the call, and that’s that. It’s kind of the parallel of the “tripped, fell, landed on his dick” excuse. Just, you know, with the job in place of the dick.
The moral of this story is not to bogart the Hershey’s Special Dark, because sometimes a job offer comes out of it. And, uh, be yourself. I guess.
Anyway. Oh my God, I never knew toothpaste was so painful to get in the eyes. This will teach me not to fiddle with my contacts right after brushing my teeth. I have minty-fresh eyeballs. Mentholated eyeballs. Sounds a bit like a candy in the Harry Potter universe. Ow. Ow. This is horrible. The burning! Someone needs to warn me about these things!
When I re-read the previous two paragraphs in juxtaposition with each other, I realized I had to go back and change the moral. The moral of the story is, be yourself, unless by being yourself you are an idiot, in which case, totally don’t be yourself.
Tune in next entry for razzing on Stephen King.
You know what I like best about Victoria Beckham? (Actually, there's very little I like about Victoria Beckham. Not that, you know, I really dislike her personally or anything. I just have intense aversions to certain words and "posh" is one of them. "Smex" is another, just so's you know. Using the two in conjunction with each other would very likely cause me to have an aneurysm.) But I love the fact that no matter where she is or what she's doing, she always looks ready to choke a bitch.
I mean, stick-thin body and ridiculous hats and bare feet aside, I would not get in this woman's way. She looks like she'd totally cut you for that last designer handbag.
Anyway. I was thinking about religion a bit, what with all the recent family church-going-time engendered by the holidays.
I don't hate my religion. I am often frustrated with it, often annoyed with it, often tired by it, but in general it is something I've gotten used to and that I would miss should it go away. We disagree on a lot of issues, but generally we are amiable with each other; plus, I got in the habit of it when I was, like, born into it. Like family, you know?
In fact, it is a lot like dealing with an elderly relative who is more than a little crazy but can tell some awfully good stories when you prompt it to, even if it is just as likely to go off into a rant on The War of Northern Aggression and slosh bourbon all over the place.
Anyway, so, the whole Catholicism thing has its perks, but man, I have had some huge crises of faith over going to mass versus sleeping in. Because it's not like I get to sleep in all that often, what with this thing about becoming a semi-responsible adult and working a real job, that fucking bullshit. So I, like many other lazy Catholics, looked at the Christmas schedule this year and had the same bright thought.
"Aha!" (thought I) "Christmas is on a Monday! I can go to the midnight mass service and technically cover both my Sunday and Christmas requirements!"
Except apparently that's totally uncool with the church, and both days are required. Which I did find out, and had planned to merrily disregard anyway, had my mother not barged into my room and asked when the hell I was planning to get up and go to service. When I grunted something about midnight mass, I was read the riot act on double-dipping, but it concluded with an ominous, "well, it's your choice."
And it really, totally isn't. My mother uses heavy emotional blackmail to keep all of her children going to church. Of course, that isn't really in the true spirit of religion, and it means that I occasionally go to church for completely the wrong reason-- to keep her off my back, as opposed to genuinely wanting to-- but it's not an unwilling thing all the time. It's just a pain in the ass when I'd rather be sleeping. So, I found myself dragging on clothes and stomping out the backdoor, thinking dark and unseasonable things. The church is located very close to my house-- you go through our backyard, our neighbor's backyard, cross the street, and hey presto, you're there. It's less than a two-minute walk.
It was a low-attended service. I made it in as they were singing the opening hymn, and headed towards an empty pew. A tiny, elderly Indian lady going down the other side of the aisle made a beeline for the same place; we realized simultaneously we were headed for the same pew and picked up our paces respectively. It was the most forcibly sedate race ever. I had the speed and leg length advantage on her, but I was hindered by interference through a man carrying his crying kid in front of me, whereas as she had a clear path.
It ended in a tie, where we both hit the pew at the same time and slid towards the middle, only to retreat sulkily to opposite ends of it. I wasn't too unpleased, though. There was still a lot of space, and the only real reason I was heading for an empty pew was because I like to keep the kneeler down so I can rest my legs on it; most people prefer it up, and I don't get the chance to control a whole kneeler without interference too often. Besides, the last time I was in a race with an elderly person in a religious setting-- when I was competing for an empty bus seat with a nun in Rome-- I totally lost, and got bodychecked, to boot. So, less with the rib-elbowing and loss of dignity this time.
Eventually I relaxed and got into a better mood, even if we did have the priest who does the longest homilies. But I started to think about how, for all that I'd rather sleep, there is quite a lot to be concerned with during the service.
Choosing a Particular Service
5:00 Saturday Mass - For elderly people and people who like sleeping on Sunday. Not too noisy. Generally peaceful. This is usually my favored mass, even if the cantor keeps going flat.
7:00 Sunday Mass - For the early-rising elderly people and people like my mother. Not heavily attended. I avoid it at all costs.
8:30 Sunday Mass - Also for early risers. I also avoid this one, even if I could technically sleep until 8:23 and still make it on time. However, it is usually shorter than the others, which is a bonus. Also quiet.
10:00 Sunday Mass - For families and people who like to sleep in a bit and people who like donuts. Everyone brings their children to this one, and it is by far the noisiest and most crowded mass. The Children's Liturgy Services go with this mass, and all the little children attend. I avoid this one because there are too many crying children; however, they often serve coffee and donuts afterwards, which is a powerful draw.
11:30 Sunday Mass - For families and people who really like to sleep in. If I miss the Saturday mass, I usually head for this one. No donuts, though. Also very noisy.
1:00 Sunday Mass - Conducted in Spanish. Lots of families. Usually the only reason I go to this one is because I'm being guilt-tripped, and I've missed all other possible services. Singing tends to be more exuberant. Usually pretty friendly.
6:00 Sunday Mass - The "youth" mass. The Youth Group of the church do all the usher duties; the Youth Choir sings. Usually has guitar and drum accompaniment, and more modern hymns. Often crowded. I like this one because it reminds me of Bible Camp; however I don't like going to mass on Sunday evenings, because it throws off my schedule. Also, it tends to have the longest services.
Covertly Reading The Church Bulletin During The Homily
Although it depends on who’s giving the homily. If it’s one of the interesting priests, I wait. If it’s one of the ones who rants about stem cells, I kick back and leisurely scan over recaps of the Youth Group’s recent trip to the amusement park, or check out who’s selling a ping-pong table. There’s also the saint of the week and a mini-biography, which is generally worth checking out to see how much detail they’ll go into depending on how much filler is needed. St. Stephen only gets two paragraphs, while St. Rose of Lima got nearly half a page.
Checking Out Ass of Person in the Pew Ahead
Self-explanatory, really.
Wincing at Whale-Tail on Person in the Pew Ahead
JESUS DOES NOT NEED TO SEE YOUR THONG UNDERWEAR. NEITHER DO I, FOR THAT MATTER.
Seriously, it can be horrifically mesmerizing. I've gone entire mass services barely aware of what the priest is saying because my eyes are helplessly caught on the bit of cloth yanked up in the ass crack of whatever sullen teenage girl is in front of me.
Singing Like A Mofo
Does anyone know the “People Look East” hymn that always gets sung during Advent season? Am I the only one who remembers the lyrics as being--
Angels announce to man and beast, Him who cometh from the East
Set all the peaks and valleys humming…
As opposed to--
Angels announce with shouts of mirth, Christ who brings new life to earth
Set all the peaks and valleys humming…
I could swear that it was the first way. I wonder if the second way is supposed to be more PC. Maybe I’m remembering wrong.
Watching People Eating
I always thought you got cut off from eating in church after you were, like, six. And even then, all you were allowed was Cheerios or those mini-boxes of raisins. Little-kid food, you know. Finicky things that keep the rug rat’s attention on each individual piece and not on screeching right at an especially holy bit. But the other day, I saw some guy eating a sandwich in mass, and that kind of blew my mind.
Maybe he was diabetic. Still, I had a hard time keeping a straight face when he turned around for the peace shaking.
Intimidating Small Children
One of the best parts of going to mass!. Points awarded depending on the facial expression and how much they were misbehaving beforehand and afterwards.
Watching People Scratching Themselves In Unduly Intimate Places
And generally thinking, “Man, am I going to have to shake hands with that guy later on? Better have a plan for this.”
Rating The Way People Are Kneeling
I think I bitched about this a long time ago, how some people kneel in a ninety-degree angle with their backs straight, and other people kneel slouched with their ass resting against the pew behind them, and I disapprove of the latter. Part of it is spite-if I have to kneel standing straight up for a long time, I want everyone else to share my discomfort-but part of it is also just the simple awkwardness of the fact that if I kneel straight up and the person in front of me slouches back, their head and hair are inevitably in my face, and I feel like a pervert.
The rule about airplane seats should also apply here-if someone on an airplane reclines their chair all the way back into you and crushes your knees, you are legally allowed to spit gum in their hair. In this case, you’d probably not have gum, but I guess you could spit a communion wafer in there, although the sacrilege rules dictate that you’d get in more trouble than they would.
Trying Not To Laugh When The Altar Server Trips Over The Bells
Heh.
Deciding Who To Shake Hands With First
I have such quandaries over this. If I’m with my family, I start with whoever is standing next to me, work my way through all family members, and eventually maybe throw in one or two handclasps with the people either in front of or behind me. If I’m on my own, I never have any idea where to begin. In front? Behind? Side to side? Do I need to do the awkward grin first before extending my hand? Should I shake hands with that girl who was coughing and sneezing the whole time? Or the guy who looks like he has clammy palms? What about the person who’s just far away enough so that we would both have to lean over to shake? Does it look desperate to lean? How hard should I shake the hand of the tiny elderly lady in front of me?
You laugh, but it is totally high-pressure.
Deciding How To Receive Communion
I go for the hands, usually. I’ve never been able to just open my mouth and let the priest put the wafer on my tongue. I’m afraid my baser instincts would kick in and I would bite him. Or I’d accidentally drop it, and then have to not only endure hellfire but also eat carpet fluff.
Contemplating To Go For Wine Or Not
It takes longer than the host, so it kind of causes a pile-up in line. Sometimes it’s easier just to skip. When my grandmother was still alive, this was also my cue to start sprinting to the pew so I could stand there, sentinel-like, and keep her from bypassing the pew, looping around the back of the church, and getting right back into the line for communion again. I failed once or twice, and we ended up doing the whole circuit together. What a look the priest gave us.
Monitoring Communion Wine For Pieces Of Host
I’m usually okay with the amount of backwash that the cup surely contains as long as I don’t think too much about it, but it does give me a start whenever I see a chunk of wafer floating by. Of course, that always makes me wonder if the priest has to swallow it. I assume he does, since that’s part of the ritual.
Trying To Get God Down From The Roof Of My Mouth Without Being Blasphemous Or Jabbing Him Too Much With My Tongue But Really He Gets Stuck Up There Pretty Good.
Back in second grade before first Communion, our religion teacher trained us on the proper way to eat the communion wafer, which is apparently to let is sit on your tongue and dissolve. Except mine never worked that way-possibly a genuine miracle-and God inevitably got stuck to the top of my mouth and showed no signs of dissolving. We were taught that chewing or jabbing God was disrespectful, and we were to just let it “be taken care of.”
However, the Lord helps those who help themselves, so we all learned how to lever it off the roof of the mouth without too much overt jaw movement.
Wondering For The Billionth Time ‘Why Aren't Communion Wafers Flavored?’
Seriously, why not? One million dollars.
Trying To Figure Out Where My Pew Was If I Didn’t Leave A Coat To Mark My Spot
You’ve no idea how many times I’ve hesitated and nearly gone into the wrong row. No wonder my grandmother always got confused.
Counting All The People Who Leave Mass Right After Communion And Trying To Make Eye-Contact With Them To See Their Reaction
Some of them scuttle and look guilty, others walk tall and proud. Most of them are just trying to get out before the parking lot gets too crowded because our church is laid out oddly, but since I usually walk to mass anyway, it’s never been a real issue. Eh.
Trying To Work Out When It’s All Right To Stop Kneeling
I think the official rule is when the chalice and hosts go back into the tabernacle, but everyone is always unsure anyway. There’s sort of a domino effect, as people sit back and thus force whoever’s behind them to sit back as well, until it’s all confused.
Applying Religious Trivia and Sacraments to Perverse Writing Ideas
I’m sure everyone does this, anyway. I mean, might as well get something out of having had to memorize the corporal works of mercy, and the deadly sins, and the virtues, and the sacraments, and all the articles of clothing that the priest wears.
Shaking Hands With The Priest Afterwards, Greeting Him Warmly, Asking After Him Personally, And Seeing If He Remembers Who I Am Or If He Is Just Going To Try And Bullshit His Way Through It.
I shouldn't do that to him, really. I just really miss our parish's previous priest, who had known me all my life, was at all my major religious sacraments, and was transferred to another parish a couple years ago. He was kind, caring, always knew what to say, when to say it, funny as hell with a great sense of humor, gave wonderfully interesting and eloquent sermons, and who handed out great candy at Halloween. I still see him at the odd wedding or funeral.
But anyway, I give our current priest props for at least faking like he knows who I am. He brings his best to the game, and I respect that.
Avoiding The Dread Gaze Of The Massive Pope Benedict XVI Portrait Hanging In The Vestibule
Its gaze follows you around the room. You cannot escape it.
Making Dumb-Ass Lists Of Things To Do During Mass
Spot-on.
I just had a phone call from a member who was very anxious about one of our meetings being held in DC. He is afraid of terrorists, you see, and he does not want to be on a plane that gets flown into a federal building. I spent ten minutes gently reassuring him that yes, even though we have a high ratio of federal and Generally Historically Significant buildings, we’re not normally in the habit of having had planes flown into them. And even though we have recently been the Murder Capital of the country-in your face, New York!-we’re totally working on that, and now we are only the thirteenth most dangerous city in the country.
What about Baltimore? he asked me. I pretended not to hear him.
In that the thing I’ve been gibbering about for all of December has finally happened, and now I have a new job, after waiting on tenterhooks all month to find out. I can now stop gibbering about whether or not I’ll get the job, and promptly start gibbering about whether or not I’ll be any good at the new job and all the responsibility that comes with it. So now, I’m apparently the managing editor of our society’s journal, and I have to work down at a military medical center which means some kind of clearance and background check, and I’m terrified that they’re going to be asking me for retinal scrapings or pints of blood or something like that. God forbid, what if there’s probing?
Mind you, I’ve become strangely fond of the medical society I work for, in a weird Stockholmish sort of way. So, I’m not leaving the society, nor the weirdos who accompany it. Actually, it’s kind of bizarre how the job came about. Back in December, I got a call out of the blue from one of the board members of the society, saying he had a potential job opening that he thought I'd like to hear about. My first reaction was-- uh, paranoia. I wasn't sure if I was supposed to be demonstrating loyalty to my position or whatever. But it sounded good. So, I made arrangements to meet him at his house in two days to discuss the opening, and then hung up the phone and had a quiet nervous fit.
Spent the next two days trying desperately to bludgeon my resume into shape. Didn't want to say anything to anyone because I thought I'd jinx it. At the meeting at his house, he mostly talked while I scrawled notes on a pad and tried desperately to keep track of the questions he hadn't answered yet so I wouldn't sound retarded when it was my turn to actually say something. Also, it was kind of weird because he’s in the army and this was the first time I’d seen him out of his uniform and in something as casual as sweatpants.
After about an hour and a half, we shook hands and went our separate ways (and he didn’t even read my damn CV that I’d been worrying over the whole time) and I spent the rest of December trying to figure out where the hell it was all coming from. As it turned out, it all relates back to free chocolate. Back at the November meeting, one of the guys who randomly stopped by my section of the conference for the free Hershey’s Miniatures had been the editor of the publishing company doing our society’s journal. He wanted some candy and a quiet place to check his Blackberry, so I pulled up the spare chair he wasn’t using and let him sack out there.
While he was doing that, we had a conversation on scientific journalism and what we’d both done in college. We introduced ourselves; I asked a bit about the journal’s plans; he took a handful of brochures and cards. And then we parted ways again, and then I got the call, and that’s that. It’s kind of the parallel of the “tripped, fell, landed on his dick” excuse. Just, you know, with the job in place of the dick.
The moral of this story is not to bogart the Hershey’s Special Dark, because sometimes a job offer comes out of it. And, uh, be yourself. I guess.
Anyway. Oh my God, I never knew toothpaste was so painful to get in the eyes. This will teach me not to fiddle with my contacts right after brushing my teeth. I have minty-fresh eyeballs. Mentholated eyeballs. Sounds a bit like a candy in the Harry Potter universe. Ow. Ow. This is horrible. The burning! Someone needs to warn me about these things!
When I re-read the previous two paragraphs in juxtaposition with each other, I realized I had to go back and change the moral. The moral of the story is, be yourself, unless by being yourself you are an idiot, in which case, totally don’t be yourself.
Tune in next entry for razzing on Stephen King.