The Clam Rampant

Kasia July 9th, 2007

Curtsy and apologies for my lateness to Heather S.

Let’s see…what doesn’t bother me/don’t I worry about?

1. Babies crying at Mass. In fact, stretch that to include small children who are probably old enough to know better but aren’t quite behaving as they should. As long as their parents are paying enough attention to know when they should step into the cry room or the narthex (in the case of babies) or correct them (in the case of small children), I can usually block it out in the meantime.

2. The Motu Proprio. The Tridentine Mass isn’t my preferred liturgy; I like worshiping in my native language. However, I don’t see any harm in broadening access to it. In essentials, unity; in nonessentials, liberty; in all things, charity. I’m curious to see how the whole thing plays out, but I’m not overly concerned either way.

3. Communion received in the hand. I receive on the tongue myself, preferably intincted and with me kneeling at a rail, but the Holy See allows people to receive in the hand. That’s good enough for me. And if the Holy See changes it, it won’t particularly bother me either.

4. The priest shortage. God will provide.

5. Being looked at like I have two heads for loving God. Still working on not being bothered by being looked at like I have two heads for being unabashedly Catholic, though…all in good time.

6. Wearing glasses. They suit me.

7. Repetitive tasks, within reason. I wouldn’t want to work on an assembly line for 40 years, but things like crocheting, beadweaving, and even mass mailings tend to relax me (although my shoulders rebel after a while).

8. Whether OJ really did it. He and God both know the truth, whatever it is, and knowing that they’ll settle up eventually is good enough for me.

9. Not having air conditioning in my car or home, as long as it’s under 90 outside and not too humid.

10. Losing at chess. “I have no gift for strategy.”

11. Not watching TV. Oh, I enjoy it when it’s available, but I have no reception on my broadcast stations and I think cable is a rip-off. And I spend so little waking time at home that, even if I won the lottery, I still probably wouldn’t sign up for cable. If and when The Canuck and I get married, that will be one of HIS bills…’cause he likes his digital cable… ;-)

12. Whether I ordered red wine with beef and white wine with chicken, as one is supposed to do. I like both; I order what I feel like. I’m too ignorant of higher culinary matters to know how they should taste together anyway.

13. Whether a bride wears white at her wedding. Is it my business whether she’s a virgin?

14. Building on that last one, other people’s non-apparent sins generally don’t trouble me much. I know there’s no such thing as private sin, in that all sin damages the Body of Christ, but in most cases I’m well able to leave it between them, those they’ve harmed, their confessor, and God. I’ve got enough of my own sin to occupy myself, thanks. I don’t need to know what Mr. So-and-So did last week.

15. Paying taxes. Sure, I’d like to have more of my money in my pocket, and I don’t necessarily agree with how the government spends my money, but fundamentally I like having things like roads, police, fire protection, trash collection, etc, and I think at least the aforementioned should be publicly managed rather than privately whenever possible. Which is why I have never been a libertarian.

16. Doing housework. I just never seem to be able to find the time.

17. Being manhandled by kids or dogs. It’s one of life’s little pleasures.

18. Having my picture taken. I don’t much like how the pictures turn out, but I’ve long since gotten over my “NOOOOOOO, don’t take my picture!!!” phase. (Provided I’ve showered…)

19. People saying “Happy holidays.” Just don’t chew me out for saying “Merry Christmas,” because I do.

20. Waking up before my alarm clock. Lying awake in bed when I don’t have to be up is another of life’s little pleasures.

21. Crying, provided I have privacy and plenty of tissue.

22. Anything to do with basketball.

23. Whether I eat enough fruit and vegetables, exercise enough, or drink enough water. I know I don’t.  Baby steps.  

24. Being overweight. Except when I’m clothes shopping. Then it bothers me.

25. Germs. I mean, it’s not that I don’t like my Clorox Clean-Up, but seriously, guys, cooties are everywhere. They’re not going anywhere. And sequestering yourself in a hospital-grade sanitary bubble is not going to protect you from being eventually contaminated. If anything, it probably means you’ll get sicker when you eventually and inevitably are exposed to germs.

26. How airplanes stay up. They generally do, and if one I’m on doesn’t, there isn’t much I can do about it. That’s all that matters from the end-user’s perspective.

27. Whether Harry Potter will die at the end of Book 7. I think he will, and I have my reasons for thinking that, but I’m not going to sign that stupid petition calling on J.K. Rowling to ’save Harry’. People: these books are FICTION! Harry doesn’t exist, except in J.K. Rowling’s and our collective imagination. Plus, Book 7 has been completed for what, six months? Stupid hype…

28. What other people eat. However, it does bother me when people start proselytizing me about food. You’re a vegetarian? Good for you. I tried it; it didn’t take. You’re a vegan? Power to you – I sure couldn’t do it. You’re a fruitarian? You’re probably also a fruit loop, but that’s no skin off my yam. You’re on Atkins/South Beach/Paleo/some other high protein diet? Have fun – can I have your serving of bread then? Thanks much. Oh – could you pass me the jelly too? Thanks…mmm, simple carbs…

29. That I will probably die of a heart attack. Life’s terminal. We all die. God will take me when He’s ready, irrespective of how I’ve eaten and exercised. C’est la vie.

30. That I’m a frightful klutz. I always have at least one big bruise on my body – The Big Seester jokes that The Canuck is abusing me. But it’s just that I utterly lack physical coordination and gracefulness. You should see me genuflect at Mass, especially if I’m carrying a bag on my shoulder. It isn’t pretty. And the last time I received Communion at SS. Cyril and Methodius, where they administer intincted and on the tongue, I accidentally whacked the paten they put under my chin to catch any of the Precious Blood that might drip. Just call me Grace…

Ah, I love these memes!    Let’s see, who can I tag…

It’d be cruel to tag Cris, ’cause she doesn’t like memes to begin with, this one’s kind of long, and she’s got to run around after her older three kids whilst holding a nursing infant. So…

I tag The Big Seester, Mike the Geek, Stephanie of The Digital Hairshirt, Dr. Mabuse, and…hmm…Jill, who can answer in the combox since she doesn’t yet have a blog of her own. Anyone else who’s interested is invited to play along as well (Nina? Paul? Anyone else?)

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Kasia July 3rd, 2007

Heather, Matt’s lovely wife, tagged me for a meme back on June 15. I, being slightly distracted, did not happen to click on all of my usual blogs over the past month or so. I plead ridiculously busy…I know, that’s a weak excuse when you’re talking to a woman with her fifth wee ‘un on the way, who homeschools, runs a household, teaches NFP, and all the other things she manages to do. But it’s true, I tell you! 

Anyway, I’m starting a draft of the meme now, and should be able to post it by tomorrow. I hope it’ll be worth having waited for!

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Kasia July 1st, 2007

So I’m in Canada right now (and a very happy Canada Day to all of you, particularly Dr. Mabuse, The Canuck, and any other of our neighbours to the north who may be reading). As one might expect, I went to Mass in Canada today.

I’ve blogged before about my Mass experiences to date here in southwestern Ontario. In fact, whenever my beloved Canuck expresses ignorance of some sort of Catholic doctrine, tradition, or discipline, I usually make a smart-aleck comment about giving three cheers for southwestern Ontario orthodoxy. (In truth, it’s probably more because his parents were never particularly observant, but it’s fun to tease him.)

In any event, since he lives in London right now (and for about another week or two), we’ve made a habit of attending Mass at St. Peter’s, the cathedral here. It’s a gorgeous church (a minor basilica, actually) with a reasonably reverent Novus Ordo Mass, and is a very easy drive from his apartment – 10 minutes most days. Best of all, I have yet to see them use guitars during the Mass, unlike the other parishes we’ve visited here and in Chatham. (I always walk out shaking my head, thinking “No, people, that’s the wrong Peter, Paul and Mary!!!”)

Today, as usual, we went to St. Peter’s, but this time we decided to attend 9 a.m. Mass instead of 11. It was less crowded (so we got to sit closer to the front) but still reasonably well-attended, the cantor was marvelous, and the priest was reverent. I was, if you’ll excuse the expression, happy as a Clam.

With that said, The Canuck and I were in a bit of a silly mood for some reason. So when the priest, bless his heart, got up and began delivering the homily, it took more than my usual efforts to maintain respectful attentiveness. But I was doing OK. Really, I was. And so was The Canuck.

This priest, in addition to being nicely reverent, was a tad on the earnest side. So his homily was a lot more formal than I am accustomed to. Again, not an issue per se.

However, in the midst of his dear, earnest lauding of Canada (after all, it’s Canada Day) and the good Lord who made Canada, and before he got to how that tied in to the readings for the day, he severely tested both my self-control and that of The Canuck. First it was “This land is your land” interspersed with his other praises of Canada’s wonders and glories. Then he said, very solemnly and earnestly, “This land was TRULY made for you and me.”

I understand that lyricists often say things so well that we feel compelled to quote them. However, I’ve recently been bombarded with people quoting songs as the evident underpinning of their entire philosophical systems. Furthermore, putting aside the fact that the song was clearly written about the U.S. (”…from California to the New York islands, from the redwood forests to the Gulf Stream waters…”), quoting Woody Guthrie in a homily just seems weird to me. And he said it so EARNESTLY!
The Canuck and I exchanged looks, stifled our giggles, and I leaned over and whispered, “St. Woody of Guthrie?”
He responded with “Or St. Pete Seeger?”

That poor priest. Do I have to go to Confession? I did manage not to laugh out loud…

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