A Day of Storms, Crackles, Snaps, and Pops

Mayday, Mayday! We have a situation. Romance Divas is DOWN, repeat, Romance Divas is DOWN!

Thing is, it's a crappy assed day here in New England. The six inches of snow predicted for my area has manifested as 4 inches of goo. Slush. Flavor and dye free slurpee. Mush.

Which is fine, that's what the weather does around here. It's January. But the big guy worries, you know. And last night Ahmed spoke thusly:

"You're very crackly."

"Your mother buys you ugly ties," I said rather wittily (okay, rather lamely).

"You need to promise me you'll STAY IN tomorrow."

"How do you do that?"

"Do what?"

"Speak in caps."

"You need to stay in."

"I am not going to promise you," I said, knowing how promises tend to become crow bars with which to beat me about the head, "that I will not go out. I may need to go out. But unless I actually need to go out, I will, in fact, stay in."

"You're very crackly."

"And snappy and poppy, too. All part of my charm."

"$*unintelligible kurdish grumblings involving donkeys, but other than that it's anybody's guess*$"

So I really did intend to stay home today. Honest. But here's the thing...

Romance Divas is DOWN!

Now, I can live without RD. I can live without Starbucks, since I have a lovely Duetto espresso maker right on my counter. I can manage without the cheerful faces at the drive-through. I can manage without my pink screen and red lips and Diva comfort.

I CAN'T DO WITHOUT BOTH. Deal breaker. I'm going to Starbucks. Snap, crackle, pop...

Self Definition and Semantic Cowardice

Why does everyone tell me everything? Seriously, some things are great secret material.

Recently, after picking a fight, a bunch of nice people started sending emails all over creation in defense of me. Well guys-- I actually DID pick the fight. I wanted the result I got, so s'all good.

What's interesting is how quickly people start hiding behind language when caught doing something naughty, or-- even more likely-- stupid. I, too, am often amazed at how quick things spread in the cybersphere. Sometimes I think there is an organic something out there driving it. There's no way people can get word around that fast... and yet they do. When I was a teacher I noticed a similar phenomenon. Something whispered in the staff room at 9:00 am would be repeated in a loud voice outside my classroom before the bell rang for last period. The clueless masses will dismiss this and claim kids always get gossip wrong. I can tell you from experience they are incredibly accurate. They only get it wrong when they are trying to be mean.

So imagine my chagrin at learning I am being called a "fluffy bunny" and a "proselytiser" in emails, on some forums, and in PMs to which I am not privy. The only problem is every time somebody says something like that I get 75 emails. I swear I am grateful to be the most clued-in person on earth, but sometimes the burden is heavy. (That was sarcasm. I point it out since comprehension seems to be in retrograde lately.)

I wrote an article two years ago about conversion, and how it is really an abomination of religious practice. Inspiring others to belief is the job of the Divine, whatever name you give the Divine. Telling others what name to call Divinity, how to adore that which is Creation, and what rules are the only legitimate rules-- to me, that is stepping on the toes of whatever wonderful force created us and everything we have. In other words, if you preach to another person you are pretty much telling your god you know better than him or her, and intend to usurp that right.

As for the term "fluffy bunny" it may be unfamiliar to some because it is a conventional construct invented by people to whom it most likely, in a stunningly cool bit of irony, refers. No hereditary/generational/linear I have ever known will use it unless they do so to make fun of those who employ it. It's a bit like a bigot using the words "politically correct" to excuse ignorance, cruelty, intolerance, and stupidity. While the first people to use the term were trying to battle ridiculous trends on college campuses, it was hijacked by dirtbags who loved being able to hide behind it. "I am about to say something inappropriate and ill informed. Don't be politically correct on me and point out my moronishness." Don't you just love it? People who use the term "fluffy bunny" are trying to be dismissive of others who don't believe the way they do.
They very often identify "fluffy bunnies" as people who convert to new-agey versions of paganism in order to seem cool, piss off their parents, or identify themselves as intriguingly different.

Trouble is, it's almost always a kid in a black goth getup with a face full of piercings who went to Our Lady of the Immaculate Assumptions of Cluelessness and Light saying it. But he or she is a rebel, and it's really about those OTHER people, donchaknow.

I don't defend my own beliefs since they need no defense. While many have heard me defend the practices of just-about-everyone my religious practices are personal, and you won't see me sharing them with strangers as a general rule. If I'm discussing religion or spirituality in public it is usually from a cultural standpoint. What I'm getting at is this: nobody currently making stupid statements about what I believe knows what I believe. They would never be included among the people I would share that with. And they will always get it wrong because I would defend anyone, no matter how stupid what they believed appeared to be. Everyone gets to decide for themselves.

But you will find plenty of people accusing me of rabid liberalism. I will say, right here in public, that I generally vote republican, though I prefer socially liberal policies on things like gay marriage and free expression. You will certainly hear me called a Christian fanatic when I defend Christians. I like Jesus and Mary and the New Testament Posse. Defending some of those ideals and people who practice them doesn't make me the next Jerry Falwell... and the notion is pretty hysterical to anyone who really does know me.

You'll even hear that I'm a fluffy bunny, which may be the ultimate irony. Nobody knows where my roots end. Nobody can squint far enough to see where the branches tickle the sky. But five will get you ten somebody who looked just like me shook Patrick's hand and told him "no thanks, but stop by for dinner" on a green hill a very long time ago.

If only they'd had email then. We'd all be able to read the transcript!