A Serious and Thoughtful Entry? Say It Ain't So!

It never bothered me when my mother and father got divorced, yet when I think about my beloved Anglican Communion splitting up, I find myself on the verge of tears.

Maybe I'm so heartbroken because I'm part of the reason the Communion is tearing itself apart. After all, I'm a woman called to the Presbyterate and the idea of a female priest in the eyes of the Southern Hemisphere Bishops --and many in the north as well-- is repulsive. "These women are not priests, but a new order of transvestites" one man of God so nicely put it.

Um you know what buddy? You're wrong. You can say women can't become priests because we --since we have breasts and ovaries and whatnot-- don't look like Jesus and thus can't become in persona Christi in the act of consecrating the oblations and forgiving sins, but …and I'm just going to step out on a limb here… I'm pretty sure that when Jesus was doing that, he didn't do any of it with his penis. That's crass I know, but the point is valid.

I truly believe that Jesus was both fully God and fully Man, both a ripped Jewish dude named Eoshua, and Christ the Lord, Savior of All Mankind. But y'know…he's been the only one who's been able to pull that off. So it seems to me that the rest of us either have to pick one or the other to imitate and take into our souls and I can't help but think that it's his heavenly, not human, nature we want to replicate and I'm pretty sure that God, the infinite and unknowable, doesn't care if his disciples pee standing up.

Okay, so that's all doctrinal stuff, but what about the practical side?

When a woman loses her child in childbirth, who's going to stand there with her as she rails against God for allowing that to happen? Someone who's never been kicked by the child inside them or even had their body swell with just the possibility of new life? Or when a teenage boy is struggling with his faith because he can't understand why God would allow him to be born gay if that just meant he was going to be cast into Hell?

I don't have the answers, but I have an idea and that idea is there are a lot of experiences in this world thank goodness and no man or woman can have had them all. Maybe instead of focusing on whose hand basket will make it first down to Hell, we should concentrate on finding as many ways to spread the gospel of love to as many people --especially those who are traditionally marginalized-- as possible.

It's just an idea, but I think it's a good one.

The Bag and the Lady

She's exactly 5 feet tall in striped Ferragamo slippers and Ralph Lauren jeans (she has the hips and waist professionally tailored but she cuts the cuffs off herself and leaves them raw and bedraggled.) What's left of her hair is Vivienne Westwood red.

Her name is G-- and she's quite possibly one of the most fascinating women on the planet. Born 76 years ago in Tasmania she went to boarding school in London and

Switzerland, reputedly took Dali AND Chagall as her lovers, became an art collector, moved to Hawaii, ran a nightclub and a private art gallery. When she retired and moved to Austin she opened up a small shop, which she keeps booby trapped in the most delightful way.

See, she puts out bits of real treasure here and there and uses them to test a potential customer's eye. Spot the exquisite Victorian mourning cameo half-hidden among the handful of pretty but ordinary 1940's ones or the lone Schiaperelli along a wall of other, lesser hats and you instantly become part of her circle. You become someone "who knows" and that is where the fun begins.

When I walked in last night, all I wanted was a pair of earrings.

The dress I was wearing didn't work without them and I didn't feel like going home before traipsing up to The Domain for the unending tedium of an obligatory but all-but-soul crushing boutique crawl.

I found a pair of earrings --freshwater pearl dangles-- and a fun but inexpensive watersnake clutch where the skins faded from dark red to smoky-gray in a very Prada F/W07 sort of way. I was just ready to have her ring me up when I spot what looked like the corner of a 1940's alligator purse poking out from a display behind the counter.

I asked her about it.

Her face lit up. As she revealed it to me, my face did the same. I'd found the biggest easter egg of them all a flawless --and I mean flawless-- alligator handbag. It wasn't Hermes, but it was close and the quality was almost as fine. I have never seen a vintage alligator bag in such pristine condition.

We talked for the next 2 hours. Her romances with various artists, our mutual adoration for Galliano, the blessing and curse of being born with "an eye", and what exactly was wrong with the dress I was wearing.

By the time we'd finished chatting she had knocked several hundred dollars off the alligator, comped the watersnake, the earrings AND the Schiaperelli and promised me a private viewing of her personal collection of art and jewelry.

I'm excited and honored to see her jewelry, but I *can't wait* to hear about Chagall.

The Boy and the Belt

I am old fashioned in the sense that I think men should be able to Make and Fix things. I enjoy Making and Fixing things too (mostly cocktails) and I believe I've gone on record saying that if the priest thing doesn't work out I'd like to be a mechanic. HOWEVER just because I enjoy something doesn't mean I wouldn't enjoy someone else doing it twice a much.

Enter the belt.

Like Style Spy who inspired me I have been lusting after this Mossimo belt since the F/W 07show. Unfortunately, I'd have to strap two of the buggers together to get one to circumnavigate my waist, and I just don't have $3000 to spend on a belt, no matter how divine.

So I did what any red-blooded American girl would do. I threw myself on the mercy of the handiest guy I knew and begged him to make me the damn thing.

Friends, I was pathetic.

I cajoled, I wheedled, I made weapons-grade puppy dog eyes. I even went so far as to offer him cupcakes which is as we all know is one half of the one-two punch guaranteed to get a girl anything she want. The other half --which is not on the table since I'd like to keep at least one platonic male friend-- is not suitable for a family blog.

And because he is with the exception of Jesus and the three Johns --Wayne, Cash and Galliano-- my favorite man to ever have lived, he agreed to make the it for me.

So hurrah. I will soon have a fantastical belt, suitable for all my modernist cage corset needs, which as you know are many. The victory is bittersweet though. See, soon he'll know my real measurements.

…and then he'll have to die.

It's 2:26 on Friday morning and I cannot go to sleep. I can't concentrate on blogging either, I've just been immersed in trying on different tops which I've cut up and worn back to front with a DVF ballet wrap sweater I just can't seem to make work. I've tried on all my unworn shoes and ate a truly disgusting piece of banana cream pie which I bought --though heaven knows why-- at the grocery store while I was avoiding coming home.

I want to do something to keep my mind off tomorrow, or rather, today because today, Thomas goes to his new family.

This is how it went down. I got a call a week ago from my apartment manager, Steve told me there's a law against potentially aggressive breeds and for some bizarre reason, English Bulldogs are on that list. I needed to "remove the animal" or be evicted.

I'm still not sure that was legal, but my lease did say something about dogs over 55 pounds, which both Thomas and Dozer are, though just barely. I didn't want to risk losing Dozer too, so I did what I had to do. I found Thomas a new home.

I didn't want to do it, of course I didn't want to, I wish I could have said "go ahead, evict me" but I can't have an eviction on my application to seminary. They'd toss me out before I was even let in.

I'll be honest as well; he was too much for me. Too strong, too dominant, too stubborn for someone with a chronic pain problem so debilitating that sometimes I can't move my arms or walk across the room.

Even after six weeks of intensive doggy bootcamp --I only paid for two, but the trainer didn't think Thomas was ready after only two weeks. He was a tough nut to crack-- he obeyed the collar, not me.

I never bonded with Thomas the way I did with Dozer and I know it was my fault. I wasn't aggressive enough with him, didn't have the time to take him to the park every day like I did when Dozer was a pup. I love him SO much. but I failed him. I wasn't strong enough.

His new home will be much better than the one he made with me. He'll have a big family with a mother and a father and two adult boys, a couple of dogs to play with who can wrestle just as hard as he does, and a great big yard and tomorrow after a bath and a brush I'll deliver him there.

G'bye Tonkus, my handsomest hound.

On the Mend!

So Henry has decided to calm down, which is good news for everyone. It's my own stupid fault I got him though --he's non-bacterial-- so I guess I have to be more diligent about not taking my pain medication on an empty stomach (I know. I forget. Besides it's "just" naproxen.)

In relationship news I was supposed to go on a first date tonight, but didn't feel up to it. I begged off and he was very nice. Instead I ended up talking with The One Who Will Eventually Get Away. He was my high school sweetheart's best friend. I was so into him and he felt the same way but we didn't want to hurt my fella, so nothing happened. We've been pining away for each other off and on for the past 10 years. Very strange thing tonight as he asked me "what would you call us?"

There's no good answer to that question, so I just said "tragic" and we laughed it off. Really it's not all that tragic. I am crazy for him and have been for years, and he's the same for me but realistically it's not going to happen, at least not any time soon --we live 1800 miles away and both have active dating lives-- but every once in a while one of us gets a bit misty and then the "us" questions start. We're not tortured or unhappy because we can't be together but still, it makes one wonder.

Oddly enough, I like this guy I was supposed to go out with tonight because he reminds me so much of my pal. Same mannerisms, same jokes, even the same unusual job.

I think I really am hungry now. Not just the gnawing feeling from Henry, my newborn ulcer which has laid me out since Saturday night, but actual hunger. It makes sense. I mean all I've had in the past 48 hours have been two pieces of bread with raw Virginia wildflower honey, two cups of vegetable broth with nutritional yeast and a handful of lemon snaps, which I accidentally bought because I though they were gingersnaps, which always make me feel better.

In college when I was having all my tumbly woes (a prolapsed stomach) the only thing that made me feel better was milk mixed with Frangelico and Chambourd and ginger snaps. Now I worry about the acid from the milk and the sugar from everything else.

I'm also very tired. I guess that's not eating. Still, class tonight and drinks at the Roaring Fork after that. Then I can go home and sleep…sitting up.