I was raised Catholic, although we could have full conversations and you would never know it. “No one who identifies themself as a Catholic could have a mouth like that” is the most proper way I have heard one someone once refer to me. Yeah, I’ll just say the Catholic in me is……buried. Deep. Titanic deep. Well, before it was pulled out of the ocean deep.
Now, no doubt you are already on the edge of your seat to hear the corrupted girls version of Catholicism. But your time is valuable, and you also know by now that this is not that type of blog. So I can sum up Catholicism in one lesson. Pray. Nothing gets us Catholics rowdy and believing in the future like a good prayer. (Bonus points if you are on your knees so long that you are in excruciating pain.)
Now, when I was young I prayed for things that were not important. A new toy. A later bedtime. That my parents would quit buying frozen peas at the grocery store. Turns out, things haven’t changed that much.
Yes, I still like the idea of praying. I like how it can organize your thoughts and remind you of what you really want in a final outcome, even though I do not do it more blatantly than in my own head, and most likely only while I find myself with some free time during rush hour. But see, even with being older and wiser, I still pray for the dumb shit a hell of a lot more than the serious things. I could easily crack open my knee caps to the bone begging for the end of poverty, the equality of marriage, and for some real sex education in our school system. And some days, maybe I do. But today was not one of those days. Today was all about me.
Dear Baby Jesus, please give us more weather like today. 72 degrees and sunny?!?! If you remember correctly, it SNOWED 3 inches 365 days ago. A guarantee of this weather we had today will most certainly shotgun Minnesota’s economy as the entire world moves their homes and businesses here in pure vitamin D giddiness. I know it will probably really mess up Australia or whoever is the seasonal opposite of us right now, but that doesn’t really affect me, now does it? Oh. Unless it will melt the homes of the emperor penguins. (Seriously, did you see March of the Penguins? Those little things are way too damn cute to kill off.)
Speaking of the unusually warm weather….Why was Noah allowed to bring box elders onto the Ark?
Dear Baby Jesus, please remind pedestrians that are crossing regularly at no intersection whatsoever that I, as a driver, have the right to legally hit them with my car. And I am looking forward to this day more and more.
Dear Baby Jesus, why do I have to pay a lot of money for glasses? (Eye glasses, not wine glasses, my loyal bluebird readers.) Can I apply for free glasses? Seriously, here me out, Baby Jesus. (Little Holly in Oklahoma can wait. She’s only 12. I have real life adult problems here.) For the most part, I get the health care logic. You choose to smoke, I don’t really feel bad if at this point in history you are oblivious to the fact that you can get lung cancer. If you drink like a guppie, you shouldn’t be surprised down the road when your liver gets pissed and revolts. But I don’t deliberately ruin my eyeballs for fun at the bar on a Saturday night. It’s not like I can exceed my recommended daily allowance of vision. I can’t help that I am blind without glasses. So, you know what? I want my bailout. Cut the check to Pearle Vision.
Of additional and related note on the topic of health care costs, tampons should be free. And don’t even get me started about how I pay more for my birth control under my medical insurance plan than the boys do for their Viagra. But I’m guessing neither birth control nor Viagra sit well with you, so we’ll just let this one lie for now.
Not to be one to always complain, thank you Baby Jesus for that new song that I don’t even understand. That G 6 song? Yep, I barely understand a word mentally, but my body can translate this foreign language into a constant, happy motion of white-girl epileptic dance moves. Fortunately for me, some inspirational thoughts between pulls of cinnamon toast crunch shots at Oktoberfest has led me to learn that a G 6 is a private jet, but other than that I am completely lost as to what is going on in this song. My former English teachers couldn’t even pay me to write a topic sentence. Nevertheless, I will admit that today I definitely went into a teen-based clubby looking store and pretended to consider buying a little sequined skirt number just so I could hear it. I’m pretty sure my cover was blown long before the song ended.
Finally, dear Baby Jesus, please, through mental stimulation, encourage a MIT or Stanford computer engineering smarty-pants to create a new socially acceptable and proper English term for multiple computer mouses. As a reward, they can then market it this term to Wikipedia, and make lots of money, and ignore the individual’s private use of the site to look up words that they should have learned to define before graduating high school. Then we shall make a movie about it, titled “The Wikipedia Network,” and the box office will be surprisingly happy. And, not to ignore my own personal benefit in all of this, then signs like this one, courtesy of aisle F22 at Target, will not cause me to feel the rumblings of vomit in the back of my throat.
Thank you for listening. Let’s talk again soon.