The Fluffbucket Diaries

Birthday Eve takeout dinner, straight outta Skokie. Jollibee’s pancit still isn’t as good as Mom’s. No one’s pancit is.

A birthday gift that I really needed arrived in the wee hours, as I was attempting to fall asleep with a lectio divina meditation via the Hallow app: a reading of Psalm 27.

The Lord is my light and my salvation;
whom should I fear?
The Lord is my life’s refuge;
of whom should I be afraid?
When evildoers come at me
to devour my flesh,
These my enemies and foes
themselves stumble and fall.
Though an army encamp against me,
my heart does not fear;
Though war be waged against me,
even then do I trust.

One thing I ask of the Lord;
this I seek:
To dwell in the Lord’s house
all the days of my life,
To gaze on the Lord’s beauty,
to visit his temple.
For God will hide me in his shelter
in time of trouble,
He will conceal me in the cover of his tent;
and set me high upon a rock.
Even now my head is held high
above my enemies on every side!
I will offer in his tent
sacrifices with shouts of joy;
I will sing and chant praise to the Lord.

Hear my voice, Lord, when I call;
have mercy on me and answer me.
“Come,” says my heart, “seek his face”;
your face, Lord, do I seek!
Do not hide your face from me;
do not repel your servant in anger.
You are my salvation; do not cast me off;
do not forsake me, God my savior!
Even if my father and mother forsake me,
the Lord will take me in.

Lord, show me your way;
lead me on a level path
because of my enemies.
Do not abandon me to the desire of my foes;
malicious and lying witnesses have risen against me.
I believe I shall see the Lord’s goodness
in the land of the living.
Wait for the Lord, take courage;
be stouthearted, wait for the Lord!

(Psalm 27 [NABRE])

At last Job spoke, and he cursed the day of his birth. He said:

“Let the day of my birth be erased,
and the night I was conceived.
Let that day be turned to darkness.
Let it be lost even to God on high,
and let no light shine on it.
Let the darkness and utter gloom claim that day for its own. …
Curse that day for failing to shut my mother’s womb,
for letting me be born to see all this trouble.

“Why wasn’t I born dead?
Why didn’t I die as I came from the womb? …
Had I died at birth, I would now be at peace.
I would be asleep and at rest. …
For in death the wicked cause no trouble,
and the weary are at rest. …

“Oh, why give light to those in misery,
and life to those who are bitter? …
Why is life given to those with no future,
those God has surrounded with difficulties? …
What I always feared has happened to me.
What I dreaded has come true.
I have no peace, no quietness.
I have no rest; only trouble comes.”_

(Job 3:1-5a, 10-11, 13, 17, 20, 23, 25-26 [NLT])

I don’t think I’ve always hated birthdays. In retrospect, though, I can think of only a small handful of birthdays (that I can remember) that I actually enjoyed.

(I distinctly recall two I liked: a 21st birthday surprise party in college, and – oddly enough – eight years ago, when I ended up having emergency gallbladder surgery.)

Otherwise, birthdays have become increasingly depressing for me. I’m not even taking the day off from work for the big day. I figured that if I was off work, I’d just spend the day brooding. And no matter what, much self-pity and irritation with my immediate loved ones is likely to be had by all.

No matter how I choose to spend my day (and, more and more, the day[s] before and after), I end up sitting around craving people’s attention and loud, enthused good wishes – and, when I don’t get it, wanting to go away and be left alone so I don’t think about being forgotten. It blows over after a day or two, but it’s not fun when you experience it.

When you stop and think about it – and part of my problem is that I’m stopping and thinking too much – humans just want to be remembered and have their existence recognized. That’s all anybody wants.

(And ironically, or perhaps not, I’m increasingly thoughtless and terrible about remembering and acknowledging others. And appreciating them. I used to be really good at it and made an effort to remember birthdays and such, but then the favor was rarely returned, so I stopped. But that’s a topic for another post.)

Two days before the big day, I’ll be heading out, running errands, and figuring out what to do with myself as I turn a whopping 55 years old. Happy birthday to me.

This plastic bag is F’s ticket back to in-person learning five days a week.

Each little vial represents a weekly COVID-19 saliva test; our district intends to allow kids in grades 6-12 to return to school full-time before the end of this month, provided they are screened this way.

The road back to school in Elmhurst, Illinois, is coated with spit.

Why do I post and tweet more lately on social media about baseball than about church stuff?

It dawned on me: I want to post about things that make me happy.

Baseball these days makes me happy. Church stuff, with all the Catholic infighting and anger and holier-than-thou crap, does not.

Helena joined F and me for our nightly reading of the talking feral cats (the Warriors series of badly edited adventure books that we enjoy anyway). I’m still brushing cat hair off my face, out of my eyes, and from my nostrils.

One of the few things I’m accomplishing so far this Lent is reading through the Gospel of Mark (using the Message translation).

Granted, Mark is the shortest of the Gospels, so getting through it is really nothing to brag about. That said, Mark’s brevity belies its substance as a rich and vivid portrait of Jesus; it’s exactly what I needed this season.

I found out recently about Michael Pakaluk’s “new translation” of Mark, “The Memoirs of St Peter,” and bought a barely used copy; it arrived today. Only recently did I learn that church tradition holds that Mark, a follower and “interpreter” of St Peter, generally reflects the apostle’s narrative of the life of Christ. After reading an excerpt online of Pakaluk’s book, I was hooked. I look forward to tearing into it after I finish the Message version of the Gospel.

Another 1.1 pound lost. This makes for a total of 19.4 pounds lost since January 11.

I’m kind of surprised, given some intestinal issues the past few days. Been dealing with several mornings of mild nausea, queasiness, and constipation. (TMI, I know.) Except for Saturday – when I had some extremely comforting matzo ball soup plus half a cabbage-based Reuben salad – it’s meant a bunch of middays of minimal, if any, eating.

I felt mildly well enough by lunchtime today to have a little something (two cheese sticks, some turkey cold cuts, and the rest of my Reuben salad). Left out the Amazing Grass superfood powder in the morning kefir smoothie to see if debulkifying breakfast might help ease the discomfort. (But I did have an Amazing Grass effervescent tablet in some water, and I’ll probably have some of the chocolate superfood powder in almond milk for dessert tonight.) I also realized that I’d been drinking slightly less water recently, so I’m trying to step up my water intake.

Also, the old Fitbit died over the weekend. Got a new one, and it seems to be a little too generous with my step count. Meanwhile, I was too queasy and uncomfortable to work out at all since Thursday or Friday. I have some catching up to do.

The idea of Fresno having a “historic center of progressive bohemia” does, on the surface, sound laughable. But the L.A. Times calls it exactly that in its article today about the Tower District neighborhood, where I spent my happiest months in the city. More specifically, the Times is focusing on the uproar over its centerpiece theater being sold to – gasp – an evangelical church.

I have fond memories of living in the Tower District, which did somewhat live up to that bohemian label, even 30+ years ago – well before the Rogue Festival and gay film festival that apparently started well after I left.

I named one of my cats after a Tower District bar, which I’m thrilled to see is still around, even though the wonderful Chicken Pie Shop – where I’d take my family for great weekend breakfasts of linguica and eggs long ago – is not.

The White Sox on TV!

Real, live baseball!

Real, live fans in the stands!

And as Jason Benetti introduced him, real, live “Steve Stone in a box”!

Life is good.

Disappointed to find the only Jewish deli I know in DuPage County is out of hamentaschen. Settling for a Reuben salad, matzo ball soup, and diet Dr Brown’s diet cream soda to go.

(The soup alone was worth the drive to Naperville AND the carbs.)

Rough day yesterday on the eating front. Second straight day of intestinal discomfort that seemed to stem from my morning kefir smoothie, leading to minimal appetite at midday. By dinner, I’d be in major hangry mode. Thursday was unpleasant, and Friday was even worse, because I had to be meatless. I find having to plan meals and pick foods annoying.

I wish I hadn’t hit a wall just five or six weeks into this, but it’s official: I’m already bored with low-carb eating.

As with so many things, I’ve turned to Dr. Google to figure out how to climb out of this rut. (I stayed away from keto-specific links because, frankly, keto is a cult and I’m sick of hearing about it.) Linking to some worthwhile advice below.

• Avoiding Boredom on a Low-Carb Diet
• 9 Creative Ways to Make Your Low-Carb Diet More Fun (and Less Boring)
• 7 Things You Shouldn’t Do on a Low-Carb Diet, According to Dietitians
• 6 Ways to Overcome the Sadness of Low Carb Diets
• Sticking to Low Carb for the Long Term
• 10 Common Mistakes to Avoid When Starting a Low-Carb Diet
• Top 10 Tips for Getting Back on Track With Your Low-Carb Diet

F’s entry for this month’s Dragonvale contest on Reddit.

“Hangry” is not a good thing to be during Lent. Especially when you’re missing breaded fish and French fries and macaroni and cheese on Fridays BECAUSE YOU’RE LIVING A LOW-CARB “LIFESTYLE” NOW.

Totally.

Having a cheese stick while I was hungry and crampy was NOT a good idea.

Happy to see that Pepto Bismol, so far as I can tell, has no carbs.

Deleted the gratuitous YouTube thing I posted yesterday. Turns out the embedded video image doesn’t transfer well to mobile sizing on Chrome for iOS.

It’s little stuff like that that is slowly leading me to some disenchantment with my current blogging platform. But for now I’ll count that as a tradeoff for the ease of use here.

Just downloaded the audiobook of Michael Palin’s “Diaries 1969-1979.” I should get the actual book, but I find Palin’s voice at once soothing and compelling. He’s fine company as I keep trying to escape work with muscle and stomach cramping that’s been ailing me since midday.

When you’re already deeply insecure about the job you’re doing as a parent – pandemic or no pandemic – it doesn’t help to see friends on social media who seem to go to great lengths to show you how shiny-perfect they and their kids are doing. “Muting” and “unfollowing,” rather than unfriending, come in handy. I’ve done more of that since the whole COVID-19 thing hit.

In between moments of railing about Ted Cruz, writer Dan Sinker makes me feel a wee bit better when he reminds the rest of us deeply flawed parents that we’re doing the best we can:

Every parent wants to be a good parent. And every parent, every day, fails at that because, right now, being a good parent is literally impossible. A fine parent? Maybe. An OK one? Possibly. But a good one? We’re eleven months into a pandemic that sent all our children home, laid waste to jobs, killed a half-million people in this country, and sickened many millions more. Politicians like Ted Cruz ensured it would hurt as much as possible by fighting against public health measures and relief efforts that would have made a difference. So no: a good parent isn’t really an option. We’re all just barely getting by.

Not that I disagree with him about Ted Cruz; it’s just that (a) I don’t want to spend my Lenten time fuming about anybody, let alone Ted Cruz; and (b) that’s not my takeaway from all this.

(Hat tip for this link and quote, by the way, goes to the wonderful Austin Kleon, who blogs even further and far more eloquently today about being a “good enough parent.")

My takeaway: Let’s go easy on ourselves, parents. And let the shiny-perfect families be shiny-perfect in muted, unfollowed limbo.

I heard birds singing outside our window this morning. That made my whole day, and I hadn’t even been out of bed yet.

Nothing says “holy Catholic witness” on social media like using your Instagram account to call out people as “heretical donkey clowns.” 😐

#FastingFromCatholicFarRightSocialMediaForLent

Checked in with the bariatric doctor today. I’m now down another 2.5 pounds, making the total weight loss at 18.3 pounds since January 11.

The doctor was pleased and encouraging: “You’ve got this!” he told me. He also got me to change pharmacies for the phentermine after I told him how much I had to pay out of pocket for it last month. Ended up paying less than half the price tag from last month.

Then he gave me a few tips on YouTube exercise videos, told me to get some sun once things warm up, and sent me on my way.

So, I’ll keep going the way I’ve been going and see him again in May.

It’s taken a while, but I think I’m finally on the Lenten train.

The divisive, angry wing of the Church – the one that increasingly condemns Pope Francis, holds up the Latin Mass over even reverent vernacular Mass as the optimal (if not the only true) liturgy, considers abortion the only pro-life issue that matters, and traffics in conspiracy theories and far right politics – has left me thoroughly disgusted. Unfortunately, that wing has touched “mainstream” Catholic sources, including some I had followed semiregularly (like EWTN, Relevant Radio, and Bishop Barron’s Word on Fire operation); even the Catholic bookstore that has been a mainstay for me has fallen to it. So, I’ve had to cull the spiritual supports in my social media and reading to ease the rage that has blinded me for weeks.

I don’t agree with everything that lives at the center-left end of the Catholic spectrum, especially some of the more New Agey spots (cough – Richard Rohr – cough) where it veers from orthodox theology. But the vindictive, holier-than-thou far right spirit that has clouded my vision lately is notably absent, and I feel like I can see God again.

Anyway, so much has clouded my spiritual vision that Fr. Daniel Horan’s suggestion to “go back to basics” for Lent really spoke to me. I’ve gone with one of Fr. Horan’s ideas for the season:

Why not set aside some time each day during Lent to read a portion of the Bible, perhaps start with one of the Gospels and read, reflect and pray with the passage? If we allow ourselves to be open to the Holy Spirit’s inspiration, sayings and narratives we thought we understood could inform or challenge us in new and timely ways.

So, I’ve been spending some quality time with the Gospel of Mark, using The Message paraphrase of the Bible. It’s been deeply absorbing and eye-opening, more than I expected. It is awfully refreshing to strip away all the ritual, relatively peripheral devotions, church politics, culture wars, and theological preening, and get to the basis of Christianity: Jesus himself.

From there, I’ve only taken up a few other things for Lent:

• Read and reflect on two other books this season: “Learning to Pray” by Fr. James Martin and “The Hidden Power of Kindness” by Fr. Lawrence Lovasik.
• Give up YouTube binging on mindless, time-wasting entertainments like “Big Bang Theory” clips.
• Avoid constant indulgence in news – stop constantly checking the Washington Post, The New York Times, and other such sites – especially stuff that leads to anger, gossip, and detraction.
• Avoid gossip and detraction. This goes for work and home conversations about everything and everybody: news figures/celebrities; colleagues; friends, acquaintances, and neighbors; church people; and each other. Change the subject when others try to draw me into such chatter. (I have already failed at this numerous times since Wednesday.)
• I had a semi-grand idea to forego VitaminWater Zero for the season and set aside my spending on that for alms, but I’ve already failed at that. I’ve given up there and I’m just setting aside alms for the archdiocesan COVID-19 relief effort and our local food bank.

Usually I get ambitious about things like Lent. This year, I’m too tired to be ambitious: tired of religion (but not God), tired of the pandemic, tired of life. If only a few steps – beginning with getting reacquainted with Jesus – can rebuild my spirit even a little, I will be overjoyed.

A weirdly Chicago moment: viewing the Sunday Mass from Holy Name Cathedral and finding Bulls announcer Chuck Swirsky handling lector duties.