An Atheist, an Unbeliever, and a Baby

So, after just celebrating my one-year anniversary, on my second to last semester of grad school, 8 years on the birth control pill, and literally just after we bought our first house, I am pregnant. I found out the morning that we closed on our very first house. As of tomorrow, I will be 4 months pregnant.

Max (now nicknamed "SuperSperm")and I were not even planning to start trying for a few years. In one sense, I am so grateful that I got pregnant after we bought the house and got married, and kind of surprised that I am even able to get pregnant (I pessimistically pictured us having problems and having to struggle with pregnancy; even though my husband's family has a tradition of potent sperm, the women in my family have had mixed success conceiving). On the other hand, I feel so unprepared; I don' know what we'll do for money (I have to work), christening (the next big battle looming in the near future) and just life.

None of or friends have babies. Most of them aren't even married. My sister-in-law does, but we are not that close, and we have extremely different views on some things (she's an "earth mother" who seriously considered home schooling and loves being a stay at home mom; I, while respecting her choice, want to work and be a good mother...if only I could figure out how).

Max has been great through this whole process. He has been working like a maniac on the house, all while making dinner (I couldn't really be around most food for the first trimester), most of the chores, and encouraging me to take it easy. I don't know how I made it through finals, but I did somehow.

Apologies for my long absence, but it took me the whole of my first trimester to accept this reality!

Also, check out the new poll!

Money and Prayer

I had a nightmare last night about my parents. I dreamed (I wish “nightmared” was a verb sometimes) that my dad lost his job, and that my mom called me up crying about it. If you know my mom, you know that is very out of character.

The state of this country is scary right now. Even though I am optimistic after last night’s election, the truth is that, no matter how radically we change this country and its policies, it is going to take a long time for us to recover. With a house, and other emerging financial issues, Max and I are scared. We have some credit card debt, which is on a 0% interest card, and we are slowly paying it off. However, we just had to invest a lot of money into the house. I’m not talking about aesthetic changes here; I’m talking about fixing leaks, keeping the house warm enough to live in, and things of that nature. We are suffering with old, dirty, orange shag carpet because Max says it is protecting the floor and possibly keeping the stairs together. Could we charge it? Sure, but frankly, we’re afraid to, and maybe we should be. We also have Max’s student loans, and once I graduate, mine.

But we’re doing okay. I mean, we’re not rich. We haven’t eaten out since we became homeowners and we’ve been eating pasta and ramen noodles quite a lot, but we’re okay. Others, however, are not so lucky.

My father works for a company whose main concentration is construction. Needless to say, they haven’t been doing so well lately. They actually took back everyone’s Blackberry to save money (my dad is a mid-level manager). I don’t think he is in danger of losing his job, as he is immensely valuable to the company, but as this point, you just don’t know. Plus, if the company closes down, it won’t matter how valuable he is.

My mom works too, as a teacher. It was a late life career choice; I think she started teaching in her late 30s/early 40s. Neither of them makes a lot of money. And, for whatever reason, they do not have enough to retire any time soon. Part of it is due to the economy, but part of it is that they paid for my college education as well as the education of my two siblings. They gave us so much, and still did until this year. Now, suddenly, they can’t afford to any more. Now suddenly, they are struggling and scared. My siblings and I give them some money every month, which they hate taking but need in order to have ends meet. They feel guilty, listless, and miserable. And they don’t deserve it.

I do all I can, as do my siblings, to alleviate their burden. But not one of us is doing so well that we can afford to shower them with money, or pay off their mortgage. They probably wouldn’t accept it anyway.

So I feel helpless, and stuck. I want to help, but I can’t do much. They need help, but they can’t accept it without feeling like failures. They are the type of parents I have always hope to emulate; they gave everything for their children, but they let us make our own mistakes and choose our own way without any reproach, even when they didn’t agree. Since I am the oldest child, I feel like the burden lands especially on me.

So here’s my dirty little secret in all this: when I feel completely helpless, like I did this morning after my dream, I do something that I do not believe in; I pray. I don’t know to who or what I pray to, but I close my eyes and murmur over and over “Please let them be okay. Please let me think of some way to help them. Please protect them.” I usually say I pray to my grandparents (I’ve always loved the idea of ancestors hanging out watching their descendants and trying to help them), but I’m not sure that’s true. Maybe it’s not a prayer to anyone, just a wish spoken fervently out loud. Maybe I just don’t have the language to identify what it truly is.

When I’m faced with a situation in which I feel helpless to face, I don’t turn to God; however, I do, however, turn to something outside myself. I can only do so much. That’s something that has taken me years to learn, and I still fight against it every day. I don’t believe I just have to get it started, and then a benevolent spirit will do the rest of the work for me. I do, however, wish with all of my heart for some luck.

In the end, it doesn’t matter if I pray, grovel, hope, plead, or wish—the responsibility is still mine. I know there will likely be no miracle. But there is always hope, intelligence, and determination, and this is what I am relying on to get me through this. My parents supported me my whole life. Not to be there for them when they need me is not an option.

Sorry

Apologies for my lack of updates. I just experienced a life-changing event, which I will post about after Thanksgiving. I am terrified, but am working through it. I promise a nice long post soon!

I hate moving

I hate boxes. I hate lugging heavy boxes up and down stairs. I hate trying to fit couches through a door made for shorter (and skinnier) people in the 1900s. I hate that our family not only helped us moved, but also helped us clean (I feel so guilty about it!). I hate not knowing where things are in my own house. I hate how our cat Bruce already ran outside twice, once almost getting hit by a car. I hate that my in-laws saw my underwear drawer. I hate that we spent the three days we had off working nonstop. I hate how much money it takes to move when we should be saving every penny for our first mortgage payment. I hate that we finally own property and two red cars park in front of our house, and I don't want to say something and be perceived as the bad neighbor. I REALLY hate that we forgot the garbage pick up was today.

However....

I love that our neighbors brought us cookies and brownies. I love that our family rocks and pitched in without complaint. I love that our house is unusual, unexpected, and completely unique. I love that there are kids playing in both backyards that we can see. I love that you can hear the local baseball game from our porch. I love watching (sometimes helping) Max completely tear down a room and rebuild it. I love that our cats love the stairs. I love sitting outside at night and breathing in the cool air. I love that we were able to use our wedding money for this rather than to pay off debts, as so many of our friends and family members were forced to do. I love that Max and I have achieved our own personal American dream.

I hate moving, but I love where I now live. Even though we had termites, had mold, have ants, and have spent I-don't-even-want-to-know at Home Depot this week, I know that we are home.

Poll Results:
How did your family react when you told them you were an atheist and/or not religious?

How did your family react when you told them you were an atheist and/or not religious?

They were happy. 7%
They were not happy, but accepted it. 25%
They didn't care. 30%
They were sad. 23%
They were furious. 15%

I was not surprised that the smallest percentage were happy about this choice. I was, however, pleased to note that over half of the families either didn't care or at least accepted it. This seems to indicate a positive trend toward acceptance. It is sad that families can still be furious at those of us who choose not to follow a religious path.

Were you surprised by these results? Any suggestions about what to ask next? Let me know!

Oh Your God!

One thing that Max and I have had trouble with in our secular humanist/atheist existence is language. When I hear something shocking, my first instinct is to say "Oh, my God!" Frustration can produce a "Jesus Christ!" Then there's the simple angry, "God!"

In some respects, this is not a big deal. These are just contemporary ways to express such emotions. It doesn't necessarily indicate someone's religious preference. Still, it is something we thought about and occasionally spoke about.

Then, when watching one of our favorite shows, Futurama, we heard something that was the answer to our prayers (pun intended). Bender, the thieving, unapologetic robot with a heart of, well, silver, uttered this, "Oh, your god!"

Max and I found this perfect. It's clever, funny, and, actually, often people don't even notice what you just said. Give it a try. Not only has it replaced some phrases we'd rather not use, it also makes us smile every time we say it.

Goodbye

I went to church sporadically as a kid. My parents would take us to church on Sundays, but only if we didn’t have a soccer game, a party, or some other commitment. I did have to go to religion classes until I was 14 or so, whenever I was confirmed. I found both church and religion classes stiflingly boring. I asked my mom why I had to attend, after spending all day learning about “real things.” She never really answered convincingly, but basically said that it was important to my grandparents, and important in continuing the Irish Catholic tradition. She told me how Irish were persecuted when they first came to America, such as the Irish Need Not Apply signs (note: I'm not comparing this relatively brief discrimination to other, longer struggles by other groups. I'm just mentioning it because it was used as a justification for going to church). So I went, and even studied for the religion tests (sample question: Jesus loves you. True or False?). If I was going to go, I was going to get good grades!

During church time with my parents and sisters, I would put a book in my Bible and read the whole time. I was often caught by my parents, but sometimes they let it go so I wouldn’t complain. I even read the Bible itself during church, but found it full of plot holes and way too long. However, when I went with my grandparents, I kind of enjoyed it. Everybody knew them, and my grandpa acted as an usher, and my grandma would point out the candles she lit for her grandchildren every day.

The grandchildren would often sleep over my grandparents’ house on Saturday night, which is when they went to church. As I grew older, I became less and less inclined to attend with them, but I knew it upset them when I didn’t. I always wanted to make my grandparents as happy and as proud as possible, because I knew I would lose them someday, so more often than not, I went to church to please them. Every time I didn’t go, I would feel such tremendous guilt that I would much rather have suffered through the hour or church. At least I would be able to spend time with my grandparents.

The year 2000 was a real turning point for me. That summer, I had just graduated high school and was looking forward to going away to college (the first person in my family to live in a dorm) when my grandfather was admitted into the hospital. Because of his history with cigarettes (which he quit 10 years or so before he died) and weakened lungs, combined with some unforgivable hospital errors, he could barely breathe and eventually slipped into unconsciousness. I was working at McDonald’s (down the block from my grandparents’ house) when I received a call. I was to leave work immediately to stay with my younger sister, as my parents had to go to the hospital. I did so, and my mom took the car to meet my dad there. I was only home with my sister for about a half an hour when I got another call from my mom, this time to meet her at the hospital. From what she didn’t say, I knew it was bad. My neighbor, Mrs. M, would drive us.

Mrs. M is an uncommonly kind woman. I had always liked her very much, and, in fact, she had even taught sex ed at my religion classes, and in a fairly straightforward manner. I have nothing but respect for her; however, that day I hated her.

My sister and I were in the car with her, not saying much. I felt my sister gripping my hand as tightly as she could; she usually never stopped talking, but she was afraid to open her mouth that day. As we rode along, Mrs. M tried futilely to comfort us. I don’t remember all of what she said, as I tried to answer politely, but I do remember my fury when she said this:

“If it’s his time, God has to take him. God has his reasons,” she said.

If I had the brain power to kill her with my thoughts, I would have absolutely had done so at that moment. I know this is a fairly conventional and so-called “comforting” platitude offered to family members. But it was ridiculous in this case. He was dying because of two human errors. The first was his: the decision to smoke for so many years severely weakened his lungs (although, his was the era when cigarette commercials mentioned how doctors approved them, so it wasn't entirely bad judgment). The second was the serious medical error the doctors made while treating him. How could it possibly be “his time” when two human beings caused it? God forced him into smoking? God made the doctor screw up his treatment? How does this connect with the “free will” I was taught in my religion classes?

When we got to the hospital, we literally ran out of the car. I managed a civil good bye and thank you for the ride. Later, as they disconnected the tubes from my grandfather’s immobile body and he slipped into death without cracking one last joke, or even a smile, those words were never far out of my mind.

Intellectually, I had been done with religion for a long time. I loved science, and especially evolution. It was fascinating, and I wanted to know more. But my church never discussed it, so I could live with the two coexisting. I was pro-choice, but the church didn’t really talk much about that either (although it did have signs for rallies), so again, I could ignore it. But that day, under the hot August sun, my emotional break with the church came. I could no longer rationalize the divide between what I actually believed in and what I was just following because of family loyalty.

Religious friends and family who are aware of this reasoning say that I am just angry about my grandpa's death, and that someday I'll get over it and turn back toward religion. Religion will comfort me, they say. God will heal my wounds. Well, I am angry, but at the hospital, not at God. I know we all die, but he didn't have to die then. And, as I mentioned, my break was a long time coming. Grandpa's death didn't turn me against religion; it simply gave me the courage to do what I knew was right for me. And although my grandpa may not have agreed with my decision, he would have been proud that I was displaying the bravery and strength that he showed every day of his life.

No Bread for Me, Thanks.

Max had a death in his family recently. The majority of both of our families are Catholic, but not obsessive. Most don't go to church every week, but go more than the Christmas and Easter, as well as the occasional wedding or funeral, as I used to do. So when his great aunt died (not at all unexpectedly), we took off from work and attended her wake and funeral. Max, of course, is respectful of the beliefs of others, and attended without hesitation; however, when the time came to eat the bread (receive the host), he remained seated.

Obviously, people who are not Catholic should not be forced or expected to follow Catholic traditions and laws. A Jewish or Muslim person would immediately be excused from such a tradition. As always, though, it is often perceived differently for an atheist, especially an atheist who was brought up Catholic, and who had been baptized and confirmed. Most of the people who were attending the funeral attended both of those events as well. Nobody said anything to Max, but he did get a few stares.

I'm not sure exactly who knows of Max's atheism in his family. His close relatives do. We've discussed it with his parents and sister many times. But as for cousins, uncles, aunts and more distant relatives? I don't know, and neither does he, apart from the relatives he has literally told. Max never hides how he feels and will not follow any religious traditions just because they are religious, but neither does he make a point to let everybody know his spiritual beliefs. It is not what defines him, and therefore he does not feel the need to proclaim it to the skies. So how do they know why he is not standing up? I completely support his decision not to, but I am concerned that it might seem disrespectful to those who do not know the whole story.

Atheism on a whole is very offensive to some people. I know my parents aren't thrilled about it, although they do adore Max. It is vitally important to respect others' beliefs, but what can you do if respecting others' beliefs conflicts with following yours?

What do you do in these situations? Any advice?


Poll Results:

Can a marriage between two people of different faiths work?
Absolutely: 38%
Depends on the people: 42%
If the faiths are similar, maybe: 9%
No: 9%

Thanks to all those who answered, and check out my new poll!

Back, back to school again.

This week, I returned to graduate school. I take two classes a semester, both at night, immediately after my full time job. Needless to say, I'm pretty tired, a state that is not helped by the fact that we are not going home early today (which we do almost every Friday before a 3-day weekend). I was hoping for some nap time, but oh well. I am even going to the gym after work because it has been tough for me to go this week with classes starting.

Speaking of classes, I have found that there are a few different "types" who emerge in every grad class I have been in so far. This might vary across disciplines; I've only taken English grad classes, so I wouldn't know. But in these classes, where the majority of the students are also working full time, some characters emerge:

1. The too-enthusiastic girl: You know the type--she claps her hands when assignments are given out, "whispers" how she's "so excited" about this class, and hits the poor girl sitting next to her when making a particularly dramatic point. Oh, and she seems to forget that the first class is the only class from which you have a good shot of being let go early. Yet she keeps talking, and talking...

2. The cool, quiet guy: He sits in the back, staring into space, pondering deep, brilliant thoughts. He'll occasionally speak, but when he does, he speaks with the expectation of a few seconds of silence following his every utterance, and rolls his eyes if it does not happen.

3. The overprepared, arrogant student: She's read all of the books already. He wants to know if he can hand in the assignments in early. She had already read some of the books, so she read all the books that author ever wrote to "be fair." He really wants to start talking about his research paper ideas--so what if it is the first day of class! And, of course, these students inform all of the other students, and the teacher, of these facts as often as possible.

4. The writer dude: Hemingway and Dreiser tried to write the great American novel, but he's about to blow them out of the water. Just you wait.

5. The overly angry girl: she's a minority. She's a lesbian. Therefore, anything that does not have to do with both of these things is ridiculous, discriminatory, and a waste of time.

Luckily, I have all of these characters, and more, in my classes this year, so you can hear all about them as we discover the joys of 20th century United States literature.

There are two new students, hopefully unique to my Tuesday class, that I recently encountered as well: Big-head girl, who waved her head back and forth the entire 2 and a half hour class, just enough so I could never see the board or the teacher; and Blabbermouth girl, who had to tell the uninterested (to her story--attracted to her body) guy all about how she just knew she was going to get an A in the class. Also, she seemed to think everything the teacher said was outrageously funny. So I could not see or hear during my first class. Bodes well for the semester, doesn't it...

As I only have two semesters left, I suppose I should try to appreciate these unique characters. I plan to try, but I can think of a few jokes that start: so I was in a room with a bunch of English grad students...

Drive Me Crazy

I am a bad driver. I have been hit by a truck that was backing up, slipped off the Belt Parkway and drove up a guardrail, and, to avoid being hit by a crazy driver, drove off the road on the New Jersey Turnpike and blew two tires. Then there are a million almost-moments, like when I almost hit the person in front of me when he slammed on his breaks, or when I lost control of the car in the snow and was barely able to regain it in time to stop. Maybe these all weren’t my fault, but a better driver would have been able to avoid at least one of these incidents.

I am also a reluctant driver. I don’t like driving. I don’t like how you can’t relax for one moment. I don’t like how easy it is to get angry at the other drivers. And I don’t like how driving is so dependent on the fallible human temperament. No wonder it is so unsafe to drive. Personally, I feel much safer in a plane.

Max and I had a fairly terrifying experience a few weeks ago. We were making the long trek to upstate New York to see his parents. When I say long, I mean over 3 and a half hours, easily, with no traffic. And we go every few weeks (another issue for another day). Max usually drives, as I am a bad driver (see above) and I dislike it. So we were driving along what is the longest portion of our journey (50 miles on this one highway). We were chatting; it was a Friday night and we were just catching up on our increasingly busy weeks. We’ve both been given more responsibility at work lately, and it had been an exhausting week.

As one of our headlights was out (the light just stopped working) and one of our brake lights was also out (my fault—maybe I’ll tell you that embarrassing story later) so Max was trying to go close to the speed limit. With the house looming in the near future, we did not need to get a ticket. So Max had the cruise control set. It is one of those roads that changes from a 55 speed limit to a 65 one and back again, seemingly without any reason behind it. So while Max was fairly certain it was a 55 limit, he wasn’t positive. We were in the middle lane, moving with traffic, at about 62 miles an hour.

Anyway, we see headlights approaching us, fast, in the distance. We weren’t worried, but we did keep an eye on it. It was a truck. As it approached us, it flashed its brights at us a few times, and then left them on for 30 seconds or so, indicating that we should move out of the way. Max was very comfortable staying behind the guy in front of us, and the truck had plenty of room to move, so we didn’t. Apparently, this infuriated the truck driver. He screeched into the right lane and hurtled in front of our car, almost hitting the car we had been driving behind and forcing Max to slam his brakes as to not hit the truck. Now in front of us, we could see the truck was transporting large, metal tubes, all strapped onto his flatbed by chains. While this was annoying, things like that happen all the time, and we were not too concerned.

Eventually, the truck moved over to the right lane. Max, keeping the same speed (he was on cruise control) eventually began passing the truck. Well, the truck driver must have seen us starting to pass him, for he once again threw his truck into the middle lane in front of us, again almost hitting another car and forcing us to slam the brakes. He repeated this right lane/middle lane move 4 times in the next 20 minutes. I called information to report him, but the girl was a bit of an idiot and couldn’t help me so I gave up. Nonetheless, I was starting to get really nervous, and I asked Max to get around this lunatic.

So Max (who is an excellent if fast driver) decided to do so. The truck was in front of us in the middle lane again at this point, fresh from almost hitting yet another car. Max waited until a large SUV passed us in the left lane, got over right behind him, and drove fairly close to him, betting that the truck driver would not want to kill this innocent person. He was wrong.

As soon as the truck driver saw we were about to pass him, he threw his truck into the left lane forcing both us and the poor SUV guy to drive on the cement divider to avoid being hit. As we passed him, he honked and yelled at us. Luckily, we were able to get far ahead of him and didn’t see him again.

I have the greatest sympathy for truck drivers. I’m sure they have a hard time of it on the road. I have personally witnessed idiots cut them off, forcing them to brake harder than they should, and I know they have to deal with that kind of thing every day. Still, was it really necessary for this driver to wage a kind of psychological warfare on us? Because we didn’t get out of his way? If Max wasn’t such a good driver, we would have gotten into a very serious accident. He was also endangering other people on the road. It’s terrifying to think that there are people out there with access to such a dangerous weapon who have no problem hurting other people.

Maybe he saw our Darwin fish….

Close Encounters with the (Un)Evolved

Max and I are originally from Long Island (I lived closer to Queens, he lived further out on the Island). Constant trips to NYC, very diverse schools, and an eclectic mix of people helped both of us from an early age be very tolerant of others, and, on the whole, were accepted in return. As anywhere, there were of course quite a few intolerant jerks, but, overall, it was pretty great in that regard (not so great about traffic…) When we went to college, we realized it isn’t like that everywhere. I worried about it a little bit when moving to Pennsylvania, but after a few years here, and over a year of the Darwin fish planted firmly on both of our cars, I just forgot about it.

So imagine my surprise when, a few weeks ago, Max and I were driving home from my parents. We were stuck in bumper to bumper traffic, and we were just chatting about what we would do when we got home from our busy weekend (me: nap and read; him: Guitar Hero and practice tae kwon do). We were just sitting there, and we heard a few repetitive beeps. I looked out the window and saw a gray-bearded man in a large truck gesturing for us to roll down the window. So I did so, thinking that I knew what it was; one of our headlights was out, which we knew about but had scheduled an appointment to get it fixed the next day. So as I smiled uncertainly at this stranger, I was not prepared to hear what he would say.

“You know, evolution isn’t true. Have you read your Bible lately?” he shouted out, in a fairly jovial but firm tone. I looked at Max, looked back at him, waved, and rolled my window back up.

As I did so, he leaned further out his window and said. “He recanted on his deathbed. Google it!”

Luckily, just then the traffic moved and we merged right in front of him, giving him plenty of time to contemplate our Darwin fish in all its glory.

In a way, although it was certainly a strange encounter, the man was fairly polite. He didn’t rant at us or call us names. It actually seemed like he genuinely wanted to inform us of something we might not know about.

On the other hand, can you imagine what would happen if we, as either atheist, secular humanist, a non-religious person, or any such ilk, made a similar statement to a car with a Jesus fish on it? I wouldn’t be surprised if we were sued.

Our would-be teacher might be interested to know that Max and I, unlike many people on both sides, have read The Origin of Species. There is really nothing Darwin needed to recant. He didn’t, by the way. I think some people equate a lack of religious fervor to something like the Goth, or gangster, or whatever trend is currently popular amongst teenagers—which can sometimes be temporary, immature, rebellious, and superficial. It is just a phase that we, as young people, are going through. So although I appreciate the restraint this man showed, it did seem a bit patronizing, like we would “grow out of it.”

So, on the off chance this man is reading a blog written by the wife of an atheist, let me clarify something: The large majority of people my age that I know are either not religious, religious only for convenience, or atheists. Most of us have chosen this direction based on a lack of satisfaction for the “answers” religion provides. Perhaps as we age, we will change our minds; anything is possible. But we have made this decision rationally, not out of rebellion or pique or on a whim. And we are very happy, and we still have the potential to be good.

Defining Your Own Attraction

It is rare to find any person who is 100% satisfied with how they look. In our own eyes, we can always be thinner, have nicer/longer/richer hair, have better skin, and a myriad of other problems that only we are aware of. Unfortunately, I am included in this number.

Since my wedding, I have relaxed a bit. Last semester was a particularly difficult one for me, and I skipped the gym to keep up and ordered Dominos and the like to save time. Once summer came, I was so burned out that I didn’t step it up at the gym, as I usually do, which didn’t help. And I lived on soda—for some reason, I was craving it all summer. So the natural result of all this (I suppose), is that I’ve gained some weight. I don’t know how much in pounds (I don’t weigh myself; I find it depressing) but there is a definite girth to my stomach that wasn’t there before. I am still considered “thin;” I still fit into all my clothes (although they are slightly tighter) and you can’t notice it if I’m wearing clothes, but it still really bothers me. So last week, I went to the gym every day except for the day we had to meet with our mortgage guy, and this week I plan to do the same. I haven’t felt any thinner because of last week, but hopefully with this week I will start to lose some weight.

The husband, Max, is quite supportive and complimentary, and it helps so much. He is always encouraging me to go to the gym, but he never, ever comments on what I’m eating (I usually manage to talk myself out of my midnight Wawa ice cream runs). That support is invaluable.

He does have this theory, however, that I’m not sure that I believe in. Actually, it’s more of a belief (for a man without a faith, Max has lots of beliefs). He believes that if you believe something, it will happen. Now, he does not mean that if I believe that the skies will open and shower me with gold, it will actually happen. He thinks instead that by believing something, you kind of set your mind on that course, and it will eventually happen. So, if I believe I am on my way to looking good, other people will notice that and agree with me. I will appreciate this feedback, which will in turn inspire me to stay with the exercise and diet plan.

The aspect that I both appreciate and dislike of this idea is one and the same: it puts the responsibility on me, which is where it should be. I am ultimately responsible for my weight (barring a medical condition, of course). I do have control, but I have to put in the effort. Therein lays the tradeoff.

Well, I am off to my lunch of pizza bagels (only a little over 200 calories!) and grapes (barely a 100 calories!).

Atheist=Hell?

My husband, Max, who is quite a proud atheist, always says that he likes the Native American tradition, where the earth itself was worshipped, along with all things natural, including the sun and the animals used for nourishment. In some tribes, they would give thanks to the animal they had just slaughtered for giving up its life so that they may live. This deceptively simple form of worship worked because the Native Americans were respectful and even a bit in awe of the things that allowed them to live: water, animals, the sun, and many more. This makes sense to my very practical Max, because they directly thanked the things that gave them life, rather than some questionable omniscent presence.

I am not an atheist, although my husband is. I, personally, do believe that there is something out there. It is not necessarily a god, or even a presence, but it is something. I don't know what, if anything, is out there, and I'm okay not knowing. I don't think a lack of knowledge equates to a lack of faith or morality; it just means that I accept that there are things that I will not know for certain, and that's okay.

Can you be a moral person without being a religious one? Many people say no, you cannot. Without religion, how will you know what is right and wrong? I disagree, as a non-religious person myself, and one who always makes the effort to do the right thing, although not always successfully, I admit.

People come down to two things: nurture and nature. If you are raised by good people, or at least have good people in your life as an example, then it is much easier to be a moral person. Not having this presence does not mean that you have no chance for moral rectitude, however; it just makes it a bit harder. There is something in our very core, perhaps the soul, that is some unchangeable material that makes up who we are. This does not set your fate, but rather tilts your inclinations one way or another. This, I feel, is partly why some people who are victims of abuse are able to rise above it, while others succumb to the vicuous cycle. It is certainly possible to use religion as your moral guide; however, it is not the only way to live a life as a moral person.

In the end, I guess I feel as long as I try to be a good person, and succeed for the most part, it is unlikely that any deity will not allow me entrance to the good afterlife because I did not worship the right way. I just don't believe any one religion is right, so why choose one and force myself to stand with something I do not completely believe? That seems dishonest. So I continue my solitary quest to be a good person, relying on what I was taught by my parents, and what I believe in myself to be right.

A member of our bridal party was unhappy that we married in the church, because he felt as we are not believers, it wasn't right. Max really didn't want to marry in the church, but I did as it was a place where my grandparents (who both died before our wedding) worshipped at, and it made me feel like they were a part of my day. Max, great husband that he is, reluctantly agreed because I felt so strongly about it.

I know some people who would not have married an atheist, either because Max's beliefs are so opposite to their own it would have been a constant source of contention, or because they truly feared marrying an atheist would be wrong, or against their religion. Obviously, with my own lax beliefs, this was not an issue for me. Sometimes I worry about Max, that maybe he shouldn't talk so openly about his beliefs (or lack thereof); maybe I, as his wife, should try to make him a bit more religous on the chance that something bad will happen to him after he dies. But I don't, because I feel, deep in the place where reason disappears and you just know, that he is a good person, and that we will both be okay.

Jealousy vs Envy: Two Different Things?

I consider myself to be a pretty good person. I consciously and consistently try to be a good friend, wife, daughter, sister, in-law, etc. I really do. And when people I love do well, or if something good happens to them, I am always, genuinely, happy for them. However, there is in me a streak of envy, which I have in the past deplored and tried to ignore. This happened very strongly to me a few months ago, when two of our very good friends as well as a family member looked like they were going to buy a house, whereas Max and I were still searching. We were especially upset because we tried so hard to do all the right things (pay down debt, save for a down payment, see a financial counselor, and so on). I was quite envious of these people whom I love, and I was ashamed of myself for being so. However, I have come to think that there is a difference between jealousy and envy.

After doing a quick search, I found these definitions:

jealousy: jealous resentment against a rival, a person enjoying success or advantage, etc., or against another's success or advantage itself.

envy: a feeling of discontent or covetousness with regard to another's advantages, success, possessions, etc.

Note the word "resentment" in the jealousy definition, which immediately makes the feeling more active and agressive. Also, jealousy is directed at an external person; the emotion is directed outward. Envy, on the other hand, seems to be more directed toward yourself; it is not so much wishing for someone else to fail, but wishing to achieve comporable success yourself. The discontent mentioned is from a lack in yourself, and, therefore, can be fixed by you.

Besides from semantics, there is just an essential difference in feelings, I think. Jealousy can cause you to act differently, to even resent a friend or family member for their perceived successes. Envy does not allow you to change your behavior toward others.

I still feel badly about feeling even a little envious of my friends and family, but, at the same time, I am truly happy for them, and they do know that. There are people who let envy and/or jealously stop them from being happy for others, but I will never allow myself to get to that point.

Do you ever find yourself struggling with these feelings? Or is it just me?

What I'm Reading Now: The Reluctant Queen

On Deck: The Lion of Justice

Dr. Horrible Strikes Again

"The world is a mess, and I just need to rule it."

Dr. Horrible's Sing-Along Blog at once embodies the idea of a sing-along blog and then, occasionally throughout, and especially in the third act, transcends it. All of the actors, most from former Joss Whedon productions, do a wonderful job, but none flawlessly embraces the character the way Neil Patrick Harris, who plays Dr. Horrible, does. He manages to make an aspiring supervillian understandable and even sympathetic. It helps that the hero, played by the great Nathan Fillian, is, as Dr. Horrible claims, "a tool." Harris, most recently seen as the suave and consistently awesome Barney in How I Met Your Mother, nails Dr. Horrible (also known as Billy). His mannerisms, especially the rapid eye blinks while nervous, manage to shape the character in the too-short 40 minute show. However, when the plot calls for it, Harris convincingly morphs to a member of the Evil League of Evil. His way with dialogue elevates the entire production to a higher level that, even with Whedon's stellar dialogue and lyrics, it might otherwise not have reached. Fillian, the hero of the piece, is clearly having a ball with his over-the-top portrayal of a hero who is also sort of a jerk. Felicia Day does very well as the female lead, but is portrayed as rather one-dimensional, as almost too saintly to exist in the real world. Her voice, however, is lovely, and when it is contrasted with Harris' beautiful voice, it is stunning. Fillian's slightly rougher voice is perfect for the character, and his vocals are also quite impressive.

The songs, on the whole succeed very well. In the first act, Laundry Day/Freeze ray is probably the standout song, although when the three leads all sing at the end during the What a Man's Gotta Do song, it is amazing. In the second act, it is bookended by two amazing songs. I Can't Believe My Eyes is arguably the best song in the show, especially when Harris and Day sing across from each other. The lyrics deftly wind around each other, sometimes connecting, sometimes opposing. Brand New Day, although not my favorite song, really showcases Harris' vocal talents, as well as a transformation in his character that is shown almost entirely through his song. In the third Act, So They Say, which kicks off the final act, delivers a strong performance from all the actors, and even introduces some peripheral characters who add quite a lot vocally. It is the perfect build-up for the rest of the more serious third act.

Dr. Horrible ends on a fairly shocking conclusion, although any Whedon aficionado will not be surprised that it ends on a sad, and even tragic note. On first viewing the third act, I was upset and even mad. Upon further viewings, I reluctantly concluded that it was the ending that packed the most punch, that made the most sense with all of the characters.

Dr. Horrible will be taken down tonight. We can only hope that there will be a sequel, and that Day, Fillion, and especially Harris and Whedon, will get the accolades they deserve, and we, the viewers, will get the pleasure to see them in many more productions.

Dr. Horrible's Sing-Along Blog

Just a quick promo for those of you who like Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Angel, Firefly, How I Met Your Mother, musicals, or Joss Whedon.

Dr. Horrible is either a very short movie or an average-length television show, depending how you look at it. The first act debuted yesterday, and it was really funny. It is about an extremely likable want-to-be supervillian (he won't do battle in one park because there are children there), Played by Neil Patrick Harris, whose amazing work in How I Met Your Mother is replicated here, but with a different spin. Nathan Fillion, of Firefly, season 7 of Buffy, and, lately, Desperate Housewives, is his nemesis in the form of Captain Hammer, who is suprisingly (but deliberately) off-putting for a hero. Let me just give you one more taste: the first song is titled "Laundry Day/Freeze Ray." If you find the name funny, you will probably like the movie.

When I've seen the whole thing (Act II comes out tomorrow; Act III on July 19), I will blog my review of it, along with hints about my Buffy obsession, I'm sure. If you haven't seen it and I've intrigued you, check it out!

Bad, Bad, Blogger

To my possibly non-exisistent readers, I apologize for not having blogged at all in a whole month. To be honest, I was afraid to, because I had huge news that I was terrified to blog....

We bought a house! And not any house, but the house that we have wanted from the beginning. We had actually made two offers on it, but we were ignored, and told there was little hope, so we tried to move on. But, always, it would linger in the back of our minds, forcing comparisons to any other house we saw.

So just about a month ago, Max and I were getting extremely frustrated in our house search. It also didn't help that our good friends and his sister both had offers accepted for houses. We were thrilled for them, but it also made our own situation seem worse. Few new houses were coming on the market, and every one we did see had some major problem (bad neighborhood, ranch, too much of a fixer-upper, and so on). We were both feeling, frankly, miserable about the situation.

So we decided to go to Washington D.C. to take our minds off it. We figured since we weren't spending money on a house, we might as well spend it on a vacation. We had a wonderful time! As we were standing on the Metro platform our last day in D.C., Matt and I both realized we had a message from our realtor. This was not unusual; she would often call to check in. Since we were waiting for the train anyway, I decided to listen. As I did, my jaw literally dropped and Max looked visibly shaken by my reaction, asking what was wrong. After nearly 6 months of ignoring our (low but reasonable) offers, the women who owned the Holly house (as we call it) decided that if we could give a formal offer backing the last verbal offer we gave, she would "seriously consider" it.

So Max and I spent the day in D.C. in a bit of a daze. It was so close, and we didn't know if we could stand it if it fell through at that point. To be honest, there is still the slight possibility it may fall through (we haven't locked in our mortgage yet because the rates are so volatile and the inspection may have an unpleasant surprise), but I felt the need to blog about it. If everything goes smoothly, Max and I will be the proud owners of a nearly 100-year old Victorian house come October!

I should mention that we had not only given sound verbal offers, but I had also written this woman a letter thanking her for letting us look and her home and entreating her to keep us in mind if she did decide to sell for a lower price. She was apparently very touched by our letter, and was only willing to sell at a lower price to us. So I look forward to years of reminding Max that I got us the house (:-)).

So we are now on to frantically saving as much as humanly possible over the next few months. This house needs a lot of work (Max's dream!) and I don't want to struggle once we move in. The house is heated by oil, which is clearly not ideal, but what can you do?

So, I do apologize for my absence, but hope you will be rewarded by interesting house buying/moving/living posts!

What I'm reading now: The Mercy of Thin Air
On deck: something chick-lit; school starts very soon!

Feel the Heat

In lovely Bucks County, PA, it has been over 100 degrees the last few days, all day. My car has a temperature reading on the dashboard, and even in the morning it never got under 92 degrees. It was ridiculous.

Even if you're almost always cold, like me, such excessive heat can make the most cheerful person a bit more cranky than usual. So I was pleasantly surprised when Max and I had one of the best work nights in a long time.

Tuesday is Max's one weeknight off from Tae Kwon Do classes (Fridays are hit or miss, depending on our weekend plans). He goes to the gym and works out, and I usually go to Spin class or just run on the treadmill. So about 4:00 pm I e-mailed him and asked him if he wanted to kind of blow off our usual routine. To my surprise (Max is rather a stickler about his workouts), he enthusiastically agreed.

First, we drove to two houses we are possibly interested in putting an offer on (no, not the Victorian; I don't know if that is a realistic possibility). One is this dreadfully ugly former store/house that it right in the middle of beautiful houses selling for more than double the asking price of the house. Max is enthusiastic, but I am concerned because it is on a main road, and the taxes are very high. We wanted to see what the traffic flow (and noise level) was like around "rush hour" (PA rush hours are kind of a joke to us; we grew up on Long Island, where rush hour literally means not moving at all for an hour). It wasn't too bad. The second house, upon a second look, disappointed us with the neighborhood. Not sure we will be pursuing that one.

Next, in lieu of our usual workouts, we went to our gym's pool and swam laps for about 45 minutes. With the horrible heat of the day, it was just lovely to plunge into the cool water. It was fairly crowded, so we swam separately at first, but as the crowd thinned out we did our usual races (which he always wins; I'm not a great swimmer) and then just swam toward each other in our lane, his splashes spurring me on.

Max even relented his semi-firm "no going out to dinner before he gets paid" rule, and we went to a very causual restaurant, as my hair was still wet and I was wearing a dress meant to be worn over bathing suits. The dinner was just okay, but it was a wonderful night.

I've always believed the reason Max and I have been able to stay together so long is because we never bore one another. We always want to talk to each other, and the conversation is always good; last night, it was exceptional, so we felt very close to one another. It was a wonderful end to a fairly miserable (weather-wise) day.

What I'm reading now: Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows

On deck: A Jean Plaidy book; haven't decided which one yet.

Cubicle Culture

I spend most of my days in a cubicle. There is something inherently demeaning about being placed in a box with an empty space for a door. There is the semblance of privacy, but to me, a cubicle is always a fairly depressing place to work.

The funny thing is that my bosses were actually trying to better my working situation. I previously shared a moderately sized office with two other editors. I didn't have a lot of space, but I could kind of see who was coming, and I never felt as exposed as I do now. The cubicles were designed to give us more space (they are quite large) and we were allowed, even encouraged to order any kind of accessories we needed (bookshelves, etc). So I feel guilty for not liking my workspace at all, after they went to all that trouble. Originally, I was facing with my back to the door in the cubicle. Now I'm kind of facing to the side. When I asked about moving my desk around so I could face the "door," they tried to let me, but it just didn't work out because of the way it was built.

For me, the privacy factor is not because I'm doing anything illicit during work time that I don't want to be seen. I mean, I do visit the Internet occasionally, but I work really hard, and they seem to appreciate me for it. It is a comfort factor. If it were up to me, I would work at home, in my pajamas, navigating the keyboard between a cat on my lap and one dancing on the keyboard. Or, in an office setting, I would have a tiny office (I like feeling confined; I'm like a cat that way, I guess) with me facing the door, so i could see people come in and not be taken by surprise, and so I could close my door when doing an interview or on a conference call, or just if I wanted a little privacy. I don't even like eating at my desk because I feel so exposed.

Funnily enough, the coworker with whom I share a cubicle wall with actually likes cubicles, because, as she says, we get our own space but also share a larger social sphere as well. I can see what she's saying, but it still doesn't do it for me. I guess because I'm not all that social at work, I like to be able to really concentrate when I have to, which for me means, ideally, a closed space.

Well, I just kind of depressed myself about the whole cubicle situation. Luckily, I do really like my job, although they have made some strange time off decisions lately (more on that later, maybe). They allow me to go to school and were very flexible when I had my wedding last year. So, for the want of an office, my job will not be lost.

But I do wish I had a cat on my lap right now...

Money and Sex (as in Gender)

Max got a raise today. As he recounted the circumstances to me, I was reminded of how different we are when it comes to asking for a salary/raise in a job situation.

I can never quite shake the feeling that I am lucky to have a job at all, and, therefore, have little right to question my pay. I manage to shake it off occasionally, but it lingers, every moment. Max, on the other hand, although not ungrateful for an opportunity, is never afraid to ask for a raise. He believes he deserves it, and he does. He is providing a valuable service as a designer, he says, and, although he is not irreplaceable, he is invaluable. He was offered this job for a lower salary than he desired; he only accepted once they agreed that after a trial period they would increase his pay dramatically. And they did.

For me, even when I have been promised a raise, there is always the fear that if I push too hard, I will no longer have a job. I'm not sure where this fear comes from. I was never fired, nor has ayone close to me. Perhaps it was growing up listening to my grandparents talk about the Great Depression, or maybe it is just because I'm still getting used to the fact that Max and I must support ourselves. Although our parents are extremely generous, it is just the right thing to do.

There are often studies of gender and pay, and recently it has been conjectured that the reason women are often paid less than men for similar jobs is not because of discrimination; rather, it is because they do not push as hard as men do for raises or do not ask for as high a salary to start with. I'm not sure how true it is, but it certainly reflects the attitude of this couple.

What do you think?

Don't Drink and Hide

We have two cats: an orange one and a black one. Here, our girl reminds us that someone is always watching you when you're drunk.

Marriages, houses, and babies, oh my!

Since we've been married, Max and I have been trying to make some major decisions. The two biggest ones are where to live and when to have a baby. The baby issue is extremely complicated, so I will explore that in a separate post.

First of all, Max and I are New Yorkers. We were born and raised on Long Island, and to us, "the city" will always be Manhattan, although we've lived in Philly and in London. We made the decision to move out of New York after college because we wanted our own place, and, eventually, our own house. It is almost impossible to find a good starter home on Long Island for two people who, frankly, are not in get-rich-soon type of careers (he's an industrial designer; I'm an editor and grad student). So, after going to college in NJ (me) and PA (him), when it was time to get a place, we chose Bucks County, PA. Most of the time, we are quite happy with out choice. We love the area, and four of our best friends in the world live here. We both like our jobs, we have good commutes, and we like the people. But we are not near any of our family.

My family is still on the Island, while his has moved to upstate NY. To visit mine, it's not too bad: 1 hour and 1/2 to 2 hours (sometimes, more, depending on LI traffic). His: 3 and 1/2 hours away. His sister is slightly closer: 2 and 1/2 hours away. Since we see our families a lot, and we are the ones who moved away, this translates into a lot of traveling on our weekends. And we just can't think of a way to improve the situation. We can't afford LI (and Max doesn't want to live there) and we do not want to move upstate. It really weighs on us, especially Max. He really wants to be close to his family. But, for now, we are staying where we are, and are mostly happy about it.

We've been looking for a house since January, right after we got back from our honeymoon. We've had a few possibilities, but nothing has panned out. We'd like to take advantage of this buyer's market, but we (I) are terrified that we might get in over our head. So we wait, have our parents come up and look at the house, and we lose the house we are interested in. There is one house that we love. It's out of our price range (by 30,000), but in a buyer's market, we had a shot. So we made an offer, which was not even considered. Max refuses to offer more, even though we can afford to go a little higher, because he says the amount of money it will take to fix up the house does not justify a higher price. And he's right, but it's disappointing. So I wrote the buyer a letter, asking her to keep us in mind if she does decide to sell for a lower price.

The house is a beautiful old Victorian that has fallen into disrepair. It is owned by an elderly widow who is going to live with one of her children. Her husband did a lot of work on the house, but at one point he became sick and could no longer upkeep it. So it needs a lot of work, both esthetic and structural. The seller, however, refuses to "give her house away," and will accept nothing a few thousand under her asking price. Her realtor thinks she doesn't want to move, and this is why she is being stubborn. He's probably right; the house has been on the market for a year. We do not expect results from the letter, but we can always hope.

So with our only real prospect unlikely, our realtor told us that it looks like the mortage industry is heading back to requiring 20% down before buying a house, and we might want to consider that and not wait for too long to "get in the game." She suggested looking into a condo or townhouse, which the husband strongly opposes, or widening our search area, which is probably what we'll do.

Max's must-haves for a home:
1. Must need some work done to it (as a former carpenter, he would not be happy in an already fixed-up house)
2. Garage (so he can have a workshop)
3. Close to our gym/his karate classes
4. Good resale potential

Lee's must-haves:
1. Not on a main road
2. Nice neighborhood/decent school district
3. Some character; I don't want a "cookie-cutter" house
4. Preferably not a ranch

So we're a little depressed about the house search now, but we will march on. Anybody else going through this? Please post any encouragement/stories you can.

What I'm reading now: Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire

On deck: Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix

This Could Be the Start of Something New

So I've been married for almost six months. Even though I've been with my husband for a very long time, and we've lived together (all over the world, actually), marriage does make a difference. On our honeymoon (see picture--I left it a bit dark on purpose), Max (obviously not his real name; kind of a spin-off of a nickname I have for him) and I had this conversation:

Max: Now that we're married, I feel differently about cheating.

Lee: What do you mean? Now it's okay? Or was it okay before and now it's not?

Max: Stop. Not what I meant. It seems more important now not to cheat on you, like it would be worse now somehow.

Lee: Okay then. (big sigh of relief that I did not just marry a cheater)

Just recently, we had a conversation about how (if?) things have changed since we were married. When people ask me "How's married life?" I tend to smile big and say, "Exactly the same, only now we have some money in the bank!" How do you explain to an acquaintance that things are deeper, realer somehow?

By the way, my husband does happen to be an atheist; however, he has a severe moral code of honor for himself. I didn't name my blog this to offend anybody. We were actually married in the Catholic church (very long story) and I'm kind of a vague Catholic myself. Honestly, the name just kind of flowed and felt right.

Well, that was my first blog. Nowhere to go but up, I guess...