Oh, and my book club meets tonight at my house. I've already made my casserole for that. It just needs to be heated up. Tomorrow morning, my sister in the nursing flies out to University of Michigan Hospital for an appointment and possible surgery. I have two exams this week to give this week, and then, on Thursday evening, after I'm done teaching, I head downstate for the dance competition.
If you can't tell by now, I'm a little stressed right now. Too much happening in a very short period of time.
Today's episode of Class Saint Marty first aired five years ago.
Enjoy this trip down Saint Marty Lane.
May 4, 2010: Saint Antonina
To paraphrase the little girl from Poltergeist: "I'm baaaaa-aaaaack."
April turned into quite the creative writing killer for me. First, I had Easter and all the crap that goes along with it for a church musician (rehearsals, meetings, special services, special meetings, rehearsals for special services, music for rehearsals for special services, meetings about music for rehearsals for special services). Couple that with end-of-the-semester grading, which generally includes enough essays and research papers to level a medium-sized redwood forest, and you get a pretty good idea of how the month went for me. By the time I sat down with my journal and pen at night, I could barely remember how to hate Glen Beck and Sarah Palin.
Anyway, my grades are submitted; Easter is long-gone; and summer is on its way. I actually find myself with time for reflection and introspection, which means I have time to obsess and indulge my favorite hobbies: jealousy, selfishness, and envy.
Since I last posted, my coworker has moved into her new manse on the lake. My other coworker has received her employee of the month gold badge, gold pin, and picture in the employee newsletter. In addition to these wonderful (he said with gritted teeth) events, another couple I know has just sold their house, and my pastor friend has started packing up his office and house for his move to a downstate church on June 21. There are exactly five Manly Man Poetry Nights left, if other obligations don't get in the way to fuck things up.
As you can tell, I'm just as neurotic, angry, and confused as always. My Lenten exercise in forgiveness taught me 1) I am not very forgiving, and 2) forgiveness is a process that takes A LOT of time and patience (a virtue of which I am in usually very short supply). A full posting will be forthcoming on this subject, possibly titled "Forgiveness: Who Needs It?" or "On My Way to Forgiveness I Rediscovered Anger."
Yesterday, my daughter was named student of the week at her elementary school. It's something she's wanted for a while. Either that, or it's something I've wanted for her for a while (ever since I saw the parade of undeserving delinquents who were winning week-after-week). She received a dragon pencil, a rub-on tattoo, and a pin that identified her as the winner. Her name and picture will also be displayed for the next five days at the school. She is really excited. I'm really excited, but not in the same way she is. I'm excited in the all-you-other-kids-are-losers way. She's excited in the look-at-my-cool-pencil way.
I don't know why I act like this. My siblings would say it's because I'm the baby of the family and, therefore, crave attention like Paris Hilton at a nightclub. I crave attention so much that, when my daughter receives recognition, I think it somehow reflects on how good a job I'm doing at parenting her. That's messed up, I know.
Since I'm revealing this ugly side of myself, let me give you another example. Every year, when the winners of the big literary awards are announced, I act offended and put-off by the fact that I didn't win. This year, a classmate with whom I took a fiction-writing workshop ten years ago was nominated for the National Book Award for her collection of short stories. There was even talk that she was going to win the Pulitzer Prize for Fiction (she didn't, wasn't even nominated). She was always lovely and kind to me. When my book of poetry was published, she wrote a great review of it on Amazon.com. In short, she's a great person, and monstrously talented to boot.
I hate her.
The saint for today, Antonina, was a martyr. But I don't really care about her. I'm drawn to an anonymous participant in her story. This is what my book of saints has to say:
The pre-1970 Roman Missal had the following short history: A soldier named N. tried to save St. Antonina, who had been condemned to death during the persecution of Maximian in Constantinople. He changed clothes with her and took her place. However, the ruse was discovered, and both were tortured and then burnt to death.
So, this guy puts on a dress and gets tortured and roasted alive, but Antonina gets to be a saint. He becomes an unknown footnote in drag.
That pretty much sums it up for me today.
Confessions of Saint Marty
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