Archive | September, 2011

Logan’s Guide to Life: Siblings.

27 Sep

Hello fellas (and ladies).

It’s me, Logan Rutherford. The Secret Protestant Spy…? Okay, that’s kinda lame.

I’m going to be giving you fellas (and possibly ladies) a guide on how to be a good (or not so good) brother.

Me? I’m the perfect brother. You can just ask Kassie! Okay, on second thought, don’t ask her. I’ve been a brother for 16-and-a-half-on-October-3rd years! :O (That’s the only smiley I’m using in this post. Promise).

If you’re a brother, and you’re reading this, you’ve probably been one for way longer than I have. But this is what I’ve learned after being a brother to 8 siblings (9 if you count me, but don’t. That’s stupid).

1. Be a friend.

That’s really important. You don’t want to be that brother. You want to be your siblings friend, and you want them to be yours, too. You don’t want to be sitting at the table for Thanksgiving 20 years from now, depressed because you wish you would’ve been there for your sister, and maybe then she wouldn’t have moved off to the North Pole with that hot Italian guy who’s a professional swimmer, and rich. Maybe if you’d been a little nicer, you’d get a Ferrari for your birthday, and one of the Italians hot super model friends. But no, you were a jerk, and your sister hates you, making your brother-in-law hate you.

Also, your sister may have a friend who’s really hot. If you and your sister aren’t on good terms, who’s she gonna go to? That’s right. Her hot best friend. Now, the hot best friend hates you! Trust me, if your sister has a friend that you like, be nice to your sister. Trust me on this one. She’s more powerful than you can possibly imagiane.

2. Be nice.

Say your sibling has a really awesome TV. It’s HD, has a built in DVD player, it’s big (or bigger than yours, atleast) and you really want to use it. Maybe yours doesn’t have a DVD player, or something. Fact is, she isn’t going to let you use it if you’re a jerk. You’re gonna have to find somewhere else to watch your Stargate Atlantis.*

*This may be from personal experience.

3. Train them.

This is a must (works best on younger siblings). Once they “pop out” start playing episode IV of Star Wars. They must be geeks, and like video games, just like you. You need somebody to talk about the new episode of Star Wars: The Clone Wars. Trust me, everything is boring on your own. If you train your siblings right, you’ll never have to be bored again.

4. Read. Read. Read.

If you’re a reader, you must make your siblings one, too. It doesn’t matter if they don’t read, or they don’t like the same books as you. You must take you favorite book, force it infront of them, sit on them (or get a gun, if they’re too big), and force them to read it. It all goes back to number three. Train them.

Also, it may not be very nice, but to me, I’m doing them a favor by making them read my favorite book. It’s a way of cutting the crap, and taking them straight to the good stuff.

That’s also what she said.

5. Blackmail them (or bribe).

If you’ve done something bad, and your sibling knows about it, Blackmail them. You must find some dirt on them! Come on, it’s not that hard. You live with them! Just go into their room, and read their diary. It’s full of blackmailing gold. Now, next time they threaten to go to the parents about something you did, fight back! Don’t let them get away with it! Although, if you follow number one and two, they won’t tell the parents, anyways. They would never want to hurt their bestfriend!

That’s all the tips I have for now. I gotta hurry up and send this to Kassie, because she’s being a total jerk and rushing me!*

You can find me at my blog, or Twitter, that’s @jaloru95

Thanks for reading!

Logan Rutherford

*Yay for irony!

TARDIS = Popemobile: how the papacy is kind of like Doctor Who.

21 Sep

(This post is dedicated to Calah – I finally got to it, I did!)

(P.S. vote for Calah [Barefoot and Pregnant] at the Crescat Cannonball Awards)

Those of you who know me, primarily in real life or on twitter, know that I am unduly obsessed with Doctor Who. Like, completely obsessed. Like, I picked out TARDIS blue bridesmaid dresses forever ago and I’m not even remotely a “My dream wedding was planned at the age of 5!” kind of gal. At one point my car was making the Tardis noise and I was loath to take it into the shop because for a split second after turning it off I could close my eyes and pretend I was making sweet love to time traveling with the Doctor. Sometimes the only thing that keeps me from running away (in my red converse) and joining a convent after particularly awful days at work is the knowledge that I have to bear one son I can name Christopher Tennant Smith.

I could go on, but you get the point.

Me + Tardis + the Doctor (- every other companion and River effing Song) = <3.

I found Doctor Who after season 1 of the BBC’s Robin Hood (child 2 is Jonas Armstrong Sexy McSexy Pants II, in case you’re curious)
 Meet Mr. Vatican Spy. Who should definitely be post-Matt Smith which would make it NOT cheating on The Doctor.

There. . .was a point to this blog, but now I’m just thinking about Jonas Armstrong in the Tardis.


I’m back.

As I was saying.

I couldn’t have converted without Doctor Who. Okay, so that’s a little facetious. BUT JUST A LITTLE. Doctor Who was the main reason I had absolutely -zero- problem with the concept of the Papacy.

Why, asketh thou unenlightened readers who have never watched the show?


I was all, “What the crap, I have to be Catholic! They have Time Lord Leaders!”

The Doctor is one Time Lord, who has the ability to regenerate an (albeit limited) number of times. Meaning, he takes on another form but he remains the same person (humanoid, for the picky sci-fi people out there).

So, when Peter died, his physical form may have passed away, but his anointing and office was regenerated into. . .whoever the next Pope was, and when THAT Pope died he regenerated the same office on to the next Pope, and so on. Which means, B16 is pretty much the Doctor. Different people, different personalities, but the same office.

Make sense?



All I’m saying is, if you -really- want to have an awesome Catachesis class, watch the Eccleston-Tennant regeneration story arch and then explain the Papal seat.

. . .

I’ve lost you all, haven’t I.



Cake or death: on ballet, bowling, and failure.

5 Sep

Tomorrow is the first official day of the dance studio season.

I am a nerd, but there are few things I love more than the start of a new dance season. The combinations! The choreography! The shiny new pointe shoes! The syllabi! Yes I write syllabi for my dance classes! The hours spent obsessively editing the same two measures of music! The. . .subsequent. . .hours. . .spent talking myself down from the brink of suicide. But I digress.

Last year I choreographed a contemporary piece based on A Grief Observed by C.S. Lewis. And, I’m not going to lie.




So awesome in fact, that I’m a little nervous about this year. My choreography tends to come from whatever I’m dealing with in my life at that point in time. And last year I had that whole OMG-I’M-CHANGING-FAITHS-AND-MY-ENTIRE-LIFE/ripping bandaids – nay, sawing casts off – old wounds thing going for me.

This year, if I were to sum up my life in dance it would be something like the following:

Dancer is asleep on stage. Stage is black.

Alarm clock goes off on stage. 

Dancer pushes snooze.


Dancer realizes she’s almost late to work and throws first available articles of clothing on then throws herself off stage.

Dancer returns to stage and goes to sleep.

I’m realizing that competing with myself is pointless – which is really hard for me to get through my head, because I’m competitive to a fault. Sometimes I taste a tiny bit of success and after the initial surge of confidence in a job well-done, I become terrified – what if what I dance next isn’t good enough? What if my choreography sucks? What if my new class of students hates me and thinks I’m a horrible teacher? What if I can’t write a better post/article/short-story/song/grocery list than I did yesterday? What if? What if? What if?

I’m the chick who won’t play a game she thinks she can’t win. Like, I went on a date a month or so ago and bowled for the first time in my life – EVER – and only after my date bought me a few drinks. Yes. My date had to get me buzzed to go bowling. My family didn’t have a weird anti-bowling rule in my fundamentalist formative years. I simply refused to fail. And I didn’t just fail at bowling that night. Whatever is ten degrees below failing, that’s what I did. I’d like to say that I had some epiphany at that point that demonstrated to me that winning isn’t everything/brought me to new levels of humility, but I mainly just pouted.

[On the bright side, it was an exercise in chastity. Because any chance of any action that might have been present at the beginning of the date TOTALLY DISAPPEARED as I seethed in poor sportsmanship and general humiliation after].

But if I let myself get caught up in the attitude of,  “Every word I write must needs be greater than the last! Every dance more awe-inspiring! Ever prayer more holy!” I will drive myself into the ground and not do a thing.

And doing nothing is worse than doing something and failing.

So this week, ladies and gentlemen, will be a trial run of Kassie Channeling Her Perfectionism Into More Healthy Avenues. You know, like finishing laundry. Or cleaning out my car. Yeah. There’s a start. More productivity. Less internal angst over creative genius/lack thereof.

. . .and, coincidentally, I’m now playing around with the alarm clock idea. Hmmm. . .