Pajama jeans are apparently the next big thing. Or at least something to cover up "the next big thing".
For those of you not sufficiently educated in cable television's "buy it here now!" channels hawking everything from simulated Princess Diana rings to toilet seats that glow in the dark (believe me, they DO make them!), allow me to share the latest thing heating up the phone lines of the 1-800 and 1-888 marketplaces.
Apparently, these special items are a 'proprietary blend of cotton and spandex'. As 'comfortable as pajamas, yet as stylish as boot cut jeans'. It's PAJAMA JEANS!
These pants are a strip of elastic from being fancy sweat pants, people!!!
The idea here is to look like you cared enough to put on clothes to run down to the Pig for a quart of milk and a loaf of farmer's cheese.
The reality is that you rolled over, clapped your lights on with "The Clapper" which you ALSO bought from 'buy it here, buy it now TV', slipped on a pair of mules and headed to the Pig in your dadgum PAJAMAS.
They are NOT pants, people!!!
They are PAJAMAS made to look like denim with the added benefit of all of that spandex to keep your fat rolls from wadding around like they normally do in plain old flannel.
And regardless of what the high quality video of a size 6 model shows you, you will NOT look even more stylish and attractive by putting high heels on with your dang pajamas!!
Have you ever thought your Grandma looked like a fashion maven in her flannel nightgown with the addition of a pair of high heeled shoes?? Yeah, me neither.
What's next?
It's a night gown and an evening gown all in one!!! The Gown-Gown!! Oh wait. Wendy's hamburger chain already beat me to that one with their 'where's the beef' series of commercials that showed the former Soviet Union's version of a fashion show. "Next, is eef-ningk weah…" and the 'attractive' model is holding a flashlight and wearing a gray dumpy bag dress.
I'm kinda thinking the same people that handled that ad campaign were brought on board to cover these pajama jeans.
Look here, gentle readers. If the word PAJAMAS is attached to the clothing item, it isn't appropriate to be seen in public in them except in elementary school on pajama day or if you are a college freshman who believes you are being cutting edge and avante guard in your choice of day wear.
Other than that, you look like what you truly are, an old person trying desperately to believe no one, not one single soul at the Pig knows you are in your PJ's while you are circumnavigating the produce aisle.
Trust me. We know. We KNOW.
Go home and put some clothes on Granny! You are embarrassing yourself and those high heels don't do a thing for you.
The only thing that would be worse is a pair of gold loafers or fur trimmed bedroom shoes. Don't go there people!! Just say "NO"!
December 28, 2010
December 26, 2010
Christmas, Sewing and Double-Dog Dares
Christmas time - a wonderful pause button on the hectic jumble of day to day living that makes us all reflect on something greater and more special than anything we could really wrap in paper or festoon in ribbon.
The Savior came into the world to save us all.
It just doesn't come clearer than that. Without His birth, there could have been no Atonement, but without His Atonement OUR new birth in Him could never be.
What a priceless and unwrappable gift indeed!
Because of the tangible and intangible benefits of the birth of the Savior, we likewise give gifts - both those that can be wrapped and bedecked with bows and those which cannot. Gifts like laughter, time and love that simply are too large in measure to cover or box up.
During the course of the pre-holiday fun, I made some pajamas for my menfolk. I haven't sewed anything in 30 years. Repairing a hem or sewing on buttons doesn't count because I do both of those by hand.
The PJ's came out well. Kari patiently coaxed me along, refilled the bobbin thingy on her sewing machine and stuffed thread through the eye of the needled that delighted in winking the thread out from time to time so I had to retrace my path as I sewed.
Here's the PJ pants as they looked Christmas morning:
The Savior came into the world to save us all.
It just doesn't come clearer than that. Without His birth, there could have been no Atonement, but without His Atonement OUR new birth in Him could never be.
What a priceless and unwrappable gift indeed!
Because of the tangible and intangible benefits of the birth of the Savior, we likewise give gifts - both those that can be wrapped and bedecked with bows and those which cannot. Gifts like laughter, time and love that simply are too large in measure to cover or box up.
During the course of the pre-holiday fun, I made some pajamas for my menfolk. I haven't sewed anything in 30 years. Repairing a hem or sewing on buttons doesn't count because I do both of those by hand.
The PJ's came out well. Kari patiently coaxed me along, refilled the bobbin thingy on her sewing machine and stuffed thread through the eye of the needled that delighted in winking the thread out from time to time so I had to retrace my path as I sewed.
Here's the PJ pants as they looked Christmas morning:
Jared gets monkey pants - skiing, snowboarding and smiling.
Yellow, black and red plaid PJ pants for Thomas.
Rick receives blue, gray and green plaid PJ's.
Yes, Christmas PJ's may seem a bit odd, but I think they like them even if I did make them. I enjoyed doing it and hope I can maybe do some other simple projects as time goes forward.
As we gathered for the family meal and football (sadly, the Cowboys lost), we laughed, we talked, and we watched the parade of life as the kids are not kids anymore. They are all young adults trying to find their way in the world.
Two dogs romped about to bring havoc and chilled noses to the festivities. Nana came with the Kucejko family and EZ, as the hound in residence, felt compelled to remind her that she was the guest, not he.
Nana managed also to find a nice cold duck pond to take a winter swim. Gotta love hunting dogs!
It snowed.
Yes indeedy. ALABAMA SNOW!! Sufficient to cause concern on the roadways of life here.
Our street looks positively lovely with a coating of slushy snow!
Our home with a dusting of snow... more actually fell all through the day and night.
Because snow is such a rarity, and because accumulation of snow is even more so, it requires the attention of a First Class goader to encourage stupid behavior. Fortunately, I am up to the task with years of diligently applied experience to bring the level of the room up to the challenge.
We spoke of snow, of skiing and the hilarity of life in the snow.
Then, the gauntlet had to be thrown down. I double-dog dared Beth to take a trip down the slopes of Alabama.
Never one to allow a challenge to pass unheeded... Beth provided the moment and Pete took some blackmail worthy photos and a little movie. Not that I would blackmail her at all because that would be sinful and wrong and so out of character for me. Yeah, I know. I slay myself laughing at that one, too.
Don't mock the slippery slopes of Mount Canebrake!!!
Although they are more well known for their golf course, Canebrake has expanded! Now, a new downhill run and slalom course keeps the seasonal tourists around for those hot toddies made in the Clubhouse. Golf cart wheels are replaced with treads from crashed and recycled snowmobiles to provide surefooted traction for hours of red ball snow golf. They also are the means for ascending Mount Canebrake after a long run downhill.
Novice skiers take on the Canebrake Bunny Slopes. They provide both adequate challenge and a willing and handsome instructor who assists in your learning process and takes a photograph of you on the slopes.
More experienced skiers can take on the newly powdered slopes by the 8th green.
After a long day on the mountain top, it's nice to come back downhill and head toward the ride to the lodge where a cup of steaming hot cocoa awaits each skiier by the ample fireplace.
Yes, it's skiing at it's finest in Alabama.
Even if you have to double-dog dare the participants.
Truthfully, the only iffy part of the dare wasn't whether or not Beth would do it... it was more 'when' she would do it.
Pete says we get each other into trouble.
He's just jealous because I didn't double-dog dare him. That and the fact that Beth and I have a complete lack of shame when it comes to witless crap like this. But someone has to do it!! Otherwise there's just another cold night indoors on winter's day when Church was cancelled due to snow.
Merry CHRISTmas and Happy New Year!
December 23, 2010
The Danger of Snow Peas
I feel compelled to warn you of a serious danger to life, limb and the pursuit of happiness.
It is a responsibility I take very seriously.
Snow peas.
They can show up anywhere at anytime regardless of what kind of food you have ordered. And... in the wrong hands they can be lethal.
Sure, I hear you snickering. "Snow peas?!?!?"
Yes. Snow peas.
They are a threat to national security. Just ask Beth. She's had years of military training teaching her to recognize and eliminate threats and transport pop tarts all over the world.
You see, snow peas are aliens. Pod people, if you will. They are thrill killers. Their only design is to come in, take over the plate of food you thought you ordered in complete safety and compel you to defend yourself from their vicious attack the best way you can.
Only when someone at the table is brave enough to withstand the onslaught is anyone safe.
Only when someone is willing to go into hand to pea combat is calm and order restored.
Only when violence is averted can the world snow peas... uh... know peace.
People, this is a serious issue!!
It compels the gravest of attention be paid!
Snow peas are the enemy of decent people everywhere.
If Xan hadn't been there to throw herself on the pile of snow peas and risk her own life to save Beth, we could have been picking out funeral clothing today.
Oh, the horrors of war! Patton was right when he said it. "Peas are hell!"
I myself have suffered grave indignity and injustice at the hands - uh, make that pods - of peas!
The time was the early '70's. The place was the dining room of my friend Renee's house. The danger zone... the chafing dish of peas with tiny white pearl onions nestled into their deceptively calming sea of green.
The perpetrator was none other than Renee's own mother, who frankly should have known better. After all, she was an adult who knew the dangers of the world. But little did we know it at the time, she had already been subsumed by the peas! They had taken over!
Employing all the usual stalling tactics of stirring the peas around to make it look like we'd ingested any of the enemy and poking along at the dinner table in hopes that dessert would be announced, we were unable to fool Renee's mother. After all, she was a pod person and she had a pea by pea count of the deadly green host upon our plates.
Subterfuge would be required to survive the impending tragedy in the making. Only sharp wits and little plastic purses could save us now! When Renee's mother left the room, ostensibly to bring the dessert tray around, we hastily scooped the offending menace into the little purses for disposal in a safe place later on. It was kill or be killed in this tango of torture and we were not about to please the peas and lose out on our valuable time to dress as go-go dancers while her mother napped after lunch! There are only so many hours in the day!
After the meal was completed, we carefully carried our enemy-laden purses to Renee's upstairs window where we unceremoniously dumped them out ... right upon the unsuspecting head of her brother Scott, who just happened to be mowing the lawn right beneath the bedroom window.
Thankfully, he was NOT a snitch for the enemy and kept his silence regarding our mission of digestive mercy. He even mowed over the peas repeatedly to ensure our kill. I think Scott hated the pod people as much as we did.
Remember this cautionary tale! It could well save your life. You never know what nefarious agents they have already placed in your path. Your very next meal may be infested with snow peas. And may God have mercy on your soul if you are left there at the table without Xan or a plastic purse to save you.
It is a responsibility I take very seriously.
Snow peas.
They can show up anywhere at anytime regardless of what kind of food you have ordered. And... in the wrong hands they can be lethal.
Sure, I hear you snickering. "Snow peas?!?!?"
Yes. Snow peas.
They are a threat to national security. Just ask Beth. She's had years of military training teaching her to recognize and eliminate threats and transport pop tarts all over the world.
You see, snow peas are aliens. Pod people, if you will. They are thrill killers. Their only design is to come in, take over the plate of food you thought you ordered in complete safety and compel you to defend yourself from their vicious attack the best way you can.
Only when someone at the table is brave enough to withstand the onslaught is anyone safe.
Only when someone is willing to go into hand to pea combat is calm and order restored.
Only when violence is averted can the world snow peas... uh... know peace.
People, this is a serious issue!!
It compels the gravest of attention be paid!
Snow peas are the enemy of decent people everywhere.
If Xan hadn't been there to throw herself on the pile of snow peas and risk her own life to save Beth, we could have been picking out funeral clothing today.
Oh, the horrors of war! Patton was right when he said it. "Peas are hell!"
I myself have suffered grave indignity and injustice at the hands - uh, make that pods - of peas!
The time was the early '70's. The place was the dining room of my friend Renee's house. The danger zone... the chafing dish of peas with tiny white pearl onions nestled into their deceptively calming sea of green.
The perpetrator was none other than Renee's own mother, who frankly should have known better. After all, she was an adult who knew the dangers of the world. But little did we know it at the time, she had already been subsumed by the peas! They had taken over!
Employing all the usual stalling tactics of stirring the peas around to make it look like we'd ingested any of the enemy and poking along at the dinner table in hopes that dessert would be announced, we were unable to fool Renee's mother. After all, she was a pod person and she had a pea by pea count of the deadly green host upon our plates.
Subterfuge would be required to survive the impending tragedy in the making. Only sharp wits and little plastic purses could save us now! When Renee's mother left the room, ostensibly to bring the dessert tray around, we hastily scooped the offending menace into the little purses for disposal in a safe place later on. It was kill or be killed in this tango of torture and we were not about to please the peas and lose out on our valuable time to dress as go-go dancers while her mother napped after lunch! There are only so many hours in the day!
After the meal was completed, we carefully carried our enemy-laden purses to Renee's upstairs window where we unceremoniously dumped them out ... right upon the unsuspecting head of her brother Scott, who just happened to be mowing the lawn right beneath the bedroom window.
Thankfully, he was NOT a snitch for the enemy and kept his silence regarding our mission of digestive mercy. He even mowed over the peas repeatedly to ensure our kill. I think Scott hated the pod people as much as we did.
Remember this cautionary tale! It could well save your life. You never know what nefarious agents they have already placed in your path. Your very next meal may be infested with snow peas. And may God have mercy on your soul if you are left there at the table without Xan or a plastic purse to save you.
December 22, 2010
Have you seen my left nostril?
This isn't a gross-out post.
This is winter reality settling into our home.
Thanks to some kind soul who brought a child to church who was doing a credible imitation of a seal at Sea World barking all through the church service sans hankerchief or even bothering to cover his germ-filled mouth with his hand, we are now trying to rid our home of "holiday germs". Did he give a thought to our well-being during the season of giving and love? Nope. It was share and share alike in the pews in a display of seasonal sharing that could have and frankly, should have been left at home in the privacy of his own NyQuil laced dreams.
Now, we are swapping around the germs, of which we managed to bring a liberal portion home to enjoy. I can sing bass with the Tabernacle Choir men with excelsior. I am not a bass normally.
Admittedly, there is sort of an odd bonus to this shared and dubious "gift". When telemarketers call, it does have sort of a useful je ne sais quoi. No telemarketer apparently can resist the dulcet tones of a deep bass saying "NO" on their carefully rehearsed phone sales pitch for new roofing, gutter and chimney cleaning and subscriptions to the Alabama Teacher's Home for Unwed Stuffed Animals. They seem to hang up more rapidly than they do under usual tonal circumstances.
I digress...
This is all about the search for my left nostril, which, for at least part of last night, was AWOL.
A mighty sneeze overtook me and required both hands filled with tissues to cover and prevent the spread of airborne flung particles of germs. Unlike our friend in the pews, I don't believe in sharing under these circumstances... I employ both tissues and hand sanitizer on a routine basis.
When I finished mopping up and getting back to normal, or at least as close to it as I can hope for, I realized that either (a) my left nostril was gone or (b) the sneeze was so powerful that it had sonically stunned the nerves to my left nostril rendering it numb and inert for any useful breathing function. Either way, it was an odd and lasting sensation that I am not anxious to repeat any time soon.
Is it possible to sneeze out your mucous membranes? Should I search for them or consider all lost? Will I grow new ones without the helpful assistance of stem cells groomed to become only mucous providers?
These and other questions swirl inside my head. They may never be answered to my satisfaction.
Because I believe in the restorative powers of both good music and chicken soup, I am currently listening to Ray Stevens singing "Santa Claus is Watching You" and cooking a big whacking batch of chicken soup for later on today. And because I believe you deserve to feel whole and well, I'm going to share the digital portion of the activities since trying to shove soup into the computer just leaves a horrible mess that tech support is hard pressed to clean up after. They do whine so very much during the holidays. It's like they think they need time off when I have chicken giblets in my CD/DVD tray.
To that end of being well, whole and hearty during the Christmas season and beyond... here's Ray doing what he does best. Enjoy! And try really hard not to spill your soup, okay?
This is winter reality settling into our home.
Thanks to some kind soul who brought a child to church who was doing a credible imitation of a seal at Sea World barking all through the church service sans hankerchief or even bothering to cover his germ-filled mouth with his hand, we are now trying to rid our home of "holiday germs". Did he give a thought to our well-being during the season of giving and love? Nope. It was share and share alike in the pews in a display of seasonal sharing that could have and frankly, should have been left at home in the privacy of his own NyQuil laced dreams.
Now, we are swapping around the germs, of which we managed to bring a liberal portion home to enjoy. I can sing bass with the Tabernacle Choir men with excelsior. I am not a bass normally.
Admittedly, there is sort of an odd bonus to this shared and dubious "gift". When telemarketers call, it does have sort of a useful je ne sais quoi. No telemarketer apparently can resist the dulcet tones of a deep bass saying "NO" on their carefully rehearsed phone sales pitch for new roofing, gutter and chimney cleaning and subscriptions to the Alabama Teacher's Home for Unwed Stuffed Animals. They seem to hang up more rapidly than they do under usual tonal circumstances.
I digress...
This is all about the search for my left nostril, which, for at least part of last night, was AWOL.
A mighty sneeze overtook me and required both hands filled with tissues to cover and prevent the spread of airborne flung particles of germs. Unlike our friend in the pews, I don't believe in sharing under these circumstances... I employ both tissues and hand sanitizer on a routine basis.
When I finished mopping up and getting back to normal, or at least as close to it as I can hope for, I realized that either (a) my left nostril was gone or (b) the sneeze was so powerful that it had sonically stunned the nerves to my left nostril rendering it numb and inert for any useful breathing function. Either way, it was an odd and lasting sensation that I am not anxious to repeat any time soon.
Is it possible to sneeze out your mucous membranes? Should I search for them or consider all lost? Will I grow new ones without the helpful assistance of stem cells groomed to become only mucous providers?
These and other questions swirl inside my head. They may never be answered to my satisfaction.
Because I believe in the restorative powers of both good music and chicken soup, I am currently listening to Ray Stevens singing "Santa Claus is Watching You" and cooking a big whacking batch of chicken soup for later on today. And because I believe you deserve to feel whole and well, I'm going to share the digital portion of the activities since trying to shove soup into the computer just leaves a horrible mess that tech support is hard pressed to clean up after. They do whine so very much during the holidays. It's like they think they need time off when I have chicken giblets in my CD/DVD tray.
To that end of being well, whole and hearty during the Christmas season and beyond... here's Ray doing what he does best. Enjoy! And try really hard not to spill your soup, okay?
December 19, 2010
Strange dreams
I wonder what it is that I ate before bedtime that prompts the odd dreams I had last night. Like Scrooge decrying the spectral visitation as a bit of cheese or blob of mustard, I want to know just what I can lay blame to for the strange images and thoughts that crowd out sleep.
I was in an auditorium that was in a church. Choir practice was about to begin and there were literal hundreds awaiting placement in the choir rehearsal. Just as I began the sorting process of voices high, low and intermediate range into groups of like voices, a jazz band heretofore unseen struck up a lively tune of Christmas cheer.
Being a fan of jazz music, under other circumstances I would have listened in, but they were interrupting my rehearsal time with the choir. Patiently, this was pointed out to them on the floating monitor which indicated each groups scheduled time for rehearsal.
A shouting match began and my choir members watch while eating magically appearing fruit, popcorn and sandwiches.
Suddenly, there was a magnificent pipe organ down to my right in the orchestra pit and the woman at the keyboards insisted that she had to prepare for her concert of Christmas favorites to be held that very night.
I woke up cold and shivering realizing that my beloved Assassin dog had stolen all of my covers, including the electric blanket, so that she would be nice and cozy. Notice how all of her motivations lack concern for me? She still thinks she is prominently mentioned in my will as the beneficiary of the food and apparently my blankets.
Still confused by the dreams, the cold and the strange imagery that bounced around in my head, I wondered if this wasn't some portent of doom upon the rehearsal that I have been asked to prepare for and conduct later today?
I want the choir to do their best and sing a testimony of their feelings of Christ born into the world to save us all. But I can't push aside the very mortal and frustratingtly carnal man that wants to do well as a 'gotcha' since I am not normally the choir director.
Yeah, beauty and evil rolled into one tidy package.
It's a reminder that strange dreams never start out strange. They lull you into a false sense of security by beginning in a benign and gentle fashion before taking a left turn into the Twilight Zone - music and all.
Maybe tonight, I'll just have some juice before bed and see if that creates different dreams...
I was in an auditorium that was in a church. Choir practice was about to begin and there were literal hundreds awaiting placement in the choir rehearsal. Just as I began the sorting process of voices high, low and intermediate range into groups of like voices, a jazz band heretofore unseen struck up a lively tune of Christmas cheer.
Being a fan of jazz music, under other circumstances I would have listened in, but they were interrupting my rehearsal time with the choir. Patiently, this was pointed out to them on the floating monitor which indicated each groups scheduled time for rehearsal.
A shouting match began and my choir members watch while eating magically appearing fruit, popcorn and sandwiches.
Suddenly, there was a magnificent pipe organ down to my right in the orchestra pit and the woman at the keyboards insisted that she had to prepare for her concert of Christmas favorites to be held that very night.
I woke up cold and shivering realizing that my beloved Assassin dog had stolen all of my covers, including the electric blanket, so that she would be nice and cozy. Notice how all of her motivations lack concern for me? She still thinks she is prominently mentioned in my will as the beneficiary of the food and apparently my blankets.
Still confused by the dreams, the cold and the strange imagery that bounced around in my head, I wondered if this wasn't some portent of doom upon the rehearsal that I have been asked to prepare for and conduct later today?
I want the choir to do their best and sing a testimony of their feelings of Christ born into the world to save us all. But I can't push aside the very mortal and frustratingtly carnal man that wants to do well as a 'gotcha' since I am not normally the choir director.
Yeah, beauty and evil rolled into one tidy package.
It's a reminder that strange dreams never start out strange. They lull you into a false sense of security by beginning in a benign and gentle fashion before taking a left turn into the Twilight Zone - music and all.
Maybe tonight, I'll just have some juice before bed and see if that creates different dreams...
December 18, 2010
It's Saturday Night Live...
Am I the only person who gets to Saturday night feeling like a steamroller has driven directly over her person?
Perhaps those halcyon days of youth when I had actual energy are a phantom memory, but I recall having the strength to party like there was no tomorrow and still get up in time to make myself look pretty for a 9 am church meeting.
These days, my energy level flatlines by about Friday and when we get through the typical activities of Saturday housework, errands and mayhem, there isn't any wave peak above that flatline at all. It's more like a study in energy deficits from way back in physical science.
I know that deficits have to be made up from somewhere, but I'm not sure where that 'reserve' is alleged to come from nor how I can tap into it so that I feel more like Superwoman and less like Slug-gal.
When I was in college, it wasn't a big deal to work all day, come home, shower, change and head out for a full night of dancing into the wee hours of the morning at a club where the men smelled nice and were warm and inviting.
Now, my Saturday night is filled with the homebody chores and choices that have come to define the double digits of my age as being someone 'over the hill'. That sucks lemons big time.
Where did the fun gal go?
More importantly, where did that energy go? I'd love a cup or two of that level of go, go, go from time to time. Most mornings, I am like a car battery that has to be coaxed into life by an alternator not quite up to snuff. Lots of 'rrrr' and not much 'roar'.
We occupy our time with laundry, baths for whomever needs them the most and trying to get last minute projects and chores done before the Sabbath actually begins. It's more like trying to push the boulder uphill. I've never felt more in kinship with Sysyphus than I do by the time Saturday night comes each week.
This week, I finished a secret project which will be revealed later.
I'm kinda proud of myself and extremely grateful to God that He made possible the project.
More on that later...
Right now, it's time to put my shoulder to the boulder and give it all I've got in hopes that if I can't push it uphill, at least I won't let it roll back down.
Live, from my living room.... it's Saturday Night!
Perhaps those halcyon days of youth when I had actual energy are a phantom memory, but I recall having the strength to party like there was no tomorrow and still get up in time to make myself look pretty for a 9 am church meeting.
These days, my energy level flatlines by about Friday and when we get through the typical activities of Saturday housework, errands and mayhem, there isn't any wave peak above that flatline at all. It's more like a study in energy deficits from way back in physical science.
I know that deficits have to be made up from somewhere, but I'm not sure where that 'reserve' is alleged to come from nor how I can tap into it so that I feel more like Superwoman and less like Slug-gal.
When I was in college, it wasn't a big deal to work all day, come home, shower, change and head out for a full night of dancing into the wee hours of the morning at a club where the men smelled nice and were warm and inviting.
Now, my Saturday night is filled with the homebody chores and choices that have come to define the double digits of my age as being someone 'over the hill'. That sucks lemons big time.
Where did the fun gal go?
More importantly, where did that energy go? I'd love a cup or two of that level of go, go, go from time to time. Most mornings, I am like a car battery that has to be coaxed into life by an alternator not quite up to snuff. Lots of 'rrrr' and not much 'roar'.
We occupy our time with laundry, baths for whomever needs them the most and trying to get last minute projects and chores done before the Sabbath actually begins. It's more like trying to push the boulder uphill. I've never felt more in kinship with Sysyphus than I do by the time Saturday night comes each week.
This week, I finished a secret project which will be revealed later.
I'm kinda proud of myself and extremely grateful to God that He made possible the project.
More on that later...
Right now, it's time to put my shoulder to the boulder and give it all I've got in hopes that if I can't push it uphill, at least I won't let it roll back down.
Live, from my living room.... it's Saturday Night!
December 13, 2010
Christmas Festival
The last three days have been flat out awesome!
Me, Thomas, Kari and Xan were in the Stake Christmas Festival for our stake choir and orchestra. It was excellent good fun! God even pitched in with SNOW for the event! A true rarity in our area.
For those who don't attend these events in your own area, you are missing a shot of Christmas cheer that can make the Christmas season last more than just one day.
Thomas pulled double duty this time playing both his trumpet and percussion on some pieces. The three of us girls cover three different parts. Kari is a soprano, Xan is alto 1 and I am an alto 2 singer.
The spirit was very nice. Even though we were part of the choir, it was still a wonderful experience.
I'm just sorry everyone I invited declined the opportunity to attend. It truly was their loss...
We are blessed in our area where membership of the church is scattered across the northern part of the state that we can gather in enough people to flesh out a 70 voice choir and a 22 instrument orchestra.
I have friends out west who have TONS more people in their wards and stakes who cannot do that... not because they lack the personnel or the talent, but because people are filling their lives with 'busyness' and have no time left for something like this.
Anyway, it was a wonderful weekend. If I can figure out how to attach sound files later.. I will.
Me, Thomas, Kari and Xan were in the Stake Christmas Festival for our stake choir and orchestra. It was excellent good fun! God even pitched in with SNOW for the event! A true rarity in our area.
For those who don't attend these events in your own area, you are missing a shot of Christmas cheer that can make the Christmas season last more than just one day.
 |
| Just chillin' while waiting on the orchestra to drop in and grace us with their presence... |
 |
| A pretty large group to try and get into one shot... |
 |
| The Merrill Family 2010 - (L to R) Row 1: Jared - center, Row 2: Thomas, Shelley, Rick |
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| Kari, Xan and Shelley |
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| Shelley & Thomas |
 |
| Angels We Have Heard on High |
Thomas pulled double duty this time playing both his trumpet and percussion on some pieces. The three of us girls cover three different parts. Kari is a soprano, Xan is alto 1 and I am an alto 2 singer.
The spirit was very nice. Even though we were part of the choir, it was still a wonderful experience.
I'm just sorry everyone I invited declined the opportunity to attend. It truly was their loss...
We are blessed in our area where membership of the church is scattered across the northern part of the state that we can gather in enough people to flesh out a 70 voice choir and a 22 instrument orchestra.
I have friends out west who have TONS more people in their wards and stakes who cannot do that... not because they lack the personnel or the talent, but because people are filling their lives with 'busyness' and have no time left for something like this.
Anyway, it was a wonderful weekend. If I can figure out how to attach sound files later.. I will.
December 1, 2010
December has arrived
While not exactly skipping around singing "It's Beginning to Look Like Christmas", I am listening to a lot of good music for Christ and Christmas right now.
Part of the reason I'm not skipping is because it makes my knees hurt and I'm not singing because my voice, already low by female standards, has dropped about an octave and I sound very much like a frog or a toad.
Are frogs and toads considered 'holiday' animals, er, uh, amphibians? And is it tacky to decorate with them or to decorate them directly? Do they like wearing festive holiday antlers or does it just annoy them? Just wondering.
Having a cold makes it hard to breathe much less to sing, so I listened intently to my choir music hoping against hope that I could mentally rehearse the songs and hymns we are to present the weekend of the 10th, 11th and 12th of December.
I'm quite certain that the invitation to participate in the Christmas choir anticipated that I would do so without sounding like the croakings of doom from the back row of risers. Frankly, I've never heard a choir comprised of frogs or toads and wonder just what kind of selections they would choose to highlight their abilities. Do they actually have singers who carry a tune or do they simply make pitched noise?
Do frogs and toads even know music? And if they know music, are they able to work to whip a choir into shape for 8 shows over the course of one weekend? Are their homes bedecked with garland and tinsel or do they prefer pond slime and lily pads? Do they like gingerbread cookies?
Sorry, I digress...
Sadly, since my voice is currently stuck in their range, I had to ask because inquiring and drug-induced minds want to know. Perhaps when I am more lucid after a night's rest, these concerns will probably not plague me. I hope...I'm sure YOU hope that, too.
Should it happen to not be the case and it is discovered that I am gleefully decorating my tree with plastic frogs, please just close the door, ignore my croaking attempt at singing "I Saw Three Ships" and just slip away as if you had never seen anything at all. It would be the kindest thing to do.
Part of the reason I'm not skipping is because it makes my knees hurt and I'm not singing because my voice, already low by female standards, has dropped about an octave and I sound very much like a frog or a toad.
Are frogs and toads considered 'holiday' animals, er, uh, amphibians? And is it tacky to decorate with them or to decorate them directly? Do they like wearing festive holiday antlers or does it just annoy them? Just wondering.
Having a cold makes it hard to breathe much less to sing, so I listened intently to my choir music hoping against hope that I could mentally rehearse the songs and hymns we are to present the weekend of the 10th, 11th and 12th of December.
I'm quite certain that the invitation to participate in the Christmas choir anticipated that I would do so without sounding like the croakings of doom from the back row of risers. Frankly, I've never heard a choir comprised of frogs or toads and wonder just what kind of selections they would choose to highlight their abilities. Do they actually have singers who carry a tune or do they simply make pitched noise?
Do frogs and toads even know music? And if they know music, are they able to work to whip a choir into shape for 8 shows over the course of one weekend? Are their homes bedecked with garland and tinsel or do they prefer pond slime and lily pads? Do they like gingerbread cookies?
Sorry, I digress...
Sadly, since my voice is currently stuck in their range, I had to ask because inquiring and drug-induced minds want to know. Perhaps when I am more lucid after a night's rest, these concerns will probably not plague me. I hope...I'm sure YOU hope that, too.
Should it happen to not be the case and it is discovered that I am gleefully decorating my tree with plastic frogs, please just close the door, ignore my croaking attempt at singing "I Saw Three Ships" and just slip away as if you had never seen anything at all. It would be the kindest thing to do.
November 30, 2010
Many Brave Hearts Are Asleep in the Deep
Never get up to go to the bathroom in the middle of the night.
I’m just trying to save your life.
Prior to the remodeling of the center bathroom in our house, going to the potty at dark-thirty was a risky proposition at best. Somnambulating through the house in virtual sleep while trying to answer the call of Mother Nature is never easy.
Objects that are navigated around easily during the daytime or when the lights are on become mine fields of danger and horror in the dark. Thanks to the remodeling, we now have motion sensing lights along the floor of the bathroom that provide a gentle ray of light to guide you safely to your destination without harm. With the illumination bathing the target in a warm glow, the trip is accomplished generally without tears.
Not every home is so blessed to have these amenities. Which brings me to the ever-present danger of the blue stuff in the toilet.
Most of us want to hope our bathroom facilities are clean and would pass inspection so we employ various cleaning products and tank treatments that allege to insure sanitized and safe use of the porcelain throne. Heaven forbid that our toilet smell like... well... a toilet.
The ubiquitous image of the advertising showing Tidy Bowl man happily afloat in his tiny boat in the deep and beautiful blue waters of “lake John” reminds me of both a clean toilet and, sadly, of a nightmare that I once had as a kid.
That little perky sailor of the bilge water smartly jabbed me with a jib as I sat on the throne one night to take care of business. He informed me that he was almighty tired of being peed on. I woke up from that dream scared and with a perpetual fear of colored water in the toilet that lasted for years.
But sometimes, nightmares notwithstanding, the bladder prods ever harder for relief until you are compelled to rise from your horizontal slumber and drag your snoozing carcass vertically into the bathroom. This is the time at which your conscious mind should be completely awake! Unfortunately, this is often the very time in which it deserts you entirely. It’s kind of a cruel practical joke when you are least able to defend yourself. Will you make it in time? Will you become disoriented and pee in the piano bench?
There are some horrors that never leave us. Have you ever sat down into a cold, wet toilet? Some early arriving male interloper answers ‘the call’ then, inexplicably leaves the seat in the “up” position and you creep into the bathroom sound asleep in your footy pajamas totally unaware of the danger that lies damply ahead only to find your previously warm buttocks plunged into the startling cool pool of the toilet thus rendering you unable to pee for hours? Plus your nether region is now a lovely shade of aquamarine?
Then, there is the awful specter of possibly slipping on the bathroom tile while seat is in said “up” position and alighting face first into the Tidy Bowl dyed water. How can you explain to ANYONE why you have a blue face? Or worse yet… imagine the headline if you drowned in that position?
"The victim was found facedown in the blue-hued water of the home’s main bathroom. Rescue personnel were unable to remove the body for approximately 30-minutes, during which time they had to forcibly stop looking at each other in order to stifle their laughter.”
"The family has requested that there be no viewing of the dearly departed since the funeral home indicated that the grieving family would not be able to tolerate the snickers from the mourners who filed past the casket making inappropriate jokes about Smurfs, Violet Beauregard and The Tidy Bowl Man.”
“Friends of the family are invited to send a charitable donation to the plumbing company of their choice.”
I’m thinking that just might be a headline article that our local paper could cover with great panache. They could include coupons for cents off toilet cleaning products underneath.
I’m just trying to save your life.
Prior to the remodeling of the center bathroom in our house, going to the potty at dark-thirty was a risky proposition at best. Somnambulating through the house in virtual sleep while trying to answer the call of Mother Nature is never easy.
Objects that are navigated around easily during the daytime or when the lights are on become mine fields of danger and horror in the dark. Thanks to the remodeling, we now have motion sensing lights along the floor of the bathroom that provide a gentle ray of light to guide you safely to your destination without harm. With the illumination bathing the target in a warm glow, the trip is accomplished generally without tears.
Not every home is so blessed to have these amenities. Which brings me to the ever-present danger of the blue stuff in the toilet.
Most of us want to hope our bathroom facilities are clean and would pass inspection so we employ various cleaning products and tank treatments that allege to insure sanitized and safe use of the porcelain throne. Heaven forbid that our toilet smell like... well... a toilet.
The ubiquitous image of the advertising showing Tidy Bowl man happily afloat in his tiny boat in the deep and beautiful blue waters of “lake John” reminds me of both a clean toilet and, sadly, of a nightmare that I once had as a kid.
That little perky sailor of the bilge water smartly jabbed me with a jib as I sat on the throne one night to take care of business. He informed me that he was almighty tired of being peed on. I woke up from that dream scared and with a perpetual fear of colored water in the toilet that lasted for years.
But sometimes, nightmares notwithstanding, the bladder prods ever harder for relief until you are compelled to rise from your horizontal slumber and drag your snoozing carcass vertically into the bathroom. This is the time at which your conscious mind should be completely awake! Unfortunately, this is often the very time in which it deserts you entirely. It’s kind of a cruel practical joke when you are least able to defend yourself. Will you make it in time? Will you become disoriented and pee in the piano bench?
There are some horrors that never leave us. Have you ever sat down into a cold, wet toilet? Some early arriving male interloper answers ‘the call’ then, inexplicably leaves the seat in the “up” position and you creep into the bathroom sound asleep in your footy pajamas totally unaware of the danger that lies damply ahead only to find your previously warm buttocks plunged into the startling cool pool of the toilet thus rendering you unable to pee for hours? Plus your nether region is now a lovely shade of aquamarine?
Then, there is the awful specter of possibly slipping on the bathroom tile while seat is in said “up” position and alighting face first into the Tidy Bowl dyed water. How can you explain to ANYONE why you have a blue face? Or worse yet… imagine the headline if you drowned in that position?
"The victim was found facedown in the blue-hued water of the home’s main bathroom. Rescue personnel were unable to remove the body for approximately 30-minutes, during which time they had to forcibly stop looking at each other in order to stifle their laughter.”
"The family has requested that there be no viewing of the dearly departed since the funeral home indicated that the grieving family would not be able to tolerate the snickers from the mourners who filed past the casket making inappropriate jokes about Smurfs, Violet Beauregard and The Tidy Bowl Man.”
“Friends of the family are invited to send a charitable donation to the plumbing company of their choice.”
I’m thinking that just might be a headline article that our local paper could cover with great panache. They could include coupons for cents off toilet cleaning products underneath.
November 28, 2010
Death by Fragrance
I'll begin by saying I'm not one to bathe in fragrance.
It just seems tacky and, well, wasteful.
Not subscribing to the the theory that if a little bit is good, a lot is better saves me a bundle on cologne, body spray and perfume. Plus, I don't wear it that often anyway.
Sadly, today one little oops with the spray button has plunged me into misery.
A spritz of scent is more than enough for this country gal. I kinda like my hubby to come in close for his whiff of beauty and splendor from the fragrance aisle.
However, I believe the neighbors could smell the beauty and splendor today. GAG!
Fortunately for all concerned, I own washcloths and soap and I'm not afraid to deploy them for emergency use.
Are you aware that a pleasant scent in the over the top measure proves to be an acrid, eye watering, nose clogging experience not meant for the faint of heart?
I have no desire to offend others, but I gotta tell you, offending yourself with your scent, even those aromas and scents meant to be pleasant, isn't pleasant or desirable at all.
Makes me rethink my entire position on the issue of applying cologne at all.
Can we still be friends with the people around us if we choose to be 'cucumber neutral'? Will they still respect me if they discover that I'm using a homemade all natural body bar instead of some over the counter floor washing solution with an added fragrance to seem like it's beautiful?
I'll admit I buy the above named potions from time to time. Sometimes I want to actually 'smell perty' instead of like the winner of the truck stop wrestling match.
But too much of a good thing can kill you.
When you are not able to breathe and you begin sneezing, your eyes are watering violently and you can feel your nasal passages slam shut from the offending olfactory assault, it's time to rethink the concept of 'dressing up'.
No wonder I prefer jeans and a t-shirt with a nice deodorant swiped up under each arm. Most days, it's enough when added to a nice warm bath.
Time to trundle off to church. I hope I don't smother anyone near me because I like to have smothered myself.
I just wonder what they'd put on my tombstone?
"Pertied herself to death."
It is a cautionary tale indeed.
It just seems tacky and, well, wasteful.
Not subscribing to the the theory that if a little bit is good, a lot is better saves me a bundle on cologne, body spray and perfume. Plus, I don't wear it that often anyway.
Sadly, today one little oops with the spray button has plunged me into misery.
A spritz of scent is more than enough for this country gal. I kinda like my hubby to come in close for his whiff of beauty and splendor from the fragrance aisle.
However, I believe the neighbors could smell the beauty and splendor today. GAG!
Fortunately for all concerned, I own washcloths and soap and I'm not afraid to deploy them for emergency use.
Are you aware that a pleasant scent in the over the top measure proves to be an acrid, eye watering, nose clogging experience not meant for the faint of heart?
I have no desire to offend others, but I gotta tell you, offending yourself with your scent, even those aromas and scents meant to be pleasant, isn't pleasant or desirable at all.
Makes me rethink my entire position on the issue of applying cologne at all.
Can we still be friends with the people around us if we choose to be 'cucumber neutral'? Will they still respect me if they discover that I'm using a homemade all natural body bar instead of some over the counter floor washing solution with an added fragrance to seem like it's beautiful?
I'll admit I buy the above named potions from time to time. Sometimes I want to actually 'smell perty' instead of like the winner of the truck stop wrestling match.
But too much of a good thing can kill you.
When you are not able to breathe and you begin sneezing, your eyes are watering violently and you can feel your nasal passages slam shut from the offending olfactory assault, it's time to rethink the concept of 'dressing up'.
No wonder I prefer jeans and a t-shirt with a nice deodorant swiped up under each arm. Most days, it's enough when added to a nice warm bath.
Time to trundle off to church. I hope I don't smother anyone near me because I like to have smothered myself.
I just wonder what they'd put on my tombstone?
"Pertied herself to death."
It is a cautionary tale indeed.
November 23, 2010
Living in Thanksgiving Daily
That ye contend no more against the Holy Ghost, but that ye receive it, and take upon you the name of Christ; that ye humble yourselves even to the dust, and worship God, in whatsoever place ye may be in, in spirit and in truth; and that ye live in thanksgiving daily, for the many mercies and blessings which he doth bestow upon you. (Book of Mormon | Alma 34:38)
When I was younger, I had this as my favorite scripture because I am a huge fan of turkey, dressing, mashed potatoes and gravy.
Now that I am a bit older and perhaps a weensy bit wiser, I love it for another reason entirely.
My life is truly blessed. I do not know true need. I have not experienced the hunger suffered daily by my brothers and sisters upon this earth whose names I do not know.
I have not been compelled to live in a military state with my rights apportioned to me by whatever regime has the biggest guns at the moment.
My family is free to pursue happiness in manifold dimension without let. We are free to travel, to dress in whatever fashion or un-fashion we so choose. I am free to post this blog and even say things that distress me without fear of reprisal or jail based upon an opinion that runs counter to that of someone in power.
I am thankful that God has blessed my life. I say that with the understanding that because I have been so blessed, He expects me to reach out as His hands and bless the lives of people not so fortunate in this world. God hasn't withheld blessings to His other Children as some bizarre condition of His Divine favor, but instead has allowed for sorrow in the world so that I can be grateful and learn to share my bounty with someone that lacks.
There are some who would determine that to be a dichotomy of circumstance, that some of God's Children are blessed beyond measure and others are lacking and in desperate circumstance.
In a world that is truly equal and fair, we would not allow despots to cruelly abuse their citizenry, starving them out of existence. We would intervene and make sure everyone was blessed to have freedom from oppression and freedom from hunger.
The Norman Rockwell paintings of the "Four Freedoms" are among my favorite works of art. As Children of God, we should all be blessed with being "Free From Want" - that is to say, the necessities of life are ready at hand. Sadly, this is not the case for multiplied millions who hunger, thirst and lack adequate shelter, clothing and medicines to survive and thrive.
The world has enough and to spare - if only the greedy would share.
"Freedom From Fear" is particularly poignant to me right now as I consider with adult understanding the many men and women who are working and living in harm's way - either because they chose the life of the military warrior protecting our freedoms, or because they are living in a war zone not of their choosing and from which they lack an escape.
As the guardians of freedom, we have a responsibility to shed the light of liberty upon all nations and into every darkened corner where a single soul is threatened for daring to speak up to say "This should not be so!"
The Rockwell painting of "Freedom of Worship" is especially important to me now because I know that there are those under the guise of being free to worship really mean that THEY ALONE want to be free to worship according to their fashion and they desire to achieve this by removing MY right and privilege to worship Almighty God according to the dictates of MY conscience.
It is important that people have the freedom to worship as they see fit. It is equally important to me that everyone understand that their personal freedom to worship should NEVER drown out or silence any other person's right to reach up to the God of their beliefs in the way that pleases them best. When we silence one, we silence all.
And that brings me to the last, and possibly the best, of the paintings, namely, "Freedom of Speech".
We live in an age of gold gilt cynicism. The speech of the popular and the noteworthy minority is celebrated above and beyond the speech of the common, the average and the often silent majority. Everyone has a voice - if only we choose to listen and truly HEAR what is being said.
Even in the walls of our own homes, how often do we shunt aside what is being said for our own interpretations of what is wisdom or even half-hear while tasked on other projects as we congratulate ourselves on our ability to multi-task?
By the way, multi-tasking is the grossest lie of all - it means that everything we are working on gets the shaft instead of the diamond standard of perfection. It means that nothing receives our best so that everything can receive an appointed portion of our worst under the guise that we are able to do much with little.
To be free means that we should be free to say "NO" when the trivial interferes with the Eternal.
It means that we are living in Thanksgiving daily because we are daily recognizing the eternal amongst the trappings of the mortal and temporary. To be free means that we understand our responsibility to bless the lives of others as we have been blessed through the sacrifice of our time and talents and energies.
To give thanks means that we gratefully receive ALL conditions of mortality, even those that are not optimal, and find the lesson we are meant to learn from the journey.
God is indeed good and worthy of more thanks than my works and words measure up to even on my best days.
What a blessing to know that each sunrise is a new opportunity to try and show and tell my Father in Heaven just how thankful I truly am!
Happy Thanksgiving, today and always.
When I was younger, I had this as my favorite scripture because I am a huge fan of turkey, dressing, mashed potatoes and gravy.
Now that I am a bit older and perhaps a weensy bit wiser, I love it for another reason entirely.
My life is truly blessed. I do not know true need. I have not experienced the hunger suffered daily by my brothers and sisters upon this earth whose names I do not know.
I have not been compelled to live in a military state with my rights apportioned to me by whatever regime has the biggest guns at the moment.
My family is free to pursue happiness in manifold dimension without let. We are free to travel, to dress in whatever fashion or un-fashion we so choose. I am free to post this blog and even say things that distress me without fear of reprisal or jail based upon an opinion that runs counter to that of someone in power.
I am thankful that God has blessed my life. I say that with the understanding that because I have been so blessed, He expects me to reach out as His hands and bless the lives of people not so fortunate in this world. God hasn't withheld blessings to His other Children as some bizarre condition of His Divine favor, but instead has allowed for sorrow in the world so that I can be grateful and learn to share my bounty with someone that lacks.
There are some who would determine that to be a dichotomy of circumstance, that some of God's Children are blessed beyond measure and others are lacking and in desperate circumstance.
In a world that is truly equal and fair, we would not allow despots to cruelly abuse their citizenry, starving them out of existence. We would intervene and make sure everyone was blessed to have freedom from oppression and freedom from hunger.
The Norman Rockwell paintings of the "Four Freedoms" are among my favorite works of art. As Children of God, we should all be blessed with being "Free From Want" - that is to say, the necessities of life are ready at hand. Sadly, this is not the case for multiplied millions who hunger, thirst and lack adequate shelter, clothing and medicines to survive and thrive.
The world has enough and to spare - if only the greedy would share.
"Freedom From Fear" is particularly poignant to me right now as I consider with adult understanding the many men and women who are working and living in harm's way - either because they chose the life of the military warrior protecting our freedoms, or because they are living in a war zone not of their choosing and from which they lack an escape.
As the guardians of freedom, we have a responsibility to shed the light of liberty upon all nations and into every darkened corner where a single soul is threatened for daring to speak up to say "This should not be so!"
The Rockwell painting of "Freedom of Worship" is especially important to me now because I know that there are those under the guise of being free to worship really mean that THEY ALONE want to be free to worship according to their fashion and they desire to achieve this by removing MY right and privilege to worship Almighty God according to the dictates of MY conscience.
It is important that people have the freedom to worship as they see fit. It is equally important to me that everyone understand that their personal freedom to worship should NEVER drown out or silence any other person's right to reach up to the God of their beliefs in the way that pleases them best. When we silence one, we silence all.
And that brings me to the last, and possibly the best, of the paintings, namely, "Freedom of Speech".
We live in an age of gold gilt cynicism. The speech of the popular and the noteworthy minority is celebrated above and beyond the speech of the common, the average and the often silent majority. Everyone has a voice - if only we choose to listen and truly HEAR what is being said.
Even in the walls of our own homes, how often do we shunt aside what is being said for our own interpretations of what is wisdom or even half-hear while tasked on other projects as we congratulate ourselves on our ability to multi-task?
By the way, multi-tasking is the grossest lie of all - it means that everything we are working on gets the shaft instead of the diamond standard of perfection. It means that nothing receives our best so that everything can receive an appointed portion of our worst under the guise that we are able to do much with little.
To be free means that we should be free to say "NO" when the trivial interferes with the Eternal.
It means that we are living in Thanksgiving daily because we are daily recognizing the eternal amongst the trappings of the mortal and temporary. To be free means that we understand our responsibility to bless the lives of others as we have been blessed through the sacrifice of our time and talents and energies.
To give thanks means that we gratefully receive ALL conditions of mortality, even those that are not optimal, and find the lesson we are meant to learn from the journey.
God is indeed good and worthy of more thanks than my works and words measure up to even on my best days.
What a blessing to know that each sunrise is a new opportunity to try and show and tell my Father in Heaven just how thankful I truly am!
Happy Thanksgiving, today and always.
November 14, 2010
Whirlwind tour
As part of the ongoing process of trying to sort out 'what comes next' in his life, Thomas and I went up to Virginia this week. The idea behind the trip was to have a campus visit at SVU - Southern Virginia University - and to examine the suitability, cost and potential for attending.
This is the part where my plans and his plans didn't exactly coincide. Being no dummy about long distance travel, I wanted to be out on the road almighty early so we might be able to miss the morning traffic as we crossed hill and dale heading east. My rationale being that they are an hour ahead of us, so by starting early, by the time we reached the next time zone, work and school traffic would be somewhat diminished.
We managed to get out the door just in time to hit all the rush hour traffic all along the way.
So much for my timing versus his timing, but since Thomas was doing the driving, I could enjoy my day in profitable pursuits like flinching when semis got too close to the car, wincing when people cut in front of us or a next lane over semi with whole inches to spare, or when some yo-yo pulled in front of us only to slow to a snail’s pace for our amusement.
Some people shouldn’t be granted driver’s licenses. Ever.
I know I annoyed him. But that is a perk of being a parent instead of a seasoned driving instructor who is so jaded that nothing except a loop-de-loop from the top of I-440 garners any attention at all.
About 150 miles from our goal, Thomas swapped with me so I could drive and he could nap. While the swap did nothing to endear me to the truckers who continued their game of chicken with each other and the small cars that defied their mass, I did all I could to keep well out of the way of them all. I’m not a coward, but I’ve already experience the dubious thrill of being treated to a ping pong session with a semi and I’m not anxious to enjoy a repeat now or ever.
We arrived at our destination late in the afternoon in a nice little town named Buena Vista, Virginia. For whatever reason, the locals call it “boonah veestah” instead of the Bwayna Vistah that I normally associate with that spelling. The campus of SVU is situated atop a prominent hill overlooking the town. It is truly an idyllic setting.
The school itself is a zillion years old and has a charming Victorian hotel for it’s main administration building/men’s dormitory. There was even a bell at the front door that had a rotary ringer like the one of which Harold Hill pretended to be a passionate collector in the movie “The Music Man”. That tickled us both to see.
The main hall is dark red with white trim and is a beautiful beacon of higher education atop the mount.
There is a statue in the front yard of a knight prepared for battle astride a large horse. His shield bears the initials of the school and his horse is ready for the charge. It is a striking symbol of gaining education in the face of what is sometimes stiff opposition, whether physical, financial, inadequate preparedness or society itself which conditionally chooses those who can have opportunity and values them above those who are not so fortunate as to have the doors open to them.
We took a quick couple of photographs in the fading light of late afternoon before setting off to check into the hotel in which we were spending our night.
Thomas at the statue:
After our dinner at a nice restaurant that had seafood and steaks, we returned to tuck in and prepare our tired selves for a full day of activity on the campus Friday, November 12th.
The next morning, we arose and prepared ourselves and checked out of our hotel. There was ice on the car and covering the window. Brrrr! I was truly thankful the heater in the motel room worked as the temperature dropped into the 30’s. I am not a fan of the cold.
We packed up and headed up the hill to the campus and Thomas got us parked near the knight statue again. The main hall administration sections had the offices of financial aid and the office for advisors where we’d meet up with the folks that would help us negotiate the moolah issues and start Thomas on the campus tour.
He toured the dorms, classrooms and the library before we met up again.
A friend from years ago was working in the financial aid office and it was nice to catch up a bit with her. Transcripts were tendered and information regarding the upcoming spring term would be exchanged and discussed. A printout of possible money from the school scholarships, grants and other aid were rendered as well as information regarding work-study programs available.
While there, we attended a lecture forum and ate in the cafeteria. That was good food! Plus, Thomas having access to a majority of his meals in that setting with all of the other students and faculty will be helpful time-wise for him as he attends.
Part of our day including visiting the orchestra rehearsal and the instructor and Thomas spoke briefly before Thomas was asked, “You didn’t bring your horn by any chance, did you?” Since he’d already scheduled an audition with Dr. Del Vecchio for the jazz and pep band programs, he had brought it along. Thomas got to sit in with the orchestra and have an impromptu run through audition with them. They are losing their first trumpeter to December’s graduation and were happy to hear that Thomas plays first trumpet. He did pretty well for sight reading through the music. I was tickled that he got the chance to sit in. It was an unexpected little bonus.
After the orchestra rehearsal, Thomas went to talk to the instructor for the computer science program and found out that he speaks German! That pleased him very much. I think he’s planning to take some German classes since they offer them at SVU as well.
We also made a pit stop at the maintenance building and picked up a job application. They should be able to offer Thomas 15-20 hours a week around his class schedule so that he can earn some money that won’t go against the financial aid he is eligible to receive. Frankly, any hours a week would be a blessing since he currently isn’t working steadily anywhere and still has bills to be paid.
I am truly hoping and praying – keeping a prayer in my heart as well – that this will be a good opportunity for Thomas to enjoy friendships with people his own age and to help him develop himself to become what he needs to be and to prepare to be a husband and father in due time.
We also visited the institute building. It hosts 5 wards from the college population. That should make for more exciting activities for him to enjoy. They apparently have a number of activities going on every week in addition to the classes.
The audition with Dr. Del Vecchio went well and he is looking forward to working with Thomas and seeing about adding some money to the scholarships and grants that he is eligible for at this time. It just feels like all of this is a blessing that is just falling into place and settling into our laps – both for the family as a whole and for Thomas as an individual son of God.
The reference to this being a whirlwind tour is apt, because we left the campus about 4:30 and headed back southwest toward home making our arrival on Saturday morning a bit before or right at 12:30 a.m.
Funny thing about these particular whirlwind travel tours is that the regular household chores still need my attention the next day no matter how tired I am. Kind wish there was some sort of ‘pause’ button that would help make time slow down for the world, but be lengthened for me so that I could catch up on sleep.
Now, we are just down to decisions and preparations for Thomas to make a successful transition from being at home to being on campus to live, study, work and enjoy the experience.
That will be a whirlwind all on its own.
This is the part where my plans and his plans didn't exactly coincide. Being no dummy about long distance travel, I wanted to be out on the road almighty early so we might be able to miss the morning traffic as we crossed hill and dale heading east. My rationale being that they are an hour ahead of us, so by starting early, by the time we reached the next time zone, work and school traffic would be somewhat diminished.
We managed to get out the door just in time to hit all the rush hour traffic all along the way.
So much for my timing versus his timing, but since Thomas was doing the driving, I could enjoy my day in profitable pursuits like flinching when semis got too close to the car, wincing when people cut in front of us or a next lane over semi with whole inches to spare, or when some yo-yo pulled in front of us only to slow to a snail’s pace for our amusement.
Some people shouldn’t be granted driver’s licenses. Ever.
I know I annoyed him. But that is a perk of being a parent instead of a seasoned driving instructor who is so jaded that nothing except a loop-de-loop from the top of I-440 garners any attention at all.
About 150 miles from our goal, Thomas swapped with me so I could drive and he could nap. While the swap did nothing to endear me to the truckers who continued their game of chicken with each other and the small cars that defied their mass, I did all I could to keep well out of the way of them all. I’m not a coward, but I’ve already experience the dubious thrill of being treated to a ping pong session with a semi and I’m not anxious to enjoy a repeat now or ever.
We arrived at our destination late in the afternoon in a nice little town named Buena Vista, Virginia. For whatever reason, the locals call it “boonah veestah” instead of the Bwayna Vistah that I normally associate with that spelling. The campus of SVU is situated atop a prominent hill overlooking the town. It is truly an idyllic setting.
The school itself is a zillion years old and has a charming Victorian hotel for it’s main administration building/men’s dormitory. There was even a bell at the front door that had a rotary ringer like the one of which Harold Hill pretended to be a passionate collector in the movie “The Music Man”. That tickled us both to see.
The main hall is dark red with white trim and is a beautiful beacon of higher education atop the mount.
There is a statue in the front yard of a knight prepared for battle astride a large horse. His shield bears the initials of the school and his horse is ready for the charge. It is a striking symbol of gaining education in the face of what is sometimes stiff opposition, whether physical, financial, inadequate preparedness or society itself which conditionally chooses those who can have opportunity and values them above those who are not so fortunate as to have the doors open to them.
We took a quick couple of photographs in the fading light of late afternoon before setting off to check into the hotel in which we were spending our night.
Thomas at the statue:
After our dinner at a nice restaurant that had seafood and steaks, we returned to tuck in and prepare our tired selves for a full day of activity on the campus Friday, November 12th.
The next morning, we arose and prepared ourselves and checked out of our hotel. There was ice on the car and covering the window. Brrrr! I was truly thankful the heater in the motel room worked as the temperature dropped into the 30’s. I am not a fan of the cold.
We packed up and headed up the hill to the campus and Thomas got us parked near the knight statue again. The main hall administration sections had the offices of financial aid and the office for advisors where we’d meet up with the folks that would help us negotiate the moolah issues and start Thomas on the campus tour.
He toured the dorms, classrooms and the library before we met up again.
A friend from years ago was working in the financial aid office and it was nice to catch up a bit with her. Transcripts were tendered and information regarding the upcoming spring term would be exchanged and discussed. A printout of possible money from the school scholarships, grants and other aid were rendered as well as information regarding work-study programs available.
While there, we attended a lecture forum and ate in the cafeteria. That was good food! Plus, Thomas having access to a majority of his meals in that setting with all of the other students and faculty will be helpful time-wise for him as he attends.
Part of our day including visiting the orchestra rehearsal and the instructor and Thomas spoke briefly before Thomas was asked, “You didn’t bring your horn by any chance, did you?” Since he’d already scheduled an audition with Dr. Del Vecchio for the jazz and pep band programs, he had brought it along. Thomas got to sit in with the orchestra and have an impromptu run through audition with them. They are losing their first trumpeter to December’s graduation and were happy to hear that Thomas plays first trumpet. He did pretty well for sight reading through the music. I was tickled that he got the chance to sit in. It was an unexpected little bonus.
After the orchestra rehearsal, Thomas went to talk to the instructor for the computer science program and found out that he speaks German! That pleased him very much. I think he’s planning to take some German classes since they offer them at SVU as well.
We also made a pit stop at the maintenance building and picked up a job application. They should be able to offer Thomas 15-20 hours a week around his class schedule so that he can earn some money that won’t go against the financial aid he is eligible to receive. Frankly, any hours a week would be a blessing since he currently isn’t working steadily anywhere and still has bills to be paid.
I am truly hoping and praying – keeping a prayer in my heart as well – that this will be a good opportunity for Thomas to enjoy friendships with people his own age and to help him develop himself to become what he needs to be and to prepare to be a husband and father in due time.
We also visited the institute building. It hosts 5 wards from the college population. That should make for more exciting activities for him to enjoy. They apparently have a number of activities going on every week in addition to the classes.
The audition with Dr. Del Vecchio went well and he is looking forward to working with Thomas and seeing about adding some money to the scholarships and grants that he is eligible for at this time. It just feels like all of this is a blessing that is just falling into place and settling into our laps – both for the family as a whole and for Thomas as an individual son of God.
The reference to this being a whirlwind tour is apt, because we left the campus about 4:30 and headed back southwest toward home making our arrival on Saturday morning a bit before or right at 12:30 a.m.
Funny thing about these particular whirlwind travel tours is that the regular household chores still need my attention the next day no matter how tired I am. Kind wish there was some sort of ‘pause’ button that would help make time slow down for the world, but be lengthened for me so that I could catch up on sleep.
Now, we are just down to decisions and preparations for Thomas to make a successful transition from being at home to being on campus to live, study, work and enjoy the experience.
That will be a whirlwind all on its own.
November 3, 2010
Tea Party overflow
The influence of what had been deemed a 'protest movement' has made waves in the national body politic.
To ignore the message would be both ill-conceived and ill-advised.
We, the people, are sick of our elected representatives ignoring the voice of ALL whom they are charged to represent.
When an election comes to a conclusion, the person who is duly chosen to represent the people of a particular district, state or even the nation as a whole take the oath of office, it becomes incumbent upon them to represent the viewpoint of EVERYONE in that representative slice of American pie, not just a few random blueberries or red raspberries that make up the whole.
Our Constitutional principles dictate that we are free to pursue happiness, but there are no guarantees to any of us that we will catch it in this lifetime. But does that give a free pass to our elected officials to thwart our every effort to indeed pursue the sometimes elusive banner of happiness that floats somewhere over our outstretched hands? I believe that it does not offer them license to ignore us, who indeed are the 'we the people' of Constitutional fame.
There is truth in the time honored axiom that you can't please everybody. That, by and large, is impossible. Our personal desires run afoul of the desires of our neighbors, friends and family members often enough that we should know and understand that by now.
But knowing that doesn't keep some from believing that they alone have the inviolable right to make the rules the rest of us must quietly endure or be branded as some kind of enemy of the state. To have divergent beliefs shouldn't make us enemies, but often it does.
What should occur is thoughtful dialog that is respectful and open in honestly dealing with the fact that we, all of us, are very different in our approach to life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness as we define it. What should occur is that we sit down in measured approaches, beginning with checking our ego at the door and seeking for thoughtful and rational compromise.
I don't get everything I want - but neither do you. It's called compromise or détente, for the more sophisticated mind. Détente means that we ease the strained relationship that exists when party considerations and re-election clouds the room to the point that the elected officials charged to represent us can no longer even see us because of the darkening gloom of partisan wrangling and censure.
Now that we have had the results of the national election cycle and seen that the Tea Party did indeed have a voice and an effect in our choices, it's time to stop patting ourselves on the back if our party won and stop crying foul if our party lost and start acting like grown ups who truly want to make America strong and vibrant.
No one can accomplish everything, but if we are willing to sit down, have a cup of tea or cocoa together, get over our own dadgum selves and start truly working together to hammer out some meaningful changes, some realistic proposals and some by God budget cutting and salary trimming from the top of the executive food chain down to the lowest paid clerk in the government, we can come together as a nation and truly become, once again, the envy of the world.
We have an opportunity.
Our job is to ensure that we, the people, speak eloquently and loudly enough, write enough email, snail mail and make enough phone calls to have our voice be heard by those who are in the D.C. Beltway and in the state and local offices for which they have been selected to serve. And, we must have the courage of our convictions to make them pay politically when they don't listen to us. In other words, throw the bums out when they serve themselves instead of the people whom they swore an oath to represent.
Let's ease the tensions and pray for all of our elected leaders as we would pray for them to do what is right as if they were family. Let's begin by starting a serious dialog that refuses to sanction the opinions of any voices. And let us all be more willing to be a lot more humble, tolerant and open to the fact that being an American means that we are free to act for ourselves and to accept the consequences of those actions - even when they are not the popular choice of the majority.
And, when we are the majority in power in any sense, humility is even more essential. We don't have "bragging rights" when our party wins, instead we have a sacred trust to serve as God would even to all those who did not vote for us - to show them that their concerns still matter and that we are willing to work for EVERYONE, not just the people who contributed loot to a PAC in our honor.
Serving in an elected office of any kind isn't a divine right bestowed upon a 'king', it is a divine privilege appointed for a short time only and it should be taken on with serious gravitas and a meekness that can overcome self and see beyond 'my will be done' to a "Thy will be done" ethic. If we truly seek God's will, then there will be harmony in due time.
God bless America and specifically, God bless our leadership to have the humility and courage to seek HIS will regardless of political expediency or popularity.
To ignore the message would be both ill-conceived and ill-advised.
We, the people, are sick of our elected representatives ignoring the voice of ALL whom they are charged to represent.
When an election comes to a conclusion, the person who is duly chosen to represent the people of a particular district, state or even the nation as a whole take the oath of office, it becomes incumbent upon them to represent the viewpoint of EVERYONE in that representative slice of American pie, not just a few random blueberries or red raspberries that make up the whole.
Our Constitutional principles dictate that we are free to pursue happiness, but there are no guarantees to any of us that we will catch it in this lifetime. But does that give a free pass to our elected officials to thwart our every effort to indeed pursue the sometimes elusive banner of happiness that floats somewhere over our outstretched hands? I believe that it does not offer them license to ignore us, who indeed are the 'we the people' of Constitutional fame.
There is truth in the time honored axiom that you can't please everybody. That, by and large, is impossible. Our personal desires run afoul of the desires of our neighbors, friends and family members often enough that we should know and understand that by now.
But knowing that doesn't keep some from believing that they alone have the inviolable right to make the rules the rest of us must quietly endure or be branded as some kind of enemy of the state. To have divergent beliefs shouldn't make us enemies, but often it does.
What should occur is thoughtful dialog that is respectful and open in honestly dealing with the fact that we, all of us, are very different in our approach to life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness as we define it. What should occur is that we sit down in measured approaches, beginning with checking our ego at the door and seeking for thoughtful and rational compromise.
I don't get everything I want - but neither do you. It's called compromise or détente, for the more sophisticated mind. Détente means that we ease the strained relationship that exists when party considerations and re-election clouds the room to the point that the elected officials charged to represent us can no longer even see us because of the darkening gloom of partisan wrangling and censure.
Now that we have had the results of the national election cycle and seen that the Tea Party did indeed have a voice and an effect in our choices, it's time to stop patting ourselves on the back if our party won and stop crying foul if our party lost and start acting like grown ups who truly want to make America strong and vibrant.
No one can accomplish everything, but if we are willing to sit down, have a cup of tea or cocoa together, get over our own dadgum selves and start truly working together to hammer out some meaningful changes, some realistic proposals and some by God budget cutting and salary trimming from the top of the executive food chain down to the lowest paid clerk in the government, we can come together as a nation and truly become, once again, the envy of the world.
We have an opportunity.
Our job is to ensure that we, the people, speak eloquently and loudly enough, write enough email, snail mail and make enough phone calls to have our voice be heard by those who are in the D.C. Beltway and in the state and local offices for which they have been selected to serve. And, we must have the courage of our convictions to make them pay politically when they don't listen to us. In other words, throw the bums out when they serve themselves instead of the people whom they swore an oath to represent.
Let's ease the tensions and pray for all of our elected leaders as we would pray for them to do what is right as if they were family. Let's begin by starting a serious dialog that refuses to sanction the opinions of any voices. And let us all be more willing to be a lot more humble, tolerant and open to the fact that being an American means that we are free to act for ourselves and to accept the consequences of those actions - even when they are not the popular choice of the majority.
And, when we are the majority in power in any sense, humility is even more essential. We don't have "bragging rights" when our party wins, instead we have a sacred trust to serve as God would even to all those who did not vote for us - to show them that their concerns still matter and that we are willing to work for EVERYONE, not just the people who contributed loot to a PAC in our honor.
Serving in an elected office of any kind isn't a divine right bestowed upon a 'king', it is a divine privilege appointed for a short time only and it should be taken on with serious gravitas and a meekness that can overcome self and see beyond 'my will be done' to a "Thy will be done" ethic. If we truly seek God's will, then there will be harmony in due time.
God bless America and specifically, God bless our leadership to have the humility and courage to seek HIS will regardless of political expediency or popularity.
October 31, 2010
Tricks, treats and crackers
It sneaks up on me every year, even though the number date is the same. It doesn't float around like Thanksgiving's date or the day for President's Day.
It's always October 31st.
But there is always the mad rush to buy candy as if we didn't know.
This year we had THREE Trick-or-Treaters.
Woo hoo.
I'm sure most people attend parties at churches, schools or civic organizations. The number has dwindled down so much over the years, I wonder for those who aren't attending those types of events how many of them just turn off the lights and do nothing.
I remember years ago when I was just a kid myself, we ran out of candy because there were so many trick-or-treaters. We took to wrapping up marshmallows to give them. This was in the days before life itself was hermetically sealed to prevent the transmission of a single microbe.
They ate the marshmallows.
These days, you'd be reported to CPS for potentially passing out marshmallows dipped in crystal meth or some such rot.
I've often wondered how many people are reduced to making do for Halloween when the unexpected ghost or goblin stops by and finds them woefully lacking in miniature candy bars or jawbreakers in single serve packaging.
Whenever we go out to restaurants or travel to places requiring an overnight stay in a hotel, I shamelessly keep the packs of crackers, soy sauce, ketchup, etc. or in the case of the hotel, the soaps, toothbrushes, shampoos and various conditioners and lotions in those tiny bottles.
I'm forwarding a proposition that the little beggars get these items in their trick or treat bags.
Can you just imagine the confusion on their faces?
"Trick or treat!" they gleefully or by rote pronounce in the age dependent ritual of begging door to door at night when decent people are watching "Wheel of Fortune".
Imagine little Rochelle's surprise when she dumps her candy bag out to discover an assortment of soaps, shampoos and body wash in her bag? Happy Halloween and take a dang bath, would ya!!
Or the kid who opens up their goodies to find a toothbrush and some saltines from Denny's? Be sure and brush your teeth after you eat your tasty crackers! Nummers!
There are a host of things lying around that could go in the bags.
Let's consider...
Condiment packs. Kids seldom appreciate the multitude of uses for condiment packs. In addition to flavoring otherwise bland food from the various drive-ins of the world. Slip a pack under the edge of your neighbors tire. When they back out, a veritable fountain of ketchup (or whatever) erupts. It's like a condiment filled Vesuvius!
Ketchup is also good for playing dead. Dribble some down the corner of your mouth when you are playing GI's versus the Taliban and when the bad guys show up and kick you to see that you are dead, you can wait till their back is turned and resurrect just in time to mow 'em down with your cap guns.
Then there are those little pouches that come with some boxed lunches from KFC which contain a cleansing handiwipe vaguely scented like lemon pledge. If you have ever had kids, babysat kids or been in close proximity to kids, you know their hands are riddled with germy filth that makes them a worse choice for hanging onto than the average garbage can. And did you know most kids DO NOT wash their hands when they go potty? Just like their parents, I imagine... GROSS!
So when that precious little imp comes up to pat your face with their hands, imagine your relief when you know they have a supply of handiwipes to clean the goobers from their hands before coming in contact with your delicate skin.
Coupons for cough, cold and flu remedies would also be nice since that infusion of chocolate acts like agar in culturing up diseases. Their parents would appreciate it even if the kids didn't.
Of course, there are numerous options, I just mention these few as a guideline.
I do know people who give out spare change. I also know people who just turn out the lights, pretend not to be home and hope and pray they won't be egged by vandals during the night.
Next year, should you find that you are preoccupied with other more pressing issues and if the date sneaks up on you unprepared, don't be shy about giving the little darlings 'optional' treats for the year. It just might save your sanity when Halloween interrupts the second round of Wheel of Fortune.
It's always October 31st.
But there is always the mad rush to buy candy as if we didn't know.
This year we had THREE Trick-or-Treaters.
Woo hoo.
I'm sure most people attend parties at churches, schools or civic organizations. The number has dwindled down so much over the years, I wonder for those who aren't attending those types of events how many of them just turn off the lights and do nothing.
I remember years ago when I was just a kid myself, we ran out of candy because there were so many trick-or-treaters. We took to wrapping up marshmallows to give them. This was in the days before life itself was hermetically sealed to prevent the transmission of a single microbe.
They ate the marshmallows.
These days, you'd be reported to CPS for potentially passing out marshmallows dipped in crystal meth or some such rot.
I've often wondered how many people are reduced to making do for Halloween when the unexpected ghost or goblin stops by and finds them woefully lacking in miniature candy bars or jawbreakers in single serve packaging.
Whenever we go out to restaurants or travel to places requiring an overnight stay in a hotel, I shamelessly keep the packs of crackers, soy sauce, ketchup, etc. or in the case of the hotel, the soaps, toothbrushes, shampoos and various conditioners and lotions in those tiny bottles.
I'm forwarding a proposition that the little beggars get these items in their trick or treat bags.
Can you just imagine the confusion on their faces?
"Trick or treat!" they gleefully or by rote pronounce in the age dependent ritual of begging door to door at night when decent people are watching "Wheel of Fortune".
Imagine little Rochelle's surprise when she dumps her candy bag out to discover an assortment of soaps, shampoos and body wash in her bag? Happy Halloween and take a dang bath, would ya!!
Or the kid who opens up their goodies to find a toothbrush and some saltines from Denny's? Be sure and brush your teeth after you eat your tasty crackers! Nummers!
There are a host of things lying around that could go in the bags.
Let's consider...
Condiment packs. Kids seldom appreciate the multitude of uses for condiment packs. In addition to flavoring otherwise bland food from the various drive-ins of the world. Slip a pack under the edge of your neighbors tire. When they back out, a veritable fountain of ketchup (or whatever) erupts. It's like a condiment filled Vesuvius!
Ketchup is also good for playing dead. Dribble some down the corner of your mouth when you are playing GI's versus the Taliban and when the bad guys show up and kick you to see that you are dead, you can wait till their back is turned and resurrect just in time to mow 'em down with your cap guns.
Then there are those little pouches that come with some boxed lunches from KFC which contain a cleansing handiwipe vaguely scented like lemon pledge. If you have ever had kids, babysat kids or been in close proximity to kids, you know their hands are riddled with germy filth that makes them a worse choice for hanging onto than the average garbage can. And did you know most kids DO NOT wash their hands when they go potty? Just like their parents, I imagine... GROSS!
So when that precious little imp comes up to pat your face with their hands, imagine your relief when you know they have a supply of handiwipes to clean the goobers from their hands before coming in contact with your delicate skin.
Coupons for cough, cold and flu remedies would also be nice since that infusion of chocolate acts like agar in culturing up diseases. Their parents would appreciate it even if the kids didn't.
Of course, there are numerous options, I just mention these few as a guideline.
I do know people who give out spare change. I also know people who just turn out the lights, pretend not to be home and hope and pray they won't be egged by vandals during the night.
Next year, should you find that you are preoccupied with other more pressing issues and if the date sneaks up on you unprepared, don't be shy about giving the little darlings 'optional' treats for the year. It just might save your sanity when Halloween interrupts the second round of Wheel of Fortune.
October 27, 2010
All Hallows Eve
Our annual church Fall Festival was tonight.
I had the opportunity to help with the cake walk. The prizes were cupcakes of all sizes and decorations in groups of six, twelve or twenty-four for those midget cupcakes that are all of one bite big.
There were games and prizes of candy and toys and pencils for all the kiddos who came to participate with their families.
Beth organized the activities and I have to say I liked this a whole lot better than the chili supper Fall Festival nights we've had before and I'm not just saying that because she's my best friend. Even if she was a total stranger, I'd like it better.
It was bada-bing, bada-boom from one activity to the other. First the games inside, then the costume parade, then the trunk-or-treat. While the outdoor trunk-or-treat took place, the inside events were cleaned up, chairs stacked floors vacuumed and people left about 8 p.m.
Well, except for those of us who hung out to talk, but we'll get to that in a little bit.
As we were cleaning up, there was a paper plate with a lone cupcake and a couple of pencils and some spider rings on it. I was tasked with finding the owner of the plate to prevent possible tears of the child who would later wonder where their loot went.
Through the parking lot I carried it asking if it belonged to anyone and receiving some almighty odd stares as if I was offering them either a bloody skull or Medusa's head. Which, come to think about it, would have been DANG COOL!!! But I digress...
Finally, the owner's Dad claimed it and I was free to join the last of the loot gathering revelry in the parking lot.
Sophie, Deane, Beth, Pete and Thomas were gathered in a huddle near our three respective vehicles while the merry parade of pirates, fairies, princesses and phantoms passed by to receive their just desserts.
As I stood there, Elita came and was holding out a piece of candy saying "I found this."
Fool that I am, the mother in me stuck out my hand to receive a piece of sticky, saliva coated wonder that I was certain had flunked the 'taste test' and was now on the 'you take care of this for me' reject pile.
Then, I walked to Sophie, thinking Elita had pulled this little gem from her mouth to have her own Mom sort it out, only to have Elita reveal that this particular piece of germ ridden filth did NOT come from her mouth, but instead was found on the ground.
Yippee.
Test me for bubonic plague now, please.
Sophie's hand was now coated in the goo as I had stupidly passed along the joy and rapture of our ill-informed thoughts of kids we know spitting out candy they didn't like.
I went to the truck and pulled out the little bottle of hand sanitizer that the local Health Department gave everyone who attended their 'drive by jabbing' flu shot clinic. It's part of their effort to keep people from spreading germs.
If only I had thought ahead, I could have simply coated myself beforehand instead of hoping that preventative measures will keep my hand from rotting and falling off in the night. Or is this the kind of germy goo from a stranger that creeps up your arm and poisons your entire body surreptitiously, until one day you simply explode into a mass of gelatinous goo in the line at K-Mart?
Hmmm.
And people wonder why I'm not a big fan of Halloween.
Of course, children are forgiven for not realizing that being the carrier of diseases isn't a job description they should seek after. It isn't exactly listed in the admonitions of Paul.
While we were all gathered up chitting and chatting, Deane was regaling us with perhaps the WORST job description in the history of bad jobs. I cannot imagine even putting this on a resume when you moved on to, pardon the pun, greener pastures.
The job: Bull milker.
Yep. It's a real job. The person who performs this job isn't seeking heretofore undiscovered dairy products, but rather the product that puts the kicker in the magic bullet for artificial insemination used in selective breeding in the bloodlines of cattle.
I can't imagine why ANYONE would ever want to shake your hand if they knew what you did for a living. Worse yet, how would you tell anyone what your job consisted of?
"Sure thing, Abner! I went right on down to the state employment office and they got me hooked up with this job right off. They said it was workin' with cattle in some special vet's office and then the lady kinda laughed and said she hoped I had some rubber gloves."
I'm sure the job pays well. It would have to. Otherwise, how could they retain any skilled employees? Then again, it might not require too much skill.
Of course, there is an element of danger. Most bulls I know are pretty mean and I expect they would be inclined to be MORE mean when you are, again, pardon the pun, manhandling their manhood... or bullhood.
It's a good thing the kids around us were little, otherwise this conversation which left us all laughing our heads off and gasping for air would potentially scar them for life.
Then again, isn't that the whole point of Halloween? To scare the bejeebers out of kids and possibly scar them for life while we all pretend candy makes up for it? I gotta say, some people really go on the cheap when buying candy. That 'peanut butter taffy' candy that comes in the industrial bag for a buck fifty isn't fooling anyone.
Even the bull being milked knows that stuff isn't a rewarding experience anymore than the one he's having is.
But now that the evening has drawn to a merciful close, we must remember two very important things: if the candy didn't come out of your mouth, you don't need to pick it up and share it with the closest thing to a mother you come across in the parking lot. Second, no matter how attractive the benefits package appears to be for bull milking, just say no.
After all, how are you going to explain why you've gone blind and have hairy palms when you are trying to give the Bishop your tithing check that he just doesn't want to handle?
Happy Halloween.
And please bring me unopened, unlicked on, unslobbery candy that doesn't require the use of a disinfectant.
I had the opportunity to help with the cake walk. The prizes were cupcakes of all sizes and decorations in groups of six, twelve or twenty-four for those midget cupcakes that are all of one bite big.
There were games and prizes of candy and toys and pencils for all the kiddos who came to participate with their families.
Beth organized the activities and I have to say I liked this a whole lot better than the chili supper Fall Festival nights we've had before and I'm not just saying that because she's my best friend. Even if she was a total stranger, I'd like it better.
It was bada-bing, bada-boom from one activity to the other. First the games inside, then the costume parade, then the trunk-or-treat. While the outdoor trunk-or-treat took place, the inside events were cleaned up, chairs stacked floors vacuumed and people left about 8 p.m.
Well, except for those of us who hung out to talk, but we'll get to that in a little bit.
As we were cleaning up, there was a paper plate with a lone cupcake and a couple of pencils and some spider rings on it. I was tasked with finding the owner of the plate to prevent possible tears of the child who would later wonder where their loot went.
Through the parking lot I carried it asking if it belonged to anyone and receiving some almighty odd stares as if I was offering them either a bloody skull or Medusa's head. Which, come to think about it, would have been DANG COOL!!! But I digress...
Finally, the owner's Dad claimed it and I was free to join the last of the loot gathering revelry in the parking lot.
Sophie, Deane, Beth, Pete and Thomas were gathered in a huddle near our three respective vehicles while the merry parade of pirates, fairies, princesses and phantoms passed by to receive their just desserts.
As I stood there, Elita came and was holding out a piece of candy saying "I found this."
Fool that I am, the mother in me stuck out my hand to receive a piece of sticky, saliva coated wonder that I was certain had flunked the 'taste test' and was now on the 'you take care of this for me' reject pile.
Then, I walked to Sophie, thinking Elita had pulled this little gem from her mouth to have her own Mom sort it out, only to have Elita reveal that this particular piece of germ ridden filth did NOT come from her mouth, but instead was found on the ground.
Yippee.
Test me for bubonic plague now, please.
Sophie's hand was now coated in the goo as I had stupidly passed along the joy and rapture of our ill-informed thoughts of kids we know spitting out candy they didn't like.
I went to the truck and pulled out the little bottle of hand sanitizer that the local Health Department gave everyone who attended their 'drive by jabbing' flu shot clinic. It's part of their effort to keep people from spreading germs.
If only I had thought ahead, I could have simply coated myself beforehand instead of hoping that preventative measures will keep my hand from rotting and falling off in the night. Or is this the kind of germy goo from a stranger that creeps up your arm and poisons your entire body surreptitiously, until one day you simply explode into a mass of gelatinous goo in the line at K-Mart?
Hmmm.
And people wonder why I'm not a big fan of Halloween.
Of course, children are forgiven for not realizing that being the carrier of diseases isn't a job description they should seek after. It isn't exactly listed in the admonitions of Paul.
While we were all gathered up chitting and chatting, Deane was regaling us with perhaps the WORST job description in the history of bad jobs. I cannot imagine even putting this on a resume when you moved on to, pardon the pun, greener pastures.
The job: Bull milker.
Yep. It's a real job. The person who performs this job isn't seeking heretofore undiscovered dairy products, but rather the product that puts the kicker in the magic bullet for artificial insemination used in selective breeding in the bloodlines of cattle.
I can't imagine why ANYONE would ever want to shake your hand if they knew what you did for a living. Worse yet, how would you tell anyone what your job consisted of?
"Sure thing, Abner! I went right on down to the state employment office and they got me hooked up with this job right off. They said it was workin' with cattle in some special vet's office and then the lady kinda laughed and said she hoped I had some rubber gloves."
I'm sure the job pays well. It would have to. Otherwise, how could they retain any skilled employees? Then again, it might not require too much skill.
Of course, there is an element of danger. Most bulls I know are pretty mean and I expect they would be inclined to be MORE mean when you are, again, pardon the pun, manhandling their manhood... or bullhood.
It's a good thing the kids around us were little, otherwise this conversation which left us all laughing our heads off and gasping for air would potentially scar them for life.
Then again, isn't that the whole point of Halloween? To scare the bejeebers out of kids and possibly scar them for life while we all pretend candy makes up for it? I gotta say, some people really go on the cheap when buying candy. That 'peanut butter taffy' candy that comes in the industrial bag for a buck fifty isn't fooling anyone.
Even the bull being milked knows that stuff isn't a rewarding experience anymore than the one he's having is.
But now that the evening has drawn to a merciful close, we must remember two very important things: if the candy didn't come out of your mouth, you don't need to pick it up and share it with the closest thing to a mother you come across in the parking lot. Second, no matter how attractive the benefits package appears to be for bull milking, just say no.
After all, how are you going to explain why you've gone blind and have hairy palms when you are trying to give the Bishop your tithing check that he just doesn't want to handle?
Happy Halloween.
And please bring me unopened, unlicked on, unslobbery candy that doesn't require the use of a disinfectant.
October 25, 2010
Jalapeño Lipstick
I am a fan of the hot stuff.
The tingly sensation and the back of the throat match strike that brings on the heat is a delightful moment of pure bliss.
But on chapped lips... uh, not so much.
For whatever reason, fall into winter turns my lips into so much shredded skin. Copious application of lip balm, lip treatment, lip therapy and a virtual host of other alleged lip saving gels, ointments and sticks seem to do nothing but make the cracked skin supple little giblets that render my tender lips nothing more than an open wound waiting for oral offense.
We, the merry trio of escapees from daily life, stopped for lunch on the way to the Time Out For Women event at our favorite 5-Star Restaurant - Subway. It's truly one of the few places where you have total control on the meats, the veggies and the fire applied to your chosen sandwich bread. Beth, Xan and I bellied up to the counter to place our orders for lunch.
I just love turkey and Black Forest ham! They, when judiciously combined with a boatload of vegetables, make a mighty, unbeatable and tasty combination. I asked for a helping of everything but the nasty little banana peppers, which always seem to look like shrivelled yellow skin rings, and the onions which make my breath offensive to myself.
We got our food, sat down at a booth and 'took the curse off of it' with a prayer, then dug in for a treat.
Vesuvius, Pompeii, Mount Saint Helen's, Mount Etna, Mount Fuji... Which volcanoes past and present did I leave out??
HOLY FLAMING PILES OF BURNING LIP REMNANTS!!!!
I have been assaulted by jalapeños... and they are laughing. No, not the jalapeños, the other two women on this ride. Okay, maybe the jalapeños are giggling just a little bit, but that isn't the point.
The two partners in crime for our weekend of freedom are sitting there thinking I have turned into a snivelling wiener who "can't take the heat"!
This isn't heat. This is lava.
One stinking little pepper piece. Direct from the heart of Pele's fury.
Get that people! It was a ring of fire... hee hee.
Even in my suffering, I am a brilliantly witty individual. But I digress... back to the lips, or what remains of them.
Water welled up in my eyes, I couldn't breathe well and I am sure my face was a shade or two darker in the red spectrum due to the volcanic influence of the pepper.
I wiped my eyes and sucked back a voluminous amount of water while they were exhorting me to tell them what was going on.
Let me explain something ladies... when your face is on fire, talking isn't exactly an option. I'm not even sure sign language would have helped since at that moment the signs I would have rendered would have been the flagrant variety that your Momma told you were in "extremely poor taste" and not ever used by "a lady of quality". That I know about them should indicate something about my character, but I'm working on it, okay people?
When I was finally able to articulate something more than the moaning sounds of a woman being put to death by peppers, Beth decided I was exaggerating. Either that or her old army days surface compelling her to 'man up' and show me what a crybaby weenie I was.
Then she enjoyed the God of Fire.
Pele loves his little jokes.
The rest of the weekend was spent in the furious application of various lip remedies which each of us had at the bottom of our purses... don't they all migrate there?
I just have to say that if you are looking for a way to incapacitate the enemy combatants of the world, I believe this little bit of chemical and biological warfare would do more than a host of other weaponry.
Short of jalapeño eye drops, I believe this alone would render the combat troops of most nations inert as they kept having to radio headquarters to air drop more medicated chap stick to salvage the lip remnants remaining on the faces of their horrified troops.
It's just a thought...
By the way, Pele, you had your fun. But remember payback is a .... oh, yeah, another moment where a "lady of quality" shouldn't know that next part.
The tingly sensation and the back of the throat match strike that brings on the heat is a delightful moment of pure bliss.
But on chapped lips... uh, not so much.
For whatever reason, fall into winter turns my lips into so much shredded skin. Copious application of lip balm, lip treatment, lip therapy and a virtual host of other alleged lip saving gels, ointments and sticks seem to do nothing but make the cracked skin supple little giblets that render my tender lips nothing more than an open wound waiting for oral offense.
We, the merry trio of escapees from daily life, stopped for lunch on the way to the Time Out For Women event at our favorite 5-Star Restaurant - Subway. It's truly one of the few places where you have total control on the meats, the veggies and the fire applied to your chosen sandwich bread. Beth, Xan and I bellied up to the counter to place our orders for lunch.
I just love turkey and Black Forest ham! They, when judiciously combined with a boatload of vegetables, make a mighty, unbeatable and tasty combination. I asked for a helping of everything but the nasty little banana peppers, which always seem to look like shrivelled yellow skin rings, and the onions which make my breath offensive to myself.
We got our food, sat down at a booth and 'took the curse off of it' with a prayer, then dug in for a treat.
Vesuvius, Pompeii, Mount Saint Helen's, Mount Etna, Mount Fuji... Which volcanoes past and present did I leave out??
HOLY FLAMING PILES OF BURNING LIP REMNANTS!!!!
I have been assaulted by jalapeños... and they are laughing. No, not the jalapeños, the other two women on this ride. Okay, maybe the jalapeños are giggling just a little bit, but that isn't the point.
The two partners in crime for our weekend of freedom are sitting there thinking I have turned into a snivelling wiener who "can't take the heat"!
This isn't heat. This is lava.
One stinking little pepper piece. Direct from the heart of Pele's fury.
Get that people! It was a ring of fire... hee hee.
Even in my suffering, I am a brilliantly witty individual. But I digress... back to the lips, or what remains of them.
Water welled up in my eyes, I couldn't breathe well and I am sure my face was a shade or two darker in the red spectrum due to the volcanic influence of the pepper.
I wiped my eyes and sucked back a voluminous amount of water while they were exhorting me to tell them what was going on.
Let me explain something ladies... when your face is on fire, talking isn't exactly an option. I'm not even sure sign language would have helped since at that moment the signs I would have rendered would have been the flagrant variety that your Momma told you were in "extremely poor taste" and not ever used by "a lady of quality". That I know about them should indicate something about my character, but I'm working on it, okay people?
When I was finally able to articulate something more than the moaning sounds of a woman being put to death by peppers, Beth decided I was exaggerating. Either that or her old army days surface compelling her to 'man up' and show me what a crybaby weenie I was.
Then she enjoyed the God of Fire.
Pele loves his little jokes.
The rest of the weekend was spent in the furious application of various lip remedies which each of us had at the bottom of our purses... don't they all migrate there?
I just have to say that if you are looking for a way to incapacitate the enemy combatants of the world, I believe this little bit of chemical and biological warfare would do more than a host of other weaponry.
Short of jalapeño eye drops, I believe this alone would render the combat troops of most nations inert as they kept having to radio headquarters to air drop more medicated chap stick to salvage the lip remnants remaining on the faces of their horrified troops.
It's just a thought...
By the way, Pele, you had your fun. But remember payback is a .... oh, yeah, another moment where a "lady of quality" shouldn't know that next part.
October 11, 2010
The Media and the Mud
When I was in high school, I had four English teachers and four literature teachers who insisted that we get our facts straight before we put anything to paper.
This was in the halcyon days of yore where sources were checked, facts were quantified and grades were dropped on the least whiff of plagerism.
Now, journalism seems to have all but faded away in the glaring, harsh light of MEDIA coverage.
The important thing is sales volume not truth.
Taking a quote out of context and twisting someone's words through inflection, comma placement and headlining has become a national sport.
The saddest part of all of this is that the media is not content to report news anymore. They have become what everyone of conscience feared. The media now decides what the news SHOULD be, crafts carefully a public image and tells us what our personal conscience should accept as relative truth.
They "doctor" photographs of gorey violence to add more blood as if horror isn't horrible enough.
They "spin" the words of truth to become statements of intolerance and bigotry to suit the 30 second headlines for the evening news.
The media has taken away the ideal of only reporting "the facts, ma'am, just the facts" and instead manufactures whatever version of truth is in political vogue.
The Roman Empire must have certainly employed newsmakers like these. The fall of private persons would never have been so spectacularly devastating otherwise.
We have 24-hour coverage of the debased, the debauched and the devilish. Show even a moral, decent and honest person a steady diet of this filth and it will have an effect, if only to dull the senses of what is right and what is wrong.
Contrary to public opinion being shoved down our throats by those who are spin doctoring the truth into a palatable lie, there are some things that ARE ABSOLUTES.
If we who know the truth refuse to stand up and say something, we will find ourselves out on a very dangerous limb that we have carefully sawed halfway through in our haste to be viewed as 'tolerant'.
Being tolerant has become a perversion of truth. It was never intended to be this way.
Allowing people to have room on the road of life to live and let live doesn't mean that they should do so at the peril of those who do not share the same views. Yet we have an entire subset of our culture that preaches exactly that.
If we refuse to espouse the opinion du jour that is being vomited forth from the rags and daily's and online sources, we are being bigoted and intolerant even if our personal beliefs and religious observances tell us for certain that what is being demanded is wrong.
Accountability in what is being published and read is essential if we are to prevent the collapse of our nation like the collapse of the Roman Civilization.
We are no different than they are. They succumbed to the Father of Lies and we are courting disaster by allowing him plenty of air time.
There is a saying that I believe to be true: "No one ever fell into a mud puddle who didn't first go too close to it." (Sterling W. Sill)
If we continue to skirt the edge of the puddle and skip around as if we are immune, we will eventually fall in and be coated with the filth that in prior days we would have abhorred.
I've started filtering which media sources I use and choose to believe. There is plenty of good out there that gets no air time.
It's a good idea to let some Light in on that Good News and remember that Christ had His detracters, but it never prevented Him from giving the truth as the message even when it made someone else mad.
This was in the halcyon days of yore where sources were checked, facts were quantified and grades were dropped on the least whiff of plagerism.
Now, journalism seems to have all but faded away in the glaring, harsh light of MEDIA coverage.
The important thing is sales volume not truth.
Taking a quote out of context and twisting someone's words through inflection, comma placement and headlining has become a national sport.
The saddest part of all of this is that the media is not content to report news anymore. They have become what everyone of conscience feared. The media now decides what the news SHOULD be, crafts carefully a public image and tells us what our personal conscience should accept as relative truth.
They "doctor" photographs of gorey violence to add more blood as if horror isn't horrible enough.
They "spin" the words of truth to become statements of intolerance and bigotry to suit the 30 second headlines for the evening news.
The media has taken away the ideal of only reporting "the facts, ma'am, just the facts" and instead manufactures whatever version of truth is in political vogue.
The Roman Empire must have certainly employed newsmakers like these. The fall of private persons would never have been so spectacularly devastating otherwise.
We have 24-hour coverage of the debased, the debauched and the devilish. Show even a moral, decent and honest person a steady diet of this filth and it will have an effect, if only to dull the senses of what is right and what is wrong.
Contrary to public opinion being shoved down our throats by those who are spin doctoring the truth into a palatable lie, there are some things that ARE ABSOLUTES.
If we who know the truth refuse to stand up and say something, we will find ourselves out on a very dangerous limb that we have carefully sawed halfway through in our haste to be viewed as 'tolerant'.
Being tolerant has become a perversion of truth. It was never intended to be this way.
Allowing people to have room on the road of life to live and let live doesn't mean that they should do so at the peril of those who do not share the same views. Yet we have an entire subset of our culture that preaches exactly that.
If we refuse to espouse the opinion du jour that is being vomited forth from the rags and daily's and online sources, we are being bigoted and intolerant even if our personal beliefs and religious observances tell us for certain that what is being demanded is wrong.
Accountability in what is being published and read is essential if we are to prevent the collapse of our nation like the collapse of the Roman Civilization.
We are no different than they are. They succumbed to the Father of Lies and we are courting disaster by allowing him plenty of air time.
There is a saying that I believe to be true: "No one ever fell into a mud puddle who didn't first go too close to it." (Sterling W. Sill)
If we continue to skirt the edge of the puddle and skip around as if we are immune, we will eventually fall in and be coated with the filth that in prior days we would have abhorred.
I've started filtering which media sources I use and choose to believe. There is plenty of good out there that gets no air time.
It's a good idea to let some Light in on that Good News and remember that Christ had His detracters, but it never prevented Him from giving the truth as the message even when it made someone else mad.
October 8, 2010
Sharing isn't always a good thing...
It isn't ever said out loud.
To do so must violate some sort of private, secret, inviolable trust that keeps everyone sniffling, hacking and gagging their way through the fall and winter months like bags of viral filth.
I know being where you said you'd be is important. I get it.
In our own way, we all want to believe we are the indispensable quotient that makes the world go round, the sun shine and the planetary alignment create 'magic'.
Not so fast there, pardner...
I promise, if you take a few sick days to keep your snotty nose and dribbly eyes to yourself and actually take some rest, we'll ALL feel better.
However, that under normal circumstances is a sufficent warning left unheeded on a regular enough basis to make sure that we are compelled to share, incubate and harvest the mutated germs on a rotating scale.
There must be a secret schedule of which I remain blissfully unaware yet fall victim to quite often.
Family A is assigned to bring their germy selves to church and kiss everyone. The following week, Family G is assigned to bring a DIFFERENT mutation and reinfect the masses. The combination of the two variant forms is enough to keep attendance down for at least three full weeks.
But lest anyone think that good sense kicks in at this point, let me assure you that is not the case.
It's like they are in the lobby of the church telling everyone, "Yeah, I was pukin' up chunks of liverish looking stuff last night and had a fever of 732 degrees before the chills and gut wrenching explosive diarrhea set in, but when it was time to come to church I just couldn't miss… you should have smelled the bathroom and see the mess we all left in there. Bobby, Sissy and Mary Jane were all just heaving up their guts, but I was firm and told them 'We ain't gonna be missing seeing the Franchiones bless their new little one and I'm a gonna kiss that sweet baby all over it's little face'."
"Well, when I said that, they was up and dressed jack rabbit quick, although Bobby had to borrow a shirt from Buddy Earl because he blew chunks on it just as we was about to get buckled into the car. Made me kinda mad since them grits and eggs don't wash out of upholstery all that good, but we're here and that's what counts."
"Now, where is yor Daddy so I can give him some sugar….?"
You have to wonder about the level of sanity in the room at that point. I have actually asked people "Why did you come if everyone was sick today? The church won't fall down if you miss church to keep your mutated germ of the week at home to die a long, slow death in the privacy of YOUR home. I don't want what you have and neither does ANY ONE ELSE!"
They look at me like I am insane.
Sure thing, sugar booger. It's me that's nuts here...
While you are making smear slides and 24-hour Petri dish samples of your disgusting pus and phlegm, you can sing a song to pass your time:
(to the tune of "Now Let Us Rejoice")
Now let us all gather and share all our spittle
I'll sneeze and I'll dribble my germs onto you
And while you're not looking, I'll cough on your nostrils
And leave you sick and tired For the full week ahead.
Then I'll skip off laughing
'Cause I passed my germs off
and you'll be in the bed
feverish and half dead
But next week I will come back
and do it all over
and pass off all new germs
to all of your frail kin!
I wonder if they sell Lysol© in a tank sprayer...?
To do so must violate some sort of private, secret, inviolable trust that keeps everyone sniffling, hacking and gagging their way through the fall and winter months like bags of viral filth.
I know being where you said you'd be is important. I get it.
In our own way, we all want to believe we are the indispensable quotient that makes the world go round, the sun shine and the planetary alignment create 'magic'.
Not so fast there, pardner...
I promise, if you take a few sick days to keep your snotty nose and dribbly eyes to yourself and actually take some rest, we'll ALL feel better.
However, that under normal circumstances is a sufficent warning left unheeded on a regular enough basis to make sure that we are compelled to share, incubate and harvest the mutated germs on a rotating scale.
There must be a secret schedule of which I remain blissfully unaware yet fall victim to quite often.
Family A is assigned to bring their germy selves to church and kiss everyone. The following week, Family G is assigned to bring a DIFFERENT mutation and reinfect the masses. The combination of the two variant forms is enough to keep attendance down for at least three full weeks.
But lest anyone think that good sense kicks in at this point, let me assure you that is not the case.
It's like they are in the lobby of the church telling everyone, "Yeah, I was pukin' up chunks of liverish looking stuff last night and had a fever of 732 degrees before the chills and gut wrenching explosive diarrhea set in, but when it was time to come to church I just couldn't miss… you should have smelled the bathroom and see the mess we all left in there. Bobby, Sissy and Mary Jane were all just heaving up their guts, but I was firm and told them 'We ain't gonna be missing seeing the Franchiones bless their new little one and I'm a gonna kiss that sweet baby all over it's little face'."
"Well, when I said that, they was up and dressed jack rabbit quick, although Bobby had to borrow a shirt from Buddy Earl because he blew chunks on it just as we was about to get buckled into the car. Made me kinda mad since them grits and eggs don't wash out of upholstery all that good, but we're here and that's what counts."
"Now, where is yor Daddy so I can give him some sugar….?"
You have to wonder about the level of sanity in the room at that point. I have actually asked people "Why did you come if everyone was sick today? The church won't fall down if you miss church to keep your mutated germ of the week at home to die a long, slow death in the privacy of YOUR home. I don't want what you have and neither does ANY ONE ELSE!"
They look at me like I am insane.
Sure thing, sugar booger. It's me that's nuts here...
While you are making smear slides and 24-hour Petri dish samples of your disgusting pus and phlegm, you can sing a song to pass your time:
(to the tune of "Now Let Us Rejoice")
Now let us all gather and share all our spittle
I'll sneeze and I'll dribble my germs onto you
And while you're not looking, I'll cough on your nostrils
And leave you sick and tired For the full week ahead.
Then I'll skip off laughing
'Cause I passed my germs off
and you'll be in the bed
feverish and half dead
But next week I will come back
and do it all over
and pass off all new germs
to all of your frail kin!
I wonder if they sell Lysol© in a tank sprayer...?
October 7, 2010
Life Shows Up to Claim Us All
I'm sitting at a cancer treatment facility waiting on my Dad. His recent diagnosis for Non-Hodgkin's Lymphoma brings an uncomfortable reminder of my own cancer battle several years ago. I am learning that none of us needs to feel immune to this equal opportunity offender.
While waiting for his name to be called, I ran into a friend from when our kids had been in band together. Cancer found her, too.
We mortal beings can be quite fragile.
We all want to be ten foot tall and bulletproof, but none of us is. Sadly, we all bear the reality of the physical Achilles heel that leaves it's wounds upon us and digs deep the scars of circumstance.
Treatment options are individual and varied and totally dependent upon what the magic blood test numbers tell them at each pit stop along the pathway that leads either to restoration or resolution of life into eternity.
Some are granted more time to spend with those whom they love, as I was.
Others are cruelly denied the blessing of "one more day" and must instead learn the bitter language of 'goodbye'.
Where the wheel of fortune stops is a mystery to us all.
There was a man who said that a lot of people wandered around after getting their diagnosis of cancer saying "why me?"
He said he believed that to be fatalistic to wonder why this had come. Instead, he told me, we need to say "why not me?" and look for ways to fight, pray and overcome.
Not all battles are won on this side of the finish line between mortality and eternity. By Divine design, some victories are etched in mortal suffering that can only be understood as we see them through the lens of Heaven.
I confess that I do not know the outcome of this all. But of one outcome I am certain. This world as it now stands is not our home. It's more like a way station between our beginning and our eternal destination.
We may be compelled to wade bitter waters of circumstance, ford the raging streams of adversity and drown our faces in the tears that are shed for the sorrow we feel for ourself and others.
But it is temporary.
The tides of opposition will be stilled and we will come off in the conquest that comes through faith in God's design.
In the meantime, we just have to keep putting one foot in front of the other - literally AND figuratively. This is just a small moment.
I keep telling myself that.
But some days, that moment sure does last a long time.
While waiting for his name to be called, I ran into a friend from when our kids had been in band together. Cancer found her, too.
We mortal beings can be quite fragile.
We all want to be ten foot tall and bulletproof, but none of us is. Sadly, we all bear the reality of the physical Achilles heel that leaves it's wounds upon us and digs deep the scars of circumstance.
Treatment options are individual and varied and totally dependent upon what the magic blood test numbers tell them at each pit stop along the pathway that leads either to restoration or resolution of life into eternity.
Some are granted more time to spend with those whom they love, as I was.
Others are cruelly denied the blessing of "one more day" and must instead learn the bitter language of 'goodbye'.
Where the wheel of fortune stops is a mystery to us all.
There was a man who said that a lot of people wandered around after getting their diagnosis of cancer saying "why me?"
He said he believed that to be fatalistic to wonder why this had come. Instead, he told me, we need to say "why not me?" and look for ways to fight, pray and overcome.
Not all battles are won on this side of the finish line between mortality and eternity. By Divine design, some victories are etched in mortal suffering that can only be understood as we see them through the lens of Heaven.
I confess that I do not know the outcome of this all. But of one outcome I am certain. This world as it now stands is not our home. It's more like a way station between our beginning and our eternal destination.
We may be compelled to wade bitter waters of circumstance, ford the raging streams of adversity and drown our faces in the tears that are shed for the sorrow we feel for ourself and others.
But it is temporary.
The tides of opposition will be stilled and we will come off in the conquest that comes through faith in God's design.
In the meantime, we just have to keep putting one foot in front of the other - literally AND figuratively. This is just a small moment.
I keep telling myself that.
But some days, that moment sure does last a long time.
September 24, 2010
Deep in my cow hearts, I only have cow eyes for you
Most days, I am not in contact with coolers filled with body parts. Generally speaking, that part of my life was years ago and faded out to a dim memory.
Today, however, was a revisiting of hauling pieces and parts to be used for scientific inquiry.
Since we have previously established in earlier postings that my legs are less than Rockettes ready, driving for long distances sometimes creates a problem.
To be specific, the van I drive has an interesting little peccadillo. The drivers side seat vibrates just enough that when you reach a certain speed on the highway, you get this odd little side to side motion that, when combined with the wobbly tires and odd shimmy of the van as a whole, produces a motion guaranteed to numb up your sciatic nerve.
The miles to Cullman have ensured that the nerve to my left gluteal region is, by now, hopelessly absent in function and my left leg drowsily follows behind it in a choreographed routine of anatomical abandonment.
When I get to my first stop along the way to pick up a load of cow hearts (no, I am NOT kidding), I realize I just might have a weensy bit of a problem.
You see, the jiggly, jouncy, vibrating and bouncy ride of my aging chariot has rendered my leg like so much navy blue clad Jell-o.
This can't be good. And, as it turns out, it isn't.
Yes friends and neighbors, I am here to testify to you that it is virtually impossible to exit from the DRIVER'S side of the vehicle with your entire left butt cheek and left leg numb to the gills. Prayers that you will somehow land on your right leg in a tortuously slow ballet of shifting weight and motion is comedy fodder for the people in the parking lot nearby.
While I don't mean to be the opening act for a comedy revue, it is. In retrospect, it must have looked awfully funny and awfully awkward to see someone trying to hitch themselves around to a standing position with no support from the left leg.
I am happy at this time for the handicap tag that hangs from the visor. At least there is a possibility it will explain the odd and jerky marionette like motions the other patrons of the establishment are seeing.
I'm also happy I'm at a meat processing facility and not near a bar. Other explanations for my lack of motor coordination would be evilly inferred...
When I can finally feel my leg and butt cheek again, I'm helping the nice stocky beef dude (who is kindly explaining to me about vacuum sealing and flash freezing cow hearts) to load them into the iced cooler I have brought along. I thank him for his help and especially thank the meat packing company for giving me so many of them in the name of students getting a high school diploma.
Heading back north, my next stop in Hartselle, the ride back has done nothing to improve my leg. On the contrary, it is a spreading evil. It is like a maniacal version of a massage, but instead of bringing relief, it brings loss of feeling, embarrassment and, eventually, a great deal of pain.
Did you know that accidentally landing on the leg that is numb makes a crunchy sound in a bad knee and ankle? Me neither. But it does. Sounds kinda like a bag of potato chips being squashed.
The nice young man at the next slaughterhouse regretfully informs me that he doesn't have the requisite number of bovine eyes for me. I assure him that the kids in my sister Xan's class will be happy to have ANY eyes at all.
The customer service area of his slaughterhouse is adorned with a host of taxidermied animals in various poses both threatening and just plain awesome. I told him so.
Xan would have like to have the mounted and stuffed animals for her classroom. Maybe that one kid who was high last year at school would have some kind of a freak out if he saw them... looking a him... wondering if anyone else saw them, too. But I digress...
Dragging my leg back out to the van, I'm thankful for the long drive home because I know it will numb the pain that is now creeping up to my brain. Opening the passenger side door to the van, it's time to start icing the eyeballs. Once in place, I shut the door, walk around to the other side, haul my unwilling carcass into the van and busy myself with closing the lid to the second smaller cooler.
Looking at the gas gauge in my unwilling chariot, I have concerns. The van isn't well known for it's high gas mileage and efficiency... Houston, we have a problem. How can that much gas go away that quickly??? Yikes!
Have you ever heard of the phrase "on a wing and a prayer"?
Well, I'm here to tell you that's exactly how my Jell-o leg and I made it to Athens with animal giblets in one piece. The people on the highway were FLYING past me as if 70 miles an hour was just not near Indy enough for them. Speed on brother, hell ain't half full and I'm sure they have reserved a spot just for you and your lead foot!
I found myself once again in my least favorite position. Semi in front, semi in back, semi to my left and another semi closing in on my 3 o'clock from the merge lane. As if he thought he could wedge that 18-wheeler between those other two and I'd never notice his presence, he crept closer. I hate it when they play monkey in the middle and I'm the monkey!! I could smell the Jimmy Dean sausage on his breath, people! And it wasn't a pleasing aroma!
Where is beaming technology when we need it???? I could wide beam his tail into deep space and send his truck right along with him!
Finally, one of the game-playing truckers pulled off at the next exit giving me a nano-second of breathing space. The van was going slightly uphill at that point which means that it was running as fast as the squirrel powered motor would allow... and losing speed with every turn of the tires. Nothing like a small grade to check out the relative power of squirrel versus horse.
Apparently, the other long distance truckers shining my bumper and side don't like following my van under those conditions because they peeled off from behind and whipped around me almost taking the paint and trim striping with them. The van rocked from side to side in their wake of wind. I'm just glad it wasn't raining...
At last, I reached the exit for Athens and got to Xan's to drop off the guts! Yeah! I was amazed at how happy their cat was to see me. I wonder why...?
Dragging a gazillion pounds of frozen cow hearts and a box of eyeballs into the house, I realized I was never destined in life to be stevedore. I'm just not built for the action.
The assorted guts are in their garage refrigerator now. I hope she remembers to tell the kids they will be there, otherwise I'll be blamed for their nasty surprise. But then again, it would be dang funny to hear them screaming at the cow eyes looking woefully upon them when they opened the door... muuahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha!
My assorted guts are now at home trying to regain feeling. And I'm left to wonder why that would be a good idea as the pain builds. I just have to remind myself that this is much like coming in from the snow... you have cold, numb hands that have to be reintroduced to proper function and it hurts a bit. So it follows that returning sensation to buttock and leg would also have a bit of a tingle... like a Taser hooked up to a Die-Hard battery.
I hope the students enjoy their guts and the effort taken to locate them because people at slaughterhouses and meat packing places sure ask a lot of funny questions when a person calls to ask about picking up a box of hearts and eyes.
Cue the "Godfather" music now...
Today, however, was a revisiting of hauling pieces and parts to be used for scientific inquiry.
Since we have previously established in earlier postings that my legs are less than Rockettes ready, driving for long distances sometimes creates a problem.
To be specific, the van I drive has an interesting little peccadillo. The drivers side seat vibrates just enough that when you reach a certain speed on the highway, you get this odd little side to side motion that, when combined with the wobbly tires and odd shimmy of the van as a whole, produces a motion guaranteed to numb up your sciatic nerve.
The miles to Cullman have ensured that the nerve to my left gluteal region is, by now, hopelessly absent in function and my left leg drowsily follows behind it in a choreographed routine of anatomical abandonment.
When I get to my first stop along the way to pick up a load of cow hearts (no, I am NOT kidding), I realize I just might have a weensy bit of a problem.
You see, the jiggly, jouncy, vibrating and bouncy ride of my aging chariot has rendered my leg like so much navy blue clad Jell-o.
This can't be good. And, as it turns out, it isn't.
Yes friends and neighbors, I am here to testify to you that it is virtually impossible to exit from the DRIVER'S side of the vehicle with your entire left butt cheek and left leg numb to the gills. Prayers that you will somehow land on your right leg in a tortuously slow ballet of shifting weight and motion is comedy fodder for the people in the parking lot nearby.
While I don't mean to be the opening act for a comedy revue, it is. In retrospect, it must have looked awfully funny and awfully awkward to see someone trying to hitch themselves around to a standing position with no support from the left leg.
I am happy at this time for the handicap tag that hangs from the visor. At least there is a possibility it will explain the odd and jerky marionette like motions the other patrons of the establishment are seeing.
I'm also happy I'm at a meat processing facility and not near a bar. Other explanations for my lack of motor coordination would be evilly inferred...
When I can finally feel my leg and butt cheek again, I'm helping the nice stocky beef dude (who is kindly explaining to me about vacuum sealing and flash freezing cow hearts) to load them into the iced cooler I have brought along. I thank him for his help and especially thank the meat packing company for giving me so many of them in the name of students getting a high school diploma.
Heading back north, my next stop in Hartselle, the ride back has done nothing to improve my leg. On the contrary, it is a spreading evil. It is like a maniacal version of a massage, but instead of bringing relief, it brings loss of feeling, embarrassment and, eventually, a great deal of pain.
Did you know that accidentally landing on the leg that is numb makes a crunchy sound in a bad knee and ankle? Me neither. But it does. Sounds kinda like a bag of potato chips being squashed.
The nice young man at the next slaughterhouse regretfully informs me that he doesn't have the requisite number of bovine eyes for me. I assure him that the kids in my sister Xan's class will be happy to have ANY eyes at all.
The customer service area of his slaughterhouse is adorned with a host of taxidermied animals in various poses both threatening and just plain awesome. I told him so.
Xan would have like to have the mounted and stuffed animals for her classroom. Maybe that one kid who was high last year at school would have some kind of a freak out if he saw them... looking a him... wondering if anyone else saw them, too. But I digress...
Dragging my leg back out to the van, I'm thankful for the long drive home because I know it will numb the pain that is now creeping up to my brain. Opening the passenger side door to the van, it's time to start icing the eyeballs. Once in place, I shut the door, walk around to the other side, haul my unwilling carcass into the van and busy myself with closing the lid to the second smaller cooler.
Looking at the gas gauge in my unwilling chariot, I have concerns. The van isn't well known for it's high gas mileage and efficiency... Houston, we have a problem. How can that much gas go away that quickly??? Yikes!
Have you ever heard of the phrase "on a wing and a prayer"?
Well, I'm here to tell you that's exactly how my Jell-o leg and I made it to Athens with animal giblets in one piece. The people on the highway were FLYING past me as if 70 miles an hour was just not near Indy enough for them. Speed on brother, hell ain't half full and I'm sure they have reserved a spot just for you and your lead foot!
I found myself once again in my least favorite position. Semi in front, semi in back, semi to my left and another semi closing in on my 3 o'clock from the merge lane. As if he thought he could wedge that 18-wheeler between those other two and I'd never notice his presence, he crept closer. I hate it when they play monkey in the middle and I'm the monkey!! I could smell the Jimmy Dean sausage on his breath, people! And it wasn't a pleasing aroma!
Where is beaming technology when we need it???? I could wide beam his tail into deep space and send his truck right along with him!
Finally, one of the game-playing truckers pulled off at the next exit giving me a nano-second of breathing space. The van was going slightly uphill at that point which means that it was running as fast as the squirrel powered motor would allow... and losing speed with every turn of the tires. Nothing like a small grade to check out the relative power of squirrel versus horse.
Apparently, the other long distance truckers shining my bumper and side don't like following my van under those conditions because they peeled off from behind and whipped around me almost taking the paint and trim striping with them. The van rocked from side to side in their wake of wind. I'm just glad it wasn't raining...
At last, I reached the exit for Athens and got to Xan's to drop off the guts! Yeah! I was amazed at how happy their cat was to see me. I wonder why...?
Dragging a gazillion pounds of frozen cow hearts and a box of eyeballs into the house, I realized I was never destined in life to be stevedore. I'm just not built for the action.
The assorted guts are in their garage refrigerator now. I hope she remembers to tell the kids they will be there, otherwise I'll be blamed for their nasty surprise. But then again, it would be dang funny to hear them screaming at the cow eyes looking woefully upon them when they opened the door... muuahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha!
My assorted guts are now at home trying to regain feeling. And I'm left to wonder why that would be a good idea as the pain builds. I just have to remind myself that this is much like coming in from the snow... you have cold, numb hands that have to be reintroduced to proper function and it hurts a bit. So it follows that returning sensation to buttock and leg would also have a bit of a tingle... like a Taser hooked up to a Die-Hard battery.
I hope the students enjoy their guts and the effort taken to locate them because people at slaughterhouses and meat packing places sure ask a lot of funny questions when a person calls to ask about picking up a box of hearts and eyes.
Cue the "Godfather" music now...
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