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.

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 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.

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...?