Kimberly's new blog, Heart Rock Collective. She found me via, well, my heart rock pictures. I need to post some more. I have some in the ash tray of my van. And the glove box. They should come in.
It always amazes me how many folks like heart shaped rocks. When I first saw them on Farmgirl's blog, I thought, I want that. Took me months to find my first one. Now, they are all over. If we seriously have the snow we're expecting, maybe I'll have a snow day excuse to do little things like take some pictures. Hmm.
Wednesday, January 30, 2008
Us Tabbies, We Got Ta Stick Togetha
A view of the top bunkbed this evening. Little Jack and big old Bleys. Bleys didn't look so irritated in person.
They've done a little play fighting and walking around near each other. Hickory isn't on the outs, either. She's definitely still Bleys' fave. He's just, well, he's got himself some Norwegian Forest Cat in him, he likes to make friends.
Tuesday, January 29, 2008
Stability in Smoke
Mrs. Slocombe compared something to Tom Waits on my other blog (Most Nigh). And then we chatted a bit about the movie Smoke, the end credits with the song "Innocent When You Dream" over them. Went onto Youtube to find a copy of that to post over on that blog (365 songs and something about them, essentially, minutia and spilling my purse all over the table, again and again). And then on "related videos" was this clip.
Auggie, played by Keitel, works at a cigar shop. Every morning he stands across the street and snaps a photograph of the shop. At the very same time. No matter who or what is in the photo. He does it every day. Nothing changes, and yet things change with time. Ah, hell. I won't drum it to death. Just watch. There are many layers.
Saturday, January 26, 2008
Best of 2007
White Trash Mom just did a walk down White Trash memory lane 2007 and I thought I'd steal it--not true meme fashion, but I usually steal them instead of hoping I'll be the one someone tags, because truly, I only know, like, 5 of the bloggers I read. But many of them have such good ideas. Or have friends with good ideas. Anyway, this Best of has a formula of course, five links to blog entries on SCM from the past year, under the categories of:
*Family
*Friends
*Myself
*Something I love
*Anything I'd like to link to
So, here goes.
Link #1 is In Sweden, There Are Only Four Kinds of Soap. Which may not actually be true but I love throwing that out. It's about our school choice problem. Which of course is so fixed now. Amazing what worries are present one month are gone with little memory the next.
Link #2 is Up On Pickle Creek. With a runner up of Three Girls, both from our camping trip last summer to Hawn State Park. I would have put down just Three Girls, but it leaves out one of the girls because the photo is of those three--but there are really four girls. The sentiment is the same across the board, but I didn't want folks to think I was excluding one on purpose. Sigh. So I cheat and put both links there.
Link #3 is Conversatio Morum. I can't believe I've only been involved with Benedictines at Clyde for a year this coming weekend. It feels like a lifetime. Ok, not a lifetime, but like 5 or 6 years. Which probably means it's the right thing.
Link #4 is Like Bridge with a Chinese Accent. Mah Jongg. Duh.
And Link #5 is totally gratuitous, but I'll do something. Hmm. How about Ubi Caritas Et Amor, Deus Ibi Est? OR Oh Charlotte for a little dose of Sophia's Wisdom. Or, to continue this totally egotistical stroll down memory lane, a bit of Why August is Allowed to Exist. Think about it: in 6 and a half months, we'll be stuffing our faces with tomato salad and iced coffee. Think of it.
*Family
*Friends
*Myself
*Something I love
*Anything I'd like to link to
So, here goes.
Link #1 is In Sweden, There Are Only Four Kinds of Soap. Which may not actually be true but I love throwing that out. It's about our school choice problem. Which of course is so fixed now. Amazing what worries are present one month are gone with little memory the next.
Link #2 is Up On Pickle Creek. With a runner up of Three Girls, both from our camping trip last summer to Hawn State Park. I would have put down just Three Girls, but it leaves out one of the girls because the photo is of those three--but there are really four girls. The sentiment is the same across the board, but I didn't want folks to think I was excluding one on purpose. Sigh. So I cheat and put both links there.
Link #3 is Conversatio Morum. I can't believe I've only been involved with Benedictines at Clyde for a year this coming weekend. It feels like a lifetime. Ok, not a lifetime, but like 5 or 6 years. Which probably means it's the right thing.
Link #4 is Like Bridge with a Chinese Accent. Mah Jongg. Duh.
And Link #5 is totally gratuitous, but I'll do something. Hmm. How about Ubi Caritas Et Amor, Deus Ibi Est? OR Oh Charlotte for a little dose of Sophia's Wisdom. Or, to continue this totally egotistical stroll down memory lane, a bit of Why August is Allowed to Exist. Think about it: in 6 and a half months, we'll be stuffing our faces with tomato salad and iced coffee. Think of it.
Wednesday, January 23, 2008
Erma Would Be Proud
So Mike left on Saturday. He went to Lotusphere, which is some kind of yearly shindig for people who do his job or lesser forms of it (he's like a 9th level wizard or something like that--I actually have very little grasp of what he does). Lotusphere doesn't happen in Minneapolis or Boston, it happens in Disneyworld, folks. Disney. World. He's in Orlando. Tonight's low in St. Louis: 9. Orlando: 58. FIFTY DEGREES MORE.
So that's #1. The next thing is, the humidity there is high enough, his cold is gone, while I am still living in a pseudoephedrine fog. That's #2.
Oh and #3 is that he had the huevos to tell me about #2.
Saturday evening, fine. Sunday, for the most part, ok. Monday, Sophia lost her mind and got caught in three lies. Not one of our better days. But we still (before the lies) went to see Bee Movie with some neighbors and it was all pretty much ok. I was ready for her to go to school on Tuesday, but first, Maeve's hand got all puffy and red Monday night. Huh. I called my dad, my first line of defense when it comes to medical questions. The puffy redness was surrounding a cat scratch.
#4 is that I've had to listen not only to my dad, and later my mom, but also at least 3 other people sing Ted Nugent to me when I brought this up. I put some neosporin on it, gave her a little benadryl. Thank you Amanda. All is well. Tuesday, I wake up to a windshield covered with ice. #5. I scrape this off long before we have to go to school, because I have to be up before the crack of dawn to start babysitting a parishioner's granddaughter because I'm the girl who can't say no. It's a terrible situation and permanent childcare has been found (the baby's mom is pregnant again with a baby they already know will need open heart surgery at birth, cannot lift ginormous 1 year old little girl who doesn't walk yet and shrieks until your fillings fall out if you move away more than 5 feet from her).
Needless to say, the babysitting isn't about Mike. But it compounded several other situations: the kitten got neutered, which involved dropping him off at the vet. Maeve had Irish Dance out in wherever it is out west. Sophia and Maeve got their hair cut. Just a lot of busyness and extra baby and grandma was late picking her up. And didn't thank me. Yes, I noticed. But I was frank with her and told her I couldn't do it again. Poor little thing. Baby, not grandmother.
Ok, back to the list. Tuesday night, brought kitten back home. Got emails from new boss outlining Wednesday morning. Maeve developed slight fever. Then her face got all puffy and red, lost her cheekbones somewhere behind the puff. Hives? I don't know. Another call to my dad. Another imitation of Ted Nugent. #6. More benadryl and then no sleep for me because his last words to me on the phone are, "watch her for signs of breathing difficulty." THANKS. So I toss and turn all night with her next to me in bed, thinking about what the hell am I going to do if she's allergic to the new kitten? How do I break it to Sophia that we have to move Jack along because her sister could die if he lives here? I guess that's how. Benadryl takes the red away, but not the puff. While I'm stupidly (yes Mary, I am stupid) look up any combination of her symptoms online, coming down to, yup, it probably IS a Ted Nugent song, I start playing with the front side of one of my bottom molars with my tongue. Feels weird. And I manage to pop out a thin little filling along my gumline.
I have horrible teeth. But thanks to flossing, I have good gums. So I might make it. But fillings fall out, especially with vigorous flossing. I push the filling back into place and hope I don't have to take any illicit percoset in the middle of the night because then I won't be able to listen for my 3 year old breathing. I'm just going to call this whole situation #7.
Wake up Wednesday, Maeve seems ok. A little puffy. I, however, feel like the River des Peres (non St. Louisans: imagine a huge drainage ditch with untreated water flowing down to the Mississippi River, because that's what it is). I go to coffee, then to school where I learn more about why spirited lovely awesome teacher folk with big ideas and hopes and dreams should never be in charge of minuscule petty details. They should leave them to me. Maeve is done at 11:30 and we're staying for lunch to help out in the elementary classroom. Maeve is bitchy, no other word for it. Bleary-eyed, and her teacher leans over to me and says, "she seems a bit warm." Yeah, I sent her to preschool with maybe a fever. Or maybe an allergic reaction to a toxic new kitten. But now it's clear. Fever. Crabbiness. Swollen glands. Runny nose, itchy eyes. Blotchy red skin. Cat Scratch Fevah.
We go to piano, Sophia does well (yay Sophia for being normal). I leave a message with the dentist. I sit at the counter at my mom's house and mouth breathe over a crossword puzzle. Go home, can't stand it anymore, brush my teeth. Knock the filling out, swish with coldest water, and go through the ceiling. #8. Call the dentist again and can't get an appointment until Friday. #9. Call Mom. She brings over Dent's Dental Gum (I kid you not) that they got the last time I pulled a stunt like this (remember: bad teeth. Good gums). It's beeswax dipped in oil of cloves and benzocaine. Ah.
I was addicted to oil of cloves once when I taught school. It was in a lip balm. It was like a drug.
Anyway, stuck that in the hole in my tooth. Ordered pizza because, you know what, I'm done. Bevin came over. Pizza got here. I'm opening the front door, and Maeve falls down the steps. Did I mention she also had developed diarrhea while I was going through the roof with my tooth? Yeah. I won't go into details. #10. And #11. It goes to eleven.
Maeve, by the way, is fine. Knock on the head, but we have hard heads. She also is not allergic to the kitten as far as I can tell. I really think it's a Ted thing. Or just the worst cold in the world.
My spine hurts, I have a mild fever, I think it's officially flu-like symptoms. But parish council meeting was postponed. Tomorrow night is the dread Play and Feast at school, which will definitely at least be #12 if not #12-15. That assumes of course that carpool comes tomorrow (sometimes it just doesn't...), nobody vomits during the night, and my sister(s) doesn't/don't have an emergency first thing in the morning.
Mike gets home tomorrow night. I get my tooth fixed on Friday. Mike has already told me to pick the weekend he takes the girls to Cairo.
Erma Bombeck, you would be proud.
So that's #1. The next thing is, the humidity there is high enough, his cold is gone, while I am still living in a pseudoephedrine fog. That's #2.
Oh and #3 is that he had the huevos to tell me about #2.
Saturday evening, fine. Sunday, for the most part, ok. Monday, Sophia lost her mind and got caught in three lies. Not one of our better days. But we still (before the lies) went to see Bee Movie with some neighbors and it was all pretty much ok. I was ready for her to go to school on Tuesday, but first, Maeve's hand got all puffy and red Monday night. Huh. I called my dad, my first line of defense when it comes to medical questions. The puffy redness was surrounding a cat scratch.
#4 is that I've had to listen not only to my dad, and later my mom, but also at least 3 other people sing Ted Nugent to me when I brought this up. I put some neosporin on it, gave her a little benadryl. Thank you Amanda. All is well. Tuesday, I wake up to a windshield covered with ice. #5. I scrape this off long before we have to go to school, because I have to be up before the crack of dawn to start babysitting a parishioner's granddaughter because I'm the girl who can't say no. It's a terrible situation and permanent childcare has been found (the baby's mom is pregnant again with a baby they already know will need open heart surgery at birth, cannot lift ginormous 1 year old little girl who doesn't walk yet and shrieks until your fillings fall out if you move away more than 5 feet from her).
Needless to say, the babysitting isn't about Mike. But it compounded several other situations: the kitten got neutered, which involved dropping him off at the vet. Maeve had Irish Dance out in wherever it is out west. Sophia and Maeve got their hair cut. Just a lot of busyness and extra baby and grandma was late picking her up. And didn't thank me. Yes, I noticed. But I was frank with her and told her I couldn't do it again. Poor little thing. Baby, not grandmother.
Ok, back to the list. Tuesday night, brought kitten back home. Got emails from new boss outlining Wednesday morning. Maeve developed slight fever. Then her face got all puffy and red, lost her cheekbones somewhere behind the puff. Hives? I don't know. Another call to my dad. Another imitation of Ted Nugent. #6. More benadryl and then no sleep for me because his last words to me on the phone are, "watch her for signs of breathing difficulty." THANKS. So I toss and turn all night with her next to me in bed, thinking about what the hell am I going to do if she's allergic to the new kitten? How do I break it to Sophia that we have to move Jack along because her sister could die if he lives here? I guess that's how. Benadryl takes the red away, but not the puff. While I'm stupidly (yes Mary, I am stupid) look up any combination of her symptoms online, coming down to, yup, it probably IS a Ted Nugent song, I start playing with the front side of one of my bottom molars with my tongue. Feels weird. And I manage to pop out a thin little filling along my gumline.
I have horrible teeth. But thanks to flossing, I have good gums. So I might make it. But fillings fall out, especially with vigorous flossing. I push the filling back into place and hope I don't have to take any illicit percoset in the middle of the night because then I won't be able to listen for my 3 year old breathing. I'm just going to call this whole situation #7.
Wake up Wednesday, Maeve seems ok. A little puffy. I, however, feel like the River des Peres (non St. Louisans: imagine a huge drainage ditch with untreated water flowing down to the Mississippi River, because that's what it is). I go to coffee, then to school where I learn more about why spirited lovely awesome teacher folk with big ideas and hopes and dreams should never be in charge of minuscule petty details. They should leave them to me. Maeve is done at 11:30 and we're staying for lunch to help out in the elementary classroom. Maeve is bitchy, no other word for it. Bleary-eyed, and her teacher leans over to me and says, "she seems a bit warm." Yeah, I sent her to preschool with maybe a fever. Or maybe an allergic reaction to a toxic new kitten. But now it's clear. Fever. Crabbiness. Swollen glands. Runny nose, itchy eyes. Blotchy red skin. Cat Scratch Fevah.
We go to piano, Sophia does well (yay Sophia for being normal). I leave a message with the dentist. I sit at the counter at my mom's house and mouth breathe over a crossword puzzle. Go home, can't stand it anymore, brush my teeth. Knock the filling out, swish with coldest water, and go through the ceiling. #8. Call the dentist again and can't get an appointment until Friday. #9. Call Mom. She brings over Dent's Dental Gum (I kid you not) that they got the last time I pulled a stunt like this (remember: bad teeth. Good gums). It's beeswax dipped in oil of cloves and benzocaine. Ah.
I was addicted to oil of cloves once when I taught school. It was in a lip balm. It was like a drug.
Anyway, stuck that in the hole in my tooth. Ordered pizza because, you know what, I'm done. Bevin came over. Pizza got here. I'm opening the front door, and Maeve falls down the steps. Did I mention she also had developed diarrhea while I was going through the roof with my tooth? Yeah. I won't go into details. #10. And #11. It goes to eleven.
Maeve, by the way, is fine. Knock on the head, but we have hard heads. She also is not allergic to the kitten as far as I can tell. I really think it's a Ted thing. Or just the worst cold in the world.
My spine hurts, I have a mild fever, I think it's officially flu-like symptoms. But parish council meeting was postponed. Tomorrow night is the dread Play and Feast at school, which will definitely at least be #12 if not #12-15. That assumes of course that carpool comes tomorrow (sometimes it just doesn't...), nobody vomits during the night, and my sister(s) doesn't/don't have an emergency first thing in the morning.
Mike gets home tomorrow night. I get my tooth fixed on Friday. Mike has already told me to pick the weekend he takes the girls to Cairo.
Erma Bombeck, you would be proud.
Saturday, January 19, 2008
Fifty Before Fifty
Inspired by Lisa. A list. Wouldn't that be just like me. The topic is fifty things I'd like to do by the time I'm 50. I have 17 years, I think I can do it. At least half of them, and what an accomplishment that would be, really. Some may not be possibly, some depend a lot on other people. But many, if not most, are all about me. In no order, really, although I guess there has to be some order, in the end.
10 places to go:
*Go back to Big Sur
*Visit Yellowstone
*Go to Kodiak Island
*Go to Tontitown, Arkansas
*See the Northern Lights
*Go to an oblate directors convention
*Go on the mah jongg cruise
*Go to my 25th class reunion
*Go to Rome
*Go to Galway
11 things to learn:
*Learn to dance zydeco
*Recapture the Russian I’ve lost
*Learn to play piano satisfactorily
*Learn Spanish decently
*Learn to shoot a rifle
*Learn to shoot a compound bow
*Learn to do the butterfly stroke
*Learn to shape note sing
*Learn to weave on that loom upstairs
*Learn binaural field recording
*Learn to score Chinese mah jongg
Eight things to teach:
*Teach my daughters to know their environment—trees, birds, plants, flowers, butterflies—as well as I hope to.
*Finish my catalog of oak trees
*Finish documenting St. Pius V church architecture; move on to other meditative subjects (Tower Grove Park, my neighborhood, other churches)
*Help each daughter find her niche, her activity, sport, instrument, whatever, that brings her joy and a sense of success/accomplishment, and support her without becoming a stage mom.
*Finish my genealogy
*Be a godmother
*See my daughters graduate from high school and moving into professions where they feel valued and challenged (whether via college or another route).
*Have my own atrium
Seventeen things to do, build, or accomplish:
*build a porch off the dining room
*Rebuild my front porch
*Rebuild the fireplace in the dining room
*Throw a surprise party
*Get into my prom dress. Not to wear to the 25th reunion.
*Sustain a garden without buying seed
*Install stained glass that I created in my front hall windows
*Support my quilting habit by quilting
*have a place in the country, whether Illinois or Missouri, just mine or shared with friends.
*Organize a family retreat/reunion with my siblings
*Win Sheep to Shawl at the sheep and wool festival outside Hannibal
*Enter Sheep to Shawl at Rhinebeck
*Be published
*Celebrate my 25th wedding anniversary
*Hike the River to River Trail in Illinois
*Hike the Skyway to the Sea Trail in California
G*et half done with my bird life list
And four things that can only be categorized as "Hey, a Girl Can Dream":
*vote for a candidate I really believe in
*be able to say “That bishop of ours is a good person” and really mean it.
*go to more weddings and baptisms than funerals
*Pare down all this stuff in my life to what is essential and meaningful, pass the rest on.
10 places to go:
*Go back to Big Sur
*Visit Yellowstone
*Go to Kodiak Island
*Go to Tontitown, Arkansas
*See the Northern Lights
*Go to an oblate directors convention
*Go on the mah jongg cruise
*Go to my 25th class reunion
*Go to Rome
*Go to Galway
11 things to learn:
*Learn to dance zydeco
*Recapture the Russian I’ve lost
*Learn to play piano satisfactorily
*Learn Spanish decently
*Learn to shoot a rifle
*Learn to shoot a compound bow
*Learn to do the butterfly stroke
*Learn to shape note sing
*Learn to weave on that loom upstairs
*Learn binaural field recording
*Learn to score Chinese mah jongg
Eight things to teach:
*Teach my daughters to know their environment—trees, birds, plants, flowers, butterflies—as well as I hope to.
*Finish my catalog of oak trees
*Finish documenting St. Pius V church architecture; move on to other meditative subjects (Tower Grove Park, my neighborhood, other churches)
*Help each daughter find her niche, her activity, sport, instrument, whatever, that brings her joy and a sense of success/accomplishment, and support her without becoming a stage mom.
*Finish my genealogy
*Be a godmother
*See my daughters graduate from high school and moving into professions where they feel valued and challenged (whether via college or another route).
*Have my own atrium
Seventeen things to do, build, or accomplish:
*build a porch off the dining room
*Rebuild my front porch
*Rebuild the fireplace in the dining room
*Throw a surprise party
*Get into my prom dress. Not to wear to the 25th reunion.
*Sustain a garden without buying seed
*Install stained glass that I created in my front hall windows
*Support my quilting habit by quilting
*have a place in the country, whether Illinois or Missouri, just mine or shared with friends.
*Organize a family retreat/reunion with my siblings
*Win Sheep to Shawl at the sheep and wool festival outside Hannibal
*Enter Sheep to Shawl at Rhinebeck
*Be published
*Celebrate my 25th wedding anniversary
*Hike the River to River Trail in Illinois
*Hike the Skyway to the Sea Trail in California
G*et half done with my bird life list
And four things that can only be categorized as "Hey, a Girl Can Dream":
*vote for a candidate I really believe in
*be able to say “That bishop of ours is a good person” and really mean it.
*go to more weddings and baptisms than funerals
*Pare down all this stuff in my life to what is essential and meaningful, pass the rest on.
Friday, January 18, 2008
Postal Worker/Codebreaker Extraordinaire
Back in high school, did you take the ASVAB? The armed services vocational aptitude battery? It would have been junior or senior year, some recruiter in a dress uniform showing up and making you fill in bubble tests. Then there was this yellow highlighter you could use to get your results, although I don't remember if that was right away or a return trip. We all sat around laughing at our results back then--none of us were going into any branch of military service. I'm not sure, actually, if any of the 49 people who graduated in my class went into the military.
She takes down her slim blue yearbook. Flips past the page that lists her as valedictorian but points out in veiled language that she was deemed unfit to deliver the graduation speech. It seems like so long ago. There--the senior section, all the same photo in brown or white robes, holding that dumb hat and a fake scroll, every single one of them. Armando. Mike. Sammie. Kim. Matt. Wenzel. Went out with him for a minute. Wenzel. Gabe. Tiffany. Ah, there's Bridgett. Flip. Chris. Went to prison for auto theft. Luis. Car accident. Ngozi. Tomas. Celeste. Johnny, ah well. Christi. Kirt. What a mouth breather. Joy. Never name your children after emotions or virtues. Juventino. Payman. John. Jason. Chato. Jennifer. Michelle....nope. Not a single one.
Anyway, I remember sitting there in the library, musty, nobody better touch any books--I don't think I ever did--the guidance counselor and the army guy passing the results out to us.
Postal Worker/Codebreaker/Forest Ranger/Auto Mechanic.
Yup. I think Postal Worker and Codebreaker were considered the same job. Auto mechanic. Nowhere did it mention, oh, anything I might be interested in. Scoff. Lots of scoffing around the room.
And now, finally, it has come to fruition. The official title of my duties at Sophia's school is something like Accounting/Payroll/Secretarial. But it is something else, both less and more than that. It is the job I was born to do: File. Label. Stamp. Number. Catalog. Collate. Break codes and foil Nazis.
She takes down her slim blue yearbook. Flips past the page that lists her as valedictorian but points out in veiled language that she was deemed unfit to deliver the graduation speech. It seems like so long ago. There--the senior section, all the same photo in brown or white robes, holding that dumb hat and a fake scroll, every single one of them. Armando. Mike. Sammie. Kim. Matt. Wenzel. Went out with him for a minute. Wenzel. Gabe. Tiffany. Ah, there's Bridgett. Flip. Chris. Went to prison for auto theft. Luis. Car accident. Ngozi. Tomas. Celeste. Johnny, ah well. Christi. Kirt. What a mouth breather. Joy. Never name your children after emotions or virtues. Juventino. Payman. John. Jason. Chato. Jennifer. Michelle....nope. Not a single one.
Anyway, I remember sitting there in the library, musty, nobody better touch any books--I don't think I ever did--the guidance counselor and the army guy passing the results out to us.
Postal Worker/Codebreaker/Forest Ranger/Auto Mechanic.
Yup. I think Postal Worker and Codebreaker were considered the same job. Auto mechanic. Nowhere did it mention, oh, anything I might be interested in. Scoff. Lots of scoffing around the room.
And now, finally, it has come to fruition. The official title of my duties at Sophia's school is something like Accounting/Payroll/Secretarial. But it is something else, both less and more than that. It is the job I was born to do: File. Label. Stamp. Number. Catalog. Collate. Break codes and foil Nazis.
Thursday, January 17, 2008
The Adjustment Begins
Walked into my room this afternoon between stop and go pick up drop off I hate Thursday action, and I found this:
Nobody's touching, but we're getting there.
Please ignore the state of my room. I had to spend the morning madly cleaning downstairs and praying to St. Anthony for something I lost that doesn't belong to me. So not everything got seen to. But, you might take note of the lovely wallpaper we live with in there. Note to self: buy the paint this week. I've been waiting 10 months to get rid of that nasty stuff. Wait, no, I've been waiting almost 10 YEARS--it's just that it finally bubbled to the surface.
But back to cats: the quarantine has ended because Jack figured out how to use the ceiling as a means of escape. I guess he's watched too much Star Trek to be fooled by locked doors.
Nobody's touching, but we're getting there.
Please ignore the state of my room. I had to spend the morning madly cleaning downstairs and praying to St. Anthony for something I lost that doesn't belong to me. So not everything got seen to. But, you might take note of the lovely wallpaper we live with in there. Note to self: buy the paint this week. I've been waiting 10 months to get rid of that nasty stuff. Wait, no, I've been waiting almost 10 YEARS--it's just that it finally bubbled to the surface.
But back to cats: the quarantine has ended because Jack figured out how to use the ceiling as a means of escape. I guess he's watched too much Star Trek to be fooled by locked doors.
Tuesday, January 15, 2008
Table and Chairs for the Kids of Belleville
From today's Belleville News-Democrat:
Braxton was chided in December by the board that administers a diocesan fund intended to help programs for children and adults, or "Future Full of Hope."
The board of this fund, whose money was raised locally, passed a motion criticizing Braxton for approving the expenditure of $10,100 last year to buy a wood conference table and chairs for the Chancery.
Has this guy ever even read the Gospels?
Braxton was chided in December by the board that administers a diocesan fund intended to help programs for children and adults, or "Future Full of Hope."
The board of this fund, whose money was raised locally, passed a motion criticizing Braxton for approving the expenditure of $10,100 last year to buy a wood conference table and chairs for the Chancery.
Has this guy ever even read the Gospels?
Ooh! Ooh! Can I Go?
From a bulletin insert last weekend in the southern area of the Belleville diocese, advertising for a "meet and greet" with Bishop Braxton in Pinckneyville:
"I am inviting you to this informal gathering, which I would like to have in different areas of the Diocese from time to time. The purpose of it is very simple: to provide an opportunity for Catholic people to come together for refreshments and have an opportunity to meet informally with me. All are welcomed, including children. While we are enjoying coffee and rolls I will share some brief reflections about the life of the Catholic Church around the world, the United States, and in our Diocese. However, the majority of the time will be used for an occasion for you, the People of God, to share your ideas and experiences with me and to ask questions about any aspect about our faith and the life of the Church in our Diocese."
I don't even know where to start here. It is amusing in its pompous tone, but also infuriating in its assumptions about the intelligence and faith life of the "People of God".
Brief reflections. That man has never been brief. I'm gonna wake up early on Saturday and drive my whole family, including children, right on down there. I'll put that right at the top of my list of things I need to do. Oh boy.
"I am inviting you to this informal gathering, which I would like to have in different areas of the Diocese from time to time. The purpose of it is very simple: to provide an opportunity for Catholic people to come together for refreshments and have an opportunity to meet informally with me. All are welcomed, including children. While we are enjoying coffee and rolls I will share some brief reflections about the life of the Catholic Church around the world, the United States, and in our Diocese. However, the majority of the time will be used for an occasion for you, the People of God, to share your ideas and experiences with me and to ask questions about any aspect about our faith and the life of the Church in our Diocese."
I don't even know where to start here. It is amusing in its pompous tone, but also infuriating in its assumptions about the intelligence and faith life of the "People of God".
Brief reflections. That man has never been brief. I'm gonna wake up early on Saturday and drive my whole family, including children, right on down there. I'll put that right at the top of my list of things I need to do. Oh boy.
Look at my pretty new robe
So. Bishop Braxton's diocese, which is neither wealthy nor numerous in Catholic population, raised money in October to send overseas for the propogation of the faith. This isn't the normal weekly collection that the parish uses to run its daily business. This isn't a special collection for the diocese to run its charitable organizations. This money goes to Roma and is distributed from there.
Unless you want to buy $8000 in new vestments.
Since our new pastor got to Pius, I have realized there are good vestments and bad ones. We threw out so many skanky polyester chasubles, it's not even funny. Grody musty stuff. John's are beautiful. And I have come to realize there is importance in beauty. Yeah, you can have mass in a basement chapel, but it doesn't have to look like a storeroom. Or a gymnasium (my parish north of Dallas in 8th grade was a gymnasium that the mentally ill pastor did nothing to conceal). I'm an odd choice for art & environment, flowers and linens and all that. My house is very, well, wabi sabi would be a compliment. Nothing here is very new, and not much is in good shape, but what we have we use and like and most everything was well made at one time. I'm not a fan of fake things like pressboard wood. I'd rather have a beat up dresser Mike's great-grandfather made with square nails than a new cabinet made in China out of wood pulp from decimated Indonesian forests holding my TV any day. But I see value in old things only if they were at least once worthy (my stove, 1965, but worthy; the one it replaced from 1982, not worthy).
A box showed up at Pius a month ago, vestments from somebody's basement that had belonged to a monsignor at our parish long ago. His niece delivered them unto us. Fr. John opened it at a parish council meeting. Musty, needing a nice fresh hang on the line, but gorgeous. The embroidery, the depictions of the crucifixion, the last supper--one of those "they don't make 'em like they used to" moments. Not tacky grody polyester stuff at all. Beautiful. But needing work. My favorite.
Anyway, that's all background to say that I understand the desire to have beautiful things, especially related to worhip. But I can't imagine my parish finance commission, or my pastor, sitting down and thinking, hmm, our immigrant and refugee program, we just collected all that money for it on Epiphany Sunday. You know what, I think I'll take a little off the top and get a new set of vestments. It's an abuse of power.
Where's there's smoke, there's probably fire, and this might hopefully be one of those fires I can't take my eyes off. If he did it, I hope it doesn't get swept under the rug. I hope he's called to task and his pompous flowery unpastoral self gets hauled off to Rome and then sent someplace miserable. If he didn't do it, then that says something, too--his priests, his flock, are so unhappy with him as shepherd, they're willing to say anything to get him investigated, to get him knocked down.
Unless you want to buy $8000 in new vestments.
Since our new pastor got to Pius, I have realized there are good vestments and bad ones. We threw out so many skanky polyester chasubles, it's not even funny. Grody musty stuff. John's are beautiful. And I have come to realize there is importance in beauty. Yeah, you can have mass in a basement chapel, but it doesn't have to look like a storeroom. Or a gymnasium (my parish north of Dallas in 8th grade was a gymnasium that the mentally ill pastor did nothing to conceal). I'm an odd choice for art & environment, flowers and linens and all that. My house is very, well, wabi sabi would be a compliment. Nothing here is very new, and not much is in good shape, but what we have we use and like and most everything was well made at one time. I'm not a fan of fake things like pressboard wood. I'd rather have a beat up dresser Mike's great-grandfather made with square nails than a new cabinet made in China out of wood pulp from decimated Indonesian forests holding my TV any day. But I see value in old things only if they were at least once worthy (my stove, 1965, but worthy; the one it replaced from 1982, not worthy).
A box showed up at Pius a month ago, vestments from somebody's basement that had belonged to a monsignor at our parish long ago. His niece delivered them unto us. Fr. John opened it at a parish council meeting. Musty, needing a nice fresh hang on the line, but gorgeous. The embroidery, the depictions of the crucifixion, the last supper--one of those "they don't make 'em like they used to" moments. Not tacky grody polyester stuff at all. Beautiful. But needing work. My favorite.
Anyway, that's all background to say that I understand the desire to have beautiful things, especially related to worhip. But I can't imagine my parish finance commission, or my pastor, sitting down and thinking, hmm, our immigrant and refugee program, we just collected all that money for it on Epiphany Sunday. You know what, I think I'll take a little off the top and get a new set of vestments. It's an abuse of power.
Where's there's smoke, there's probably fire, and this might hopefully be one of those fires I can't take my eyes off. If he did it, I hope it doesn't get swept under the rug. I hope he's called to task and his pompous flowery unpastoral self gets hauled off to Rome and then sent someplace miserable. If he didn't do it, then that says something, too--his priests, his flock, are so unhappy with him as shepherd, they're willing to say anything to get him investigated, to get him knocked down.
I Can Has New Famlee?
We did it. We got a kitten. Elizabeth emailed me yesterday with a potential candidate (Sophia started a campaign for a bunny for her birthday and I decided I'd rather stick to what I know instead of introduce a whole nother species to my house and cages and new foods and wood shavings). I know, I could have been firm and said that we had enough pets, thank you very much. But I started to think about poor Hickory and Bleys (pronounced Blaze) and how when one of them finally goes, it might be nice to have some other feline around to ease the blow. Hick and Bleys are bestest of best friends and there's probably no changing that. They are 11 and lazy flophouse kitties addicted to electric blankets. New kitten is 4 months old, got his clean bill of health today at the vet (no feline leukemia or kitty AIDS). Dr. Pendino suggested continuing the quarantine, though, until we were sure all was well (no upper respiratory infections or parasites) and new one is neutered (next week). Pendino thought a month would be ideal but he said post-neutering would probably be fine.
So we are deciding on names. Sophia thought he looked woody, like bark, but didn't think she wanted to name him Bark because of the dog connection to that word. So I pulled down my field guide to trees, the Grimm version, the good version, and we narrowed it down to Willow, Tupelo, and Blackjack (an oak variety). Mike is campaigning for Blackjack (which could be Jack, or Jackie, or BJ) while Sophia is still highly enamored with Willow. Of course I'm voting for Tupelo to make things easy, and Maeve wants "Light Bones".
Pretty little brown and black tabby, doncha think? And about as affectionate as Bleys when we adopted him. Desperate for attention and love. Sat in my mom's arms this morning and went to sleep. Aw.
Poor guy...he's living in the laundry room (where he does get the adventure of crawling around our creepy ceiling), and while it's better than living in Benton Park where he was found, it isn't the same as sleeping on the couch next to the heat vent. I've made him a towel bed on top of the dryer. But it's like 50 degrees down there if we're lucky--probably closer to 40 near the windows. The pipes have frozen in the little closet off the laundry room before (there's insulation in that window now, total hoozh).
Hickory hissed three times, growled under the door at him, and then went upstairs to sleep in the sun. Bleys sniffed my sweatshirt and went to sleep on the bed (with the blanket on low). Slowly we shall move.
Sunday, January 13, 2008
Edward, Edward, Edward, tsk tsk tsk.
So I got an email today from someone in the Belleville diocese. Seems that my dear friend Bishop Braxton might be doing some fuzzy math over across the river.
Ok. So, raise your hands, who didn't see this coming?
Article here while it lasts
Ok. So, raise your hands, who didn't see this coming?
Article here while it lasts
Friday, January 11, 2008
Where Have I Gone?
Some stats about life right now:
3: number of mornings Maeve goes to preschool starting this month
10-15: number of hours I'm going to be working at City Garden starting next week or so, mostly setting up an accounting system and filing, something I am born to do but not yet trained.
2.5: number of hours spent at the City Museum on Wednesday of this week
7: number of days this week I have been the last person in my house asleep and the second one awake.
49: number of hours I have left to my Catechesis of the Good Shepherd Training class
1: number of Christmas cards I got that I did not expect, totally out of the blue
2: number of Christmas cards that were returned to me, the sender, for incorrect address. Who knew Joey had moved? When did he have time to do that?
6: number of cups of coffee I had today
111: the very low low cost of repairing the van this time. It's still got it.
4: number of naps I took this week, up from the usual average of zero
7: number of knitting projects I have finished in the past month: the pink sweater, the washcloths, three scarves, two pairs of mittens.
8: number of days I've been working on the current knitting project, due to be done in about 3 more days at this rate: sweater for Sophia. Record speed, I think.
5: number of times I had to empty the canister on the vacuum tonight while I cleaned up the house.
2: number of quarts of bourbon slush I consumed New Year's Eve
0: number of games of mah jongg I won New Year's Eve
87: number of keys on the piano we're bringing home tomorrow that work just fine; G above middle C should be no problem for Jackson Piano to fix. Thank you to Annie.
9: number of chairs we are moving out of Annie's house as well...most going to my sister.
13: number of Law & Order episodes I have watched this week, hence, the sweater.
3: times today I have been So Correct but not Right. To quote my theology teacher from high school. I let it go.
That's what I know. I'm battling a little winter blahs but looking forward to mah jongg tomorrow night and book club Sunday. And our little moving project in the morning. I hope it isn't a disaster. Oy.
3: number of mornings Maeve goes to preschool starting this month
10-15: number of hours I'm going to be working at City Garden starting next week or so, mostly setting up an accounting system and filing, something I am born to do but not yet trained.
2.5: number of hours spent at the City Museum on Wednesday of this week
7: number of days this week I have been the last person in my house asleep and the second one awake.
49: number of hours I have left to my Catechesis of the Good Shepherd Training class
1: number of Christmas cards I got that I did not expect, totally out of the blue
2: number of Christmas cards that were returned to me, the sender, for incorrect address. Who knew Joey had moved? When did he have time to do that?
6: number of cups of coffee I had today
111: the very low low cost of repairing the van this time. It's still got it.
4: number of naps I took this week, up from the usual average of zero
7: number of knitting projects I have finished in the past month: the pink sweater, the washcloths, three scarves, two pairs of mittens.
8: number of days I've been working on the current knitting project, due to be done in about 3 more days at this rate: sweater for Sophia. Record speed, I think.
5: number of times I had to empty the canister on the vacuum tonight while I cleaned up the house.
2: number of quarts of bourbon slush I consumed New Year's Eve
0: number of games of mah jongg I won New Year's Eve
87: number of keys on the piano we're bringing home tomorrow that work just fine; G above middle C should be no problem for Jackson Piano to fix. Thank you to Annie.
9: number of chairs we are moving out of Annie's house as well...most going to my sister.
13: number of Law & Order episodes I have watched this week, hence, the sweater.
3: times today I have been So Correct but not Right. To quote my theology teacher from high school. I let it go.
That's what I know. I'm battling a little winter blahs but looking forward to mah jongg tomorrow night and book club Sunday. And our little moving project in the morning. I hope it isn't a disaster. Oy.
Monday, January 07, 2008
Noodles, Hot Dogs, and Cheese
I was pregnant with Maeve. We always called Sophia, "Baby" and we asked her one day what we should call the new baby if we were going to keep referring to her by that moniker. Without missing a beat:
"Hot Dog Baby."
This stuck. I would refer to the unborn Maeve as Hot Dog Baby pretty consistently. My friends thought this was hilarious, and urged Sophia to elaborate. While Sophia, just barely three and diagnosably speech and language delayed, couldn't explain the meaning, she did decide that she, Sophia, would be known as Noodle Baby.
So then, Mary started a campaign to divide the world into Noodles and Hot Dogs. Mike was a HDB. Mary was a NB. I fit in with Mary, Maloki was definitely Hot Dog. Brian made it into the HDB category, as did my dad. My mom, Noodle. It seemed cut and dried: boys were hot dogs, girls were noodles. Amusing.
Then my friend Elliot visited from Chicago, and Mary asked Sophia, "What kind of baby is Elliot?"
"Cheese Baby."
He is, as far as I can remember, the only Cheese Baby.
As opposed to the family across the street, where the older boys still refer to the 9 month old by his in utero name, Frank, Sophia gave up the Hot Dog Baby game once she learned her sister was Maeve Beatrix.
I'm not even pregnant, but Maeve has already decided that any future child will be GoGo. Or Rosie. For Rosey Grier, I wonder?
"Hot Dog Baby."
This stuck. I would refer to the unborn Maeve as Hot Dog Baby pretty consistently. My friends thought this was hilarious, and urged Sophia to elaborate. While Sophia, just barely three and diagnosably speech and language delayed, couldn't explain the meaning, she did decide that she, Sophia, would be known as Noodle Baby.
So then, Mary started a campaign to divide the world into Noodles and Hot Dogs. Mike was a HDB. Mary was a NB. I fit in with Mary, Maloki was definitely Hot Dog. Brian made it into the HDB category, as did my dad. My mom, Noodle. It seemed cut and dried: boys were hot dogs, girls were noodles. Amusing.
Then my friend Elliot visited from Chicago, and Mary asked Sophia, "What kind of baby is Elliot?"
"Cheese Baby."
He is, as far as I can remember, the only Cheese Baby.
As opposed to the family across the street, where the older boys still refer to the 9 month old by his in utero name, Frank, Sophia gave up the Hot Dog Baby game once she learned her sister was Maeve Beatrix.
I'm not even pregnant, but Maeve has already decided that any future child will be GoGo. Or Rosie. For Rosey Grier, I wonder?
Ah, Parish Life
I went to church on Saturday to water plants. I was tired from atrium training and so I didn't turn on everything and take a picture for the Chrsitmas card. Thought I'd come back that evening when I caught my inevitable second wind. Went home, changed into my pajamas, and did some knitting to Law & Order (as according to prophecy).
Didn't make it back up. No second wind. Work up at the crack of dawn Sunday to go to St. Margaret's Atrium, where I am the assistant. Sophia attends too so we went together. Couldn't find my keys. Took Mike's instead. Dropped Sophia off at home afterwards and went to church. I was in charge of RCIA dismissal catechesis (after the homily, those studying to become Catholic go down to the catechesis room and meet with a catechist for the rest of mass). It was our annual Migration Mass, which is a Cecil B. DeMille Production. I'm not, well, into it. At all. It's just lots of crowds, and a bit of the hodge podge feel to it--it's like, I want to coordinate it better or something. But I'm chalking a lot of that feeling up to my own inability to let go of control. Most things I have a problem with boil down to that. Anyway, there I was. At th end of the homily, I kept waiting for the dismissal. Then I thought maybe I'd misunderstood. Had we decided to skip? I waited a bit longer, but then the offertory began and nope, one way or another, it wasn't happening.
so I left. Probably not the most kosher thing, but I didn't want to stay through yet another mass that weekend. I was tired and crabby. As I'm walking out, our janitor, Joe, comes up to me. Bridgett, you left your keys in the sacristy. OH. I remember now. "Where are they?" I demand. "In the sacristy door." "No, Joe, where are they now?" "In the door!" Joe is a middle aged man, developmentally disabled, I have the same conversations with him every time I see him. And he really likes to talk to me, which is a great exercise in patience for me.
I try to explain to Joe that surely one of those several ordained individuals up in front would have removed them by now. I don't put it that way. He looks at me like maybe he gets it. "Probably in the sacristy, then." Ok. I know where they are. But I'm still going home.
I leave a message for our pastor, and I go out to finish some yard work I put off at the beginning of advent. He calls, the keys are at the rectory, I can get them anytime. I go up right then, I mean, they're my keys, and he lets me in. Hands me the keys. And then....
"Umm, downstairs, after mass was over..."
He goes on to explain that another parishioner announced to the entire migration mass post-revel brunch potluck extravaganza that since Christmas season was over, anyone who was interested was welcome to a poinsettia from the church.
Christmas season doesn't end with Epiphany. It ends with the Baptism of Christ, next Sunday. NEXT. Not NOW.
What makes this especially puzzling comes back to that issue of control. It's all Little Red Hen all over the place. Who will order the poinsettias? Not I said the the cat, not I said the dog. Then I will said the little red hen, and she did. Who will pick up the trees the Saturday before Christmas? Not I said the cat...you get the idea. For the moment, unless something changed I wasn't aware of, I'm still kinda in charge of decorating and cleaning that beautiful building. I don't make a lot of major decisions, I don't run the meetings, but I show up once a month to clean, I buy all the flowers, arrange some of them (Lescher's does the rest), I water plants, sew, iron, decorate, straighten. It's been my job since last August (2006). There are some things I farm out, and I am happy to share responsibility. Really. I love spreading around work and recognition. Ruth arranged the poinsettias in the sanctuary this year and last, for instance. I was busy running around cutting wire and fishing line. John has been in charge of the nativity both years. Paul hangs the big wreath from the choir loft. I don't DO IT ALL, I just set up the date for someone else to do it. (Now, when it comes to cleaning, it's me, Debbie, Julie, and Sue, and we do DO IT ALL).
The woman who made the announcement is on the committee. She is earnest and hardworking and helps out. But I stood there in the rectory hallway blinking at Fr. John. What. The. Hell. It would be like...going to a cousin's wedding reception and standing up midway through and saying everyone was welcome to take the stemware home. And do it now. We're through here.
So I wasn't happy, but, hey, it's parish life. I took my keys and went over to the church. Decimated is too nice a word. Poinsettia leaves everywhere, like it was a fire sale or something. There are three in front of the altar, one by the ambo. Seven total by Mary, the pieta, and Joseph. About six near the nativity scene, mostly because folks would have had to dive over Baby Jesus to get them. Sixteen. There were originally 48. Oy friggin vey.
And then it struck me. The photographs I was going to take. Can't be done now, right? Bad timing, probably should have done it December 23rd, but IT WAS STILL CHRISTMAS SEASON! They still looked nice, everything looked perfect. Sr. Mary wanted that photo for next year's Christmas card. Well, I think, maybe the nativity. Or else, more Emil Frei windows. I think that's why we sold so many this year anyway, they were gorgeous pictures of our perfect windows. Next year, maybe the Annunciation or the Presentation. Lovely.
I walk out, kind of shaking my head at it all. Parish life. And then, ok, keep in mind that the whole parking lot is empty save 4 cars. One is Sue, who cleans with me and is my contact at LEschers, from where we order these poinsettias. She asks about what happened. I tell her the short version. And then, I mean, it could have been any random person, but since I'm living in a novel these days, who would be the most appropriate person to see next? The woman who gave away all the plants. And she has the audacity to be sassy about it. "You can shoot me, Bridgett." I tell her, in all seriousness, that I hadn't taken the Christmas photos yet, and now had two weeks worth of work instead of one (rearranging this week, taking it down next week). and then she gets huffy, that it was a mistake, that she already apologized (really? saying, "you can shoot me" qualifies as an apology these days?). "If it's poinsettias you want, I'll go to Aldi's."
"Oh, I'm sure that would be just great," I say with a little emotion. "Don't worry about it. I'll fix it later."
This is the woman who talked to me on the phone the Thursday before Christmas and got huffy about the banner and told me that my life would be richer if I talked to people I didn't like. There are so many things I wish I could have replied with, but none of them would have been good for me. She was referring to the bizarre family that keeps drifting in and out of our parish and still winds up in charge of things even though they are TOXIC. The Poinsettia Freedom Fighter drives me crazy pretty much across the board, ever since the boy scout lot fiasco last year (she wanted to mediate between me and the boy scout leader, which was unwelcome). I'm sure she thinks I am a crazy freakish psychologically damaged immature upstart. Really. Because every time I interact with her, I become that. Gah. I've started using tactics with her that I used to use with first graders in my classroom. (Which pretty much boiled down to "give them enough rope and they'll hang themselves." My whole philosophy, right there).
I'm rambling. In the end, I walked away from her, got in my van, and went home. Took a long nap. Went back today, rearranged a bit, saw what I needed to do later before Sunday's somewhat miniaturized end of Christmas season.
Parish life.
Didn't make it back up. No second wind. Work up at the crack of dawn Sunday to go to St. Margaret's Atrium, where I am the assistant. Sophia attends too so we went together. Couldn't find my keys. Took Mike's instead. Dropped Sophia off at home afterwards and went to church. I was in charge of RCIA dismissal catechesis (after the homily, those studying to become Catholic go down to the catechesis room and meet with a catechist for the rest of mass). It was our annual Migration Mass, which is a Cecil B. DeMille Production. I'm not, well, into it. At all. It's just lots of crowds, and a bit of the hodge podge feel to it--it's like, I want to coordinate it better or something. But I'm chalking a lot of that feeling up to my own inability to let go of control. Most things I have a problem with boil down to that. Anyway, there I was. At th end of the homily, I kept waiting for the dismissal. Then I thought maybe I'd misunderstood. Had we decided to skip? I waited a bit longer, but then the offertory began and nope, one way or another, it wasn't happening.
so I left. Probably not the most kosher thing, but I didn't want to stay through yet another mass that weekend. I was tired and crabby. As I'm walking out, our janitor, Joe, comes up to me. Bridgett, you left your keys in the sacristy. OH. I remember now. "Where are they?" I demand. "In the sacristy door." "No, Joe, where are they now?" "In the door!" Joe is a middle aged man, developmentally disabled, I have the same conversations with him every time I see him. And he really likes to talk to me, which is a great exercise in patience for me.
I try to explain to Joe that surely one of those several ordained individuals up in front would have removed them by now. I don't put it that way. He looks at me like maybe he gets it. "Probably in the sacristy, then." Ok. I know where they are. But I'm still going home.
I leave a message for our pastor, and I go out to finish some yard work I put off at the beginning of advent. He calls, the keys are at the rectory, I can get them anytime. I go up right then, I mean, they're my keys, and he lets me in. Hands me the keys. And then....
"Umm, downstairs, after mass was over..."
He goes on to explain that another parishioner announced to the entire migration mass post-revel brunch potluck extravaganza that since Christmas season was over, anyone who was interested was welcome to a poinsettia from the church.
Christmas season doesn't end with Epiphany. It ends with the Baptism of Christ, next Sunday. NEXT. Not NOW.
What makes this especially puzzling comes back to that issue of control. It's all Little Red Hen all over the place. Who will order the poinsettias? Not I said the the cat, not I said the dog. Then I will said the little red hen, and she did. Who will pick up the trees the Saturday before Christmas? Not I said the cat...you get the idea. For the moment, unless something changed I wasn't aware of, I'm still kinda in charge of decorating and cleaning that beautiful building. I don't make a lot of major decisions, I don't run the meetings, but I show up once a month to clean, I buy all the flowers, arrange some of them (Lescher's does the rest), I water plants, sew, iron, decorate, straighten. It's been my job since last August (2006). There are some things I farm out, and I am happy to share responsibility. Really. I love spreading around work and recognition. Ruth arranged the poinsettias in the sanctuary this year and last, for instance. I was busy running around cutting wire and fishing line. John has been in charge of the nativity both years. Paul hangs the big wreath from the choir loft. I don't DO IT ALL, I just set up the date for someone else to do it. (Now, when it comes to cleaning, it's me, Debbie, Julie, and Sue, and we do DO IT ALL).
The woman who made the announcement is on the committee. She is earnest and hardworking and helps out. But I stood there in the rectory hallway blinking at Fr. John. What. The. Hell. It would be like...going to a cousin's wedding reception and standing up midway through and saying everyone was welcome to take the stemware home. And do it now. We're through here.
So I wasn't happy, but, hey, it's parish life. I took my keys and went over to the church. Decimated is too nice a word. Poinsettia leaves everywhere, like it was a fire sale or something. There are three in front of the altar, one by the ambo. Seven total by Mary, the pieta, and Joseph. About six near the nativity scene, mostly because folks would have had to dive over Baby Jesus to get them. Sixteen. There were originally 48. Oy friggin vey.
And then it struck me. The photographs I was going to take. Can't be done now, right? Bad timing, probably should have done it December 23rd, but IT WAS STILL CHRISTMAS SEASON! They still looked nice, everything looked perfect. Sr. Mary wanted that photo for next year's Christmas card. Well, I think, maybe the nativity. Or else, more Emil Frei windows. I think that's why we sold so many this year anyway, they were gorgeous pictures of our perfect windows. Next year, maybe the Annunciation or the Presentation. Lovely.
I walk out, kind of shaking my head at it all. Parish life. And then, ok, keep in mind that the whole parking lot is empty save 4 cars. One is Sue, who cleans with me and is my contact at LEschers, from where we order these poinsettias. She asks about what happened. I tell her the short version. And then, I mean, it could have been any random person, but since I'm living in a novel these days, who would be the most appropriate person to see next? The woman who gave away all the plants. And she has the audacity to be sassy about it. "You can shoot me, Bridgett." I tell her, in all seriousness, that I hadn't taken the Christmas photos yet, and now had two weeks worth of work instead of one (rearranging this week, taking it down next week). and then she gets huffy, that it was a mistake, that she already apologized (really? saying, "you can shoot me" qualifies as an apology these days?). "If it's poinsettias you want, I'll go to Aldi's."
"Oh, I'm sure that would be just great," I say with a little emotion. "Don't worry about it. I'll fix it later."
This is the woman who talked to me on the phone the Thursday before Christmas and got huffy about the banner and told me that my life would be richer if I talked to people I didn't like. There are so many things I wish I could have replied with, but none of them would have been good for me. She was referring to the bizarre family that keeps drifting in and out of our parish and still winds up in charge of things even though they are TOXIC. The Poinsettia Freedom Fighter drives me crazy pretty much across the board, ever since the boy scout lot fiasco last year (she wanted to mediate between me and the boy scout leader, which was unwelcome). I'm sure she thinks I am a crazy freakish psychologically damaged immature upstart. Really. Because every time I interact with her, I become that. Gah. I've started using tactics with her that I used to use with first graders in my classroom. (Which pretty much boiled down to "give them enough rope and they'll hang themselves." My whole philosophy, right there).
I'm rambling. In the end, I walked away from her, got in my van, and went home. Took a long nap. Went back today, rearranged a bit, saw what I needed to do later before Sunday's somewhat miniaturized end of Christmas season.
Parish life.
Friday, January 04, 2008
A Ninth Thing
I shouldn't say this, perhaps, because it's not that flattering, but hey. Maeve just finished lunch and she came up to where I was checking my email. Climbed on my lap, hugged my neck, put her head on my shoulder and sighed.
"I love you Mom. You smell just like noodles."
"I love you Mom. You smell just like noodles."
Thursday, January 03, 2008
Eight Things We Love About Maeve
Blonde Mom's Miss A just completed her first meme, very simple, really, since it's her first. No favorite biblical passages or books she should have read. Just Eight Interesting Facts. Maeve this morning decided that if I'm going to consider myself a mommy blogger (which I don't know if I do. I mean, I have a fair-sized addiction to fiber art, and then there's the whole religion thing. Rants, education, music, random, well, musings. But kids do loom large in my life, especially Maeve, sitting on my lap smelling like oranges and cheddar cheese and clicking the mouse against my wishes and orders and distractions).
So Maeve and I thought we'd collaborate (put the mouse down, don't click both buttons, no, no--here, leave it alone) and write Eight Interesting Facts About Maeve You May or May Not Have Already Realized. Maeve sez:
1. Genetics beat hair gel. I have much easier hair than my older sister but in the mornings, I have the same dang rat's nest on the back of my head. Mom calls it that, but I have yet to see a rat. I think Bleys might have something to do with it. He's a boy kitty.
2. I have many best friends. Gabrielle, Katie Jane, Charlie, James (sometimes I list him twice), Delaney, Kennedy, GoGo. You don't know GoGo? Huh.
3. I have many favorite foods right now. Cheddar cheese and oranges and Toast with the Most. Tomorrow I will have many favorite foods, too. Perhaps peanut butter and mackyroni. But I will hate oranges and cheddar cheese and cinnamon sugar how dare you violate my toast with that!
4. I check on Mommy every night around 3:30 in the morning to make sure she's ok. She loves this. It makes her feel so loved and cozy.
5. I am way more persistent and headstrong than that older sister. I will always win. Or at least, you will always lose. I don't care that she potty trained in a week. I'm on month 8 and I'm in charge.
6. Cuteness is keeping me alive. Have you seen these blue eyes? My haircut with natural blond streaks? How about the dimple one inch below my right eye? Pretty fabulous, don't you think? Mom says she used to have one too. She's not cute anymore. I will not grow up and be like her. I will grow smaller and become Baby GoGo. Or Baby Rosie.
7. When you're a Jet, you're a Jet all the way. If I decide I hate something, I do it with pure seething passion. I hate my car seat. I hate my grandma's cat. I'm not a big fan of the girl across the street. But if I decide something is mildly entertaining or intriguing, I then become obsessed with it. Like pirates and nutcrackers and fairies and the word "bottom" and drawing on my feet in red marker.
8. I have a rich inner life and quite a vocabulary. Mom doens't like to brag about this, but I do. I have been known to make puns. Making Mom laugh, I'm realizing, is a great distraction when she starts to get that look like maybe I've pushed it too far with saying the word "bottom" when I told her she could kiss mine. It's fun being three. I will never grow big.
So Maeve and I thought we'd collaborate (put the mouse down, don't click both buttons, no, no--here, leave it alone) and write Eight Interesting Facts About Maeve You May or May Not Have Already Realized. Maeve sez:
1. Genetics beat hair gel. I have much easier hair than my older sister but in the mornings, I have the same dang rat's nest on the back of my head. Mom calls it that, but I have yet to see a rat. I think Bleys might have something to do with it. He's a boy kitty.
2. I have many best friends. Gabrielle, Katie Jane, Charlie, James (sometimes I list him twice), Delaney, Kennedy, GoGo. You don't know GoGo? Huh.
3. I have many favorite foods right now. Cheddar cheese and oranges and Toast with the Most. Tomorrow I will have many favorite foods, too. Perhaps peanut butter and mackyroni. But I will hate oranges and cheddar cheese and cinnamon sugar how dare you violate my toast with that!
4. I check on Mommy every night around 3:30 in the morning to make sure she's ok. She loves this. It makes her feel so loved and cozy.
5. I am way more persistent and headstrong than that older sister. I will always win. Or at least, you will always lose. I don't care that she potty trained in a week. I'm on month 8 and I'm in charge.
6. Cuteness is keeping me alive. Have you seen these blue eyes? My haircut with natural blond streaks? How about the dimple one inch below my right eye? Pretty fabulous, don't you think? Mom says she used to have one too. She's not cute anymore. I will not grow up and be like her. I will grow smaller and become Baby GoGo. Or Baby Rosie.
7. When you're a Jet, you're a Jet all the way. If I decide I hate something, I do it with pure seething passion. I hate my car seat. I hate my grandma's cat. I'm not a big fan of the girl across the street. But if I decide something is mildly entertaining or intriguing, I then become obsessed with it. Like pirates and nutcrackers and fairies and the word "bottom" and drawing on my feet in red marker.
8. I have a rich inner life and quite a vocabulary. Mom doens't like to brag about this, but I do. I have been known to make puns. Making Mom laugh, I'm realizing, is a great distraction when she starts to get that look like maybe I've pushed it too far with saying the word "bottom" when I told her she could kiss mine. It's fun being three. I will never grow big.
Wednesday, January 02, 2008
Mah Jongg Madness
Mike came home New Year's Eve after running one last time to the store. Turns out he'd also browsed on South Grand a bit. You know, cause that's a great time to window shop. Ah well. He walks up to where I'm sitting at the computer (duh) and says, "There's a mah jongg set for sale at TFA."
"Really?" I ask, half interested. I have mah jongg aplenty on ebay, where 3 of my 4 sets that I bought myself came from--my black resin set and two catalin sets from the 1950s. I have other sets--my original one I got for Christmas 1999, a standard NMJL white resin set, the bone and bamboo set Sharon gave me that kind of freaks me out, and the other one I bought myself, at an antique mall in South County, a true bakelite butter yellow lovely: my favorite.
"Yeah, it's like the one you have, the yellow tile one." But this still could mean the catalin sets, that turn a darker orangey yellow. Nice, but not the same heft and smoothness as the bakelite. It's often passed off as bakelite, but it's NOT.
"Which yellow one?"
"Well, it's not the cheddar one, more like the butter one. It's pretty." I turn the computer desk chair around to look at him.
You might notice from the paragraph above that I need another mah jongg set like I need a hole in my head. But another pretty bakelite set and I might decide it's time to sell one of my others. On ebay. Or, if the price was a little much for me to consider but I thought it was gorgeous, I'd pass the hint along to Trisha, since she's the going to be the next one to buy one, most likely.
Mike was surprised I was interested. I don't think he knows me very well sometimes. So today, he got home from work and I went to the grocery store. And to browse South Grand.
I walked in: "My husband tells me you have a mah jongg set," I announce, starting directly at it. It is bakelite. It is flipping amazing. The guy behind the counter pulls it out and lets me go over to the side counter so I can count tiles. The tiles are slightly bigger than my bakelite ones, with pristine paint in green, navy, red, and gold. The gold is shiny. Nothing is worn down with age. They are all equally aged, no color variations at all. The racks are perfect, the case is faux alligator, red, still with the keys. It is glorious.
"Do you play this game?" he asks me. I tell him that's an understatement. I count tiles--I don't sort them, just count through them once to see if it's complete. There's an envelope at the bottom with the original receipt, for goodness sake. I gush over this for a moment, and then I get a hunch that it's not for me. There aren't enough extra flowers--an old set could vary between 8 and 24 flower tiles to make it "complete". Eight flowers means you have a chinese version; more than that, you can add joker stickers to eight of the extra flowers and have a playable American version. There aren't enough flowers.
"It's gorgeous," I tell him. "But it's not for me." I explain in strict layman's terms the difference between the two styles. 144 tiles cannot become 152 no matter how hard you try, and a set this beautiful, you'd spend a lifetime trying to match the missing tiles to make it American. "I'm sorry. Thanks for letting me look at it."
He's fine with that, starts setting it up in the case again. I get a glimpse of the price tag (which in true Colleen style, I hadn't even checked). $499.00. Holy. Crap. The most I've ever spent on a set, my bakelite beauty, in fact, was $125. Thank goodness I didn't fall in love with it and it had 152+ tiles and I started to envision it at my card table. Thank goodness I had another reason to walk away, to not lie in bed awake for weeks wondering if maybe they'd lowered the price, maybe I could go visit the mah jongg set. I am not tempted by a Chinese set in the least, no matter how pretty. But there was no way I would have shelled out that kind of cash for any set. I cannot even come close to justifying that. I was happy for the built in sour grapes. Oy vey.
"Really?" I ask, half interested. I have mah jongg aplenty on ebay, where 3 of my 4 sets that I bought myself came from--my black resin set and two catalin sets from the 1950s. I have other sets--my original one I got for Christmas 1999, a standard NMJL white resin set, the bone and bamboo set Sharon gave me that kind of freaks me out, and the other one I bought myself, at an antique mall in South County, a true bakelite butter yellow lovely: my favorite.
"Yeah, it's like the one you have, the yellow tile one." But this still could mean the catalin sets, that turn a darker orangey yellow. Nice, but not the same heft and smoothness as the bakelite. It's often passed off as bakelite, but it's NOT.
"Which yellow one?"
"Well, it's not the cheddar one, more like the butter one. It's pretty." I turn the computer desk chair around to look at him.
You might notice from the paragraph above that I need another mah jongg set like I need a hole in my head. But another pretty bakelite set and I might decide it's time to sell one of my others. On ebay. Or, if the price was a little much for me to consider but I thought it was gorgeous, I'd pass the hint along to Trisha, since she's the going to be the next one to buy one, most likely.
Mike was surprised I was interested. I don't think he knows me very well sometimes. So today, he got home from work and I went to the grocery store. And to browse South Grand.
I walked in: "My husband tells me you have a mah jongg set," I announce, starting directly at it. It is bakelite. It is flipping amazing. The guy behind the counter pulls it out and lets me go over to the side counter so I can count tiles. The tiles are slightly bigger than my bakelite ones, with pristine paint in green, navy, red, and gold. The gold is shiny. Nothing is worn down with age. They are all equally aged, no color variations at all. The racks are perfect, the case is faux alligator, red, still with the keys. It is glorious.
"Do you play this game?" he asks me. I tell him that's an understatement. I count tiles--I don't sort them, just count through them once to see if it's complete. There's an envelope at the bottom with the original receipt, for goodness sake. I gush over this for a moment, and then I get a hunch that it's not for me. There aren't enough extra flowers--an old set could vary between 8 and 24 flower tiles to make it "complete". Eight flowers means you have a chinese version; more than that, you can add joker stickers to eight of the extra flowers and have a playable American version. There aren't enough flowers.
"It's gorgeous," I tell him. "But it's not for me." I explain in strict layman's terms the difference between the two styles. 144 tiles cannot become 152 no matter how hard you try, and a set this beautiful, you'd spend a lifetime trying to match the missing tiles to make it American. "I'm sorry. Thanks for letting me look at it."
He's fine with that, starts setting it up in the case again. I get a glimpse of the price tag (which in true Colleen style, I hadn't even checked). $499.00. Holy. Crap. The most I've ever spent on a set, my bakelite beauty, in fact, was $125. Thank goodness I didn't fall in love with it and it had 152+ tiles and I started to envision it at my card table. Thank goodness I had another reason to walk away, to not lie in bed awake for weeks wondering if maybe they'd lowered the price, maybe I could go visit the mah jongg set. I am not tempted by a Chinese set in the least, no matter how pretty. But there was no way I would have shelled out that kind of cash for any set. I cannot even come close to justifying that. I was happy for the built in sour grapes. Oy vey.
365: Auld Lang Syne (second verse, same as the first)
we’ll tak a cup o’ kindness yet,
for auld lang syne.
Tonight, for the second year, I'm spending New Year's Eve with my neighbors. So I'm going to rerun last year's post (since most of my 365 folks don't read SCM and vice versa).
===
My kids are going to sleep. Then Mike and I will play tag team and baby monitor games to get back over and back to Trisha's house for the rest of our evening. Funny. A couple of years back, even, I would never have dreamed of spending a minor holiday (as opposed to Christmas, Thanksgiving, and Easter, which are "major" holidays--I'm thinking New Years, Mothers' and Fathers' Days, Halloween, 4th of July, Arbor Day, you know...) with my neighbors. Seriously. Who does that?
Everyone has their family or their tribe or whatever--and most folks in most neighborhoods know a couple of neighbors, maybe the lady next door fed the cats one time when you were at a funeral in Dallas. But neighbors aren't usually the first choice for party companions. Camping companions. Heck, police line up companions. I know I talk about this a lot, I know it's the tag line for the whole durned blog, but what an amazing place I accidentally chose to reside in.
Mike and I started out on South Grand, in a cruddy 4-family apartment with mice and nasty carpeting, across from St. Mary's High School. Didn't even know the people across the hall. Then we made the big move to the recently rehabbed Euro-decor apartment on South Compton. Two blocks from I-44, 3 blocks from Grand. We knew Wade upstairs. Nobody else. Got out of there once Wade and his boyfriend went home to Wisconsin and that kid moved in with the Rottweiler and the revolving door girlfriends. Started the house hunt with Leland Hartsfield, the best buyer's agent I've ever encountered.
Once he knew we wanted a house in the city, it was a ton of good advice. We would start the house tours in the basements with flashlights, looking at stack pipes and dielectric unions. Saw some really bad stuff. Saw some good stuff in bad spots. Leland was good to us, though, held us in his hands, frankly, and knew what we wanted even before we'd verbalized it. We wanted a circa 1900 whatever it is we live in. I've heard different people call it different things (it's not a bungalow, it's not a townhome, it's a _________). Perhaps it isn't special enough for a label. But whatever it is, it is concentrated around Tower Grove Park with a smattering here and there throughout the south side.
We put our first contract on a house on Nottingham. It was the biggest, oldest house on the block, near Kingshighway, in crappy shape. I don't think it had a working kitchen. We put in a laughably low bid and they didn't even respond to us. Oh well. Then we almost put a contract on a house on Beethoven, in Bevo. This was before the Bosnian migration, and the neighborhood was at a tipping point. It could get really good, or it could take a huge slide downward. Also the only house like itself on the block, but in pristine condition. Pristine. We chickened out.
I was surprised that Leland didn't tell us "don't call me, I'll call you." He didn't. He would call on Wednesdays, give me the new listings, and then Mike and I would do drive-by's. On Saturday or Sunday, then, we'd look at the one or two from the list that looked worthwhile.
Our second contract was on the second block west of Grand of Hartford. It would have been almost directly across from the Murphy house, actually, Kate, if you're reading this ;^) but our bid, which was $4,000 less than the asking price, was rejected with an offended tone. How dare we lowball them. Totally confused, Leland sent us over to Halliday. But haven't we seen the stuff over there? I asked, frustrated. We'd walked through Kerri & Clayton's house, which was still a boarding house then, and their next door neighbor's place. But we'd missed this one. An alley driveby looked promising. The next day, we walked through.
Lots of aesthetic..shall I call them mistakes?..but solid. The roof needed to go, but the price was low. The kitchen was 1980s, the dining room had a weird closet. Didn't like the butler's pantry bathroom redo. Some nice mantles. It wasn't fabulous, but Leland was either tired of us or knew better than we did. We put a contract in on it and were homeowners the next month. [Note: the Hartford folks called back looking for us two days after we closed--would we still be interested??].
So that's why we're here and not at Mary Magdalene. That's why we're talking about our June camping trip with Corey's little Missouri camping guidebook and eating Janine's fabulous mashed potatoes. That's why our kids were at my house with three babysitters having a "kid party". That's how we've somehow gotten the best parts of auld lang syne--the stuff that the county dwellers wish still existed but "just can't in this day and age." You can't force this into existence, but if you're lucky and play your mah jongg tiles right, you can wake up and find it right around you on a one-way city block in a rundown midwestern city. Who'd a thunk.
for auld lang syne.
Tonight, for the second year, I'm spending New Year's Eve with my neighbors. So I'm going to rerun last year's post (since most of my 365 folks don't read SCM and vice versa).
===
My kids are going to sleep. Then Mike and I will play tag team and baby monitor games to get back over and back to Trisha's house for the rest of our evening. Funny. A couple of years back, even, I would never have dreamed of spending a minor holiday (as opposed to Christmas, Thanksgiving, and Easter, which are "major" holidays--I'm thinking New Years, Mothers' and Fathers' Days, Halloween, 4th of July, Arbor Day, you know...) with my neighbors. Seriously. Who does that?
Everyone has their family or their tribe or whatever--and most folks in most neighborhoods know a couple of neighbors, maybe the lady next door fed the cats one time when you were at a funeral in Dallas. But neighbors aren't usually the first choice for party companions. Camping companions. Heck, police line up companions. I know I talk about this a lot, I know it's the tag line for the whole durned blog, but what an amazing place I accidentally chose to reside in.
Mike and I started out on South Grand, in a cruddy 4-family apartment with mice and nasty carpeting, across from St. Mary's High School. Didn't even know the people across the hall. Then we made the big move to the recently rehabbed Euro-decor apartment on South Compton. Two blocks from I-44, 3 blocks from Grand. We knew Wade upstairs. Nobody else. Got out of there once Wade and his boyfriend went home to Wisconsin and that kid moved in with the Rottweiler and the revolving door girlfriends. Started the house hunt with Leland Hartsfield, the best buyer's agent I've ever encountered.
Once he knew we wanted a house in the city, it was a ton of good advice. We would start the house tours in the basements with flashlights, looking at stack pipes and dielectric unions. Saw some really bad stuff. Saw some good stuff in bad spots. Leland was good to us, though, held us in his hands, frankly, and knew what we wanted even before we'd verbalized it. We wanted a circa 1900 whatever it is we live in. I've heard different people call it different things (it's not a bungalow, it's not a townhome, it's a _________). Perhaps it isn't special enough for a label. But whatever it is, it is concentrated around Tower Grove Park with a smattering here and there throughout the south side.
We put our first contract on a house on Nottingham. It was the biggest, oldest house on the block, near Kingshighway, in crappy shape. I don't think it had a working kitchen. We put in a laughably low bid and they didn't even respond to us. Oh well. Then we almost put a contract on a house on Beethoven, in Bevo. This was before the Bosnian migration, and the neighborhood was at a tipping point. It could get really good, or it could take a huge slide downward. Also the only house like itself on the block, but in pristine condition. Pristine. We chickened out.
I was surprised that Leland didn't tell us "don't call me, I'll call you." He didn't. He would call on Wednesdays, give me the new listings, and then Mike and I would do drive-by's. On Saturday or Sunday, then, we'd look at the one or two from the list that looked worthwhile.
Our second contract was on the second block west of Grand of Hartford. It would have been almost directly across from the Murphy house, actually, Kate, if you're reading this ;^) but our bid, which was $4,000 less than the asking price, was rejected with an offended tone. How dare we lowball them. Totally confused, Leland sent us over to Halliday. But haven't we seen the stuff over there? I asked, frustrated. We'd walked through Kerri & Clayton's house, which was still a boarding house then, and their next door neighbor's place. But we'd missed this one. An alley driveby looked promising. The next day, we walked through.
Lots of aesthetic..shall I call them mistakes?..but solid. The roof needed to go, but the price was low. The kitchen was 1980s, the dining room had a weird closet. Didn't like the butler's pantry bathroom redo. Some nice mantles. It wasn't fabulous, but Leland was either tired of us or knew better than we did. We put a contract in on it and were homeowners the next month. [Note: the Hartford folks called back looking for us two days after we closed--would we still be interested??].
So that's why we're here and not at Mary Magdalene. That's why we're talking about our June camping trip with Corey's little Missouri camping guidebook and eating Janine's fabulous mashed potatoes. That's why our kids were at my house with three babysitters having a "kid party". That's how we've somehow gotten the best parts of auld lang syne--the stuff that the county dwellers wish still existed but "just can't in this day and age." You can't force this into existence, but if you're lucky and play your mah jongg tiles right, you can wake up and find it right around you on a one-way city block in a rundown midwestern city. Who'd a thunk.
365: Keep Christmas With You
Total late-70s cheesiness. But I had it on vinyl and it was awesome:
It's not quite over for us--we have one more Christmas gathering the night of the first. But for the most part, and for the kids, it's done. We have presents put away and food put away, literally, and the tree is looking crispy. I need to get up to church and water the poinsettias because I dread what has happened to them all week (probably nothing since I didn't have much of a plan).
Every year I have a hard time between Christmas and New Year's, but not this one. Maybe because I'm older or wiser, maybe because it wasn't too cold. Probably because it wasn't too cold. Mike's brothers and girlfriends came down to Cairo for the last day or so that we were there. I like them so much. I didn't have to see a single one of Mike's dad's side of the family, except for his grandmother, which is fine. The result of that is that Christmas night, I didn't have to down a bottle of wine or anything harder (in accordance with prophecy, somebody's gotta get drunk a belligerent on Christmas, right? Oh, yeah, that's my family, not his...).
In the liturgical year, Christmas keeps going. This Sunday is Epiphany, and the next is the last Sunday of Christmas for 2008. A little bit of stale-feeling ordinary time comes then, but short, since Easter is so early this year. Then it'll be Lent and we'll find out if Sophia got into the school for next year and summer vacation and camping and so far away from the idea of Christmas. I think I'll start yearning for it in May. Beat the rush.
It's not quite over for us--we have one more Christmas gathering the night of the first. But for the most part, and for the kids, it's done. We have presents put away and food put away, literally, and the tree is looking crispy. I need to get up to church and water the poinsettias because I dread what has happened to them all week (probably nothing since I didn't have much of a plan).
Every year I have a hard time between Christmas and New Year's, but not this one. Maybe because I'm older or wiser, maybe because it wasn't too cold. Probably because it wasn't too cold. Mike's brothers and girlfriends came down to Cairo for the last day or so that we were there. I like them so much. I didn't have to see a single one of Mike's dad's side of the family, except for his grandmother, which is fine. The result of that is that Christmas night, I didn't have to down a bottle of wine or anything harder (in accordance with prophecy, somebody's gotta get drunk a belligerent on Christmas, right? Oh, yeah, that's my family, not his...).
In the liturgical year, Christmas keeps going. This Sunday is Epiphany, and the next is the last Sunday of Christmas for 2008. A little bit of stale-feeling ordinary time comes then, but short, since Easter is so early this year. Then it'll be Lent and we'll find out if Sophia got into the school for next year and summer vacation and camping and so far away from the idea of Christmas. I think I'll start yearning for it in May. Beat the rush.
365: A few last things (Grinch, first)
You're a bad banana with a greasy black peel
Golly I love this song.
I wasn't a grinch this Christmas. We stayed in Cairo for 4 days and nights, letting the girls play excellently with their cousins (the older ones are at an age where they don't fight constantly, and their younger companions follow suit, usually). I finished my pink sweater. Planned next year's Christmas gift list. Started the next part of my obsessive novel (not that it is obsessive, just that I am--thanks to Mali's link to nanowrimo, I am back to writing bad fiction instead of just bad vignettes about songs). Ate sour cream cookies and fudge and tried the fruit cake (I'm a dark fruit cake girl; this one was light and a little too drunk even for me). Visited, talked, watched Law & Order to the exclusion of all others. But we stayed a long time this year, probably the longest we've stayed in 5 years.
I'm done now, though. I'm ready for Christmas to be put away and the house vacuumed and the kids back to school. In that way, I'm kind of a grinch. In the back of my head, I'm gearing up for the possibilities for next Christmas--since if all goes well and the river don't rise and all that jazz, I may be with child or recently delivered of said potential currently unconceived child. That always makes life interesting. And me, well, a total wreck. So this was a good year. Trying to always look forward and backward at the same time.
Golly I love this song.
I wasn't a grinch this Christmas. We stayed in Cairo for 4 days and nights, letting the girls play excellently with their cousins (the older ones are at an age where they don't fight constantly, and their younger companions follow suit, usually). I finished my pink sweater. Planned next year's Christmas gift list. Started the next part of my obsessive novel (not that it is obsessive, just that I am--thanks to Mali's link to nanowrimo, I am back to writing bad fiction instead of just bad vignettes about songs). Ate sour cream cookies and fudge and tried the fruit cake (I'm a dark fruit cake girl; this one was light and a little too drunk even for me). Visited, talked, watched Law & Order to the exclusion of all others. But we stayed a long time this year, probably the longest we've stayed in 5 years.
I'm done now, though. I'm ready for Christmas to be put away and the house vacuumed and the kids back to school. In that way, I'm kind of a grinch. In the back of my head, I'm gearing up for the possibilities for next Christmas--since if all goes well and the river don't rise and all that jazz, I may be with child or recently delivered of said potential currently unconceived child. That always makes life interesting. And me, well, a total wreck. So this was a good year. Trying to always look forward and backward at the same time.
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