Wow, almost a full week between posts. Not intentional. I did spend the weekend at the monastery, with Rachel, which was a wonderful little break for me. But I'm worried that our oblate director isn't going to make it to the next oblate meeting, frankly, since she can hardly speak a sentence without gagging, from all the asthma treatment she's endured through the years. "It feels like I've been burned from the chin down," she told me at dinner Friday.
We'd gotten there too late to make it in the door for vespers--they lock the door promptly at 6:00, ever since the shooting at Conception Abbey in 2002. We tried the front door, but the bell only rings to the portress' office, which, of course, would be empty at dinnertime. So we walked down the way to the nursing home, which is the nicest nursing home I've ever visited, and had dinner with Sr. Jean Frances. When I first started coming to Clyde, Jean was in charge of the nursing home and the oblate program...now it appears that she is a resident at the nursing home, and on the memory/alzheimer's wing to boot. That's where she was placed, which means she's in a locked ward (I can only assume she still has the code to the doors) with bad food. Weird. Anyway, we met with her right then and then not again all weekend. Fr. Prior Daniel came over to chat on Saturday morning and the rest of the day was ours. Rachel and I didn't stay through Sunday, so I don't know who ran the oblation ceremony after day prayer--two women were making their oblations and one was entering the year of formation.
Back in April, Sr. Mary told me I'd better go this fall (it is crunching very close to our trip to Tennessee and I felt a little squashed) because otherwise, I'd look around 3 years from now and realize I hadn't been to Clyde. I would fall out of the habit, so to speak. Har. Anyway, she was more right than I could have imagined.
The sisters are deconstructing the southern wing of their main building. It's ancient and sucks heat and they don't run an orphanage and have 90 sisters living on the premises, etc. They don't need the room. In the process of taking down that wing, they are also rehabbing the rest of the building--it was built in stages (they are not a richly endowed order--they showed up on request of the Conception Abbey monks and nobody even met them at the train station...crops failed, they were trying to house and feed orphans of poverty (parents dropped them off at the door), and so on), and none of the different parts of the house have the same floor level across a wing. You turn a corner and have to go down a step to continue. This isn't such a good plan when most of your sisters are over 50. So they're all moving out of the house, essentially, and into the guest houses.
For two years--we don't have a place there for two years. This wouldn't be a great big deal if they were in Kansas City or St. Louis or something--we could commute from a hotel, for instance, and still have the day. But Clyde, although Sr. Sean said, tongue in cheek, that it would soon "be printed on your better globes," is not a city. Its population is 74. Maryville isn't far, and Conception Abbey is technically in walking distance (although Rachel and I gave up Saturday afternoon and hitched a ride halfway there with some other oblates headed that way in their car). We could stay at Conception and come over to Clyde for the days. Which is probably how they'll handle it, frankly. But I hear that Conception isn't quite as accommodating...I mean, our rooms at Clyde are posh in comparison. Of course, that's not why I go.
So I won't be making it in February, since I'll have a 2 week old, regardless of the plan. Maybe in May I'll make the trip again (by then Rachel will have her third as well and I could drop by to say hello on my way home). But I'm glad I went this time because it does get tricky for a while.
I have pictures of the windmills--Conception Wind Farm is up and running. They aren't nearly as loud as people claim. Kind of a whirr in the background, but no more than a jet passing way up above the clouds. They are disconcerting set against the grounds, but they make me happy. No time to get that uploaded and put together at the moment; I'll get back to it in a few days. Right now I need to handle life here and think forward to what's next.
Monday, September 29, 2008
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
A 419 of a different sort...
You know 419 letters, right? The "Please to be helping with my million dollars stuck in foreign banks God bless" letters from Nigeria? Here's a new twist. The September 23rd entry.
Because I have time to waste...
This is my first kaleidoscope, made in GIMP. I did it "by hand," as much as anyone does anything by hand on computer--I took an image (in this case, from St. Pius V stained glass) and cut a pie wedge out, flipped it and rotated it and so on. I couldn't find a GIMP plug-in to do it automatically...if I do find one, I will definitely use it, but I'm happy with this one all the same. Not perfect--it's not quite even, and I see where it doesn't reflect exactly. But neither do most real kaleidoscopes, either.
And in other time wasters, the BBC show "The IT Crowd" is painful but amusing. Painful because man, I know these people.
Monday, September 22, 2008
Going to the Monastery
I'm leaving for Kansas City on Thursday. Rachel (Sophia's godmother and one of my sisters-of-a-different-mother) and I are going to Clyde Friday afternoon to visit the monastery there, where I'm an oblate. Mike is staying right here, with both girls.
A large part of my brain is already there. And the rest of my brain is panicking like a little kid caught drawing on the wall. I get to ride the train there (for $25 each way), I get to spend the weekend with Rachel, with the sisters, with the place. I will knit on the train and not have to take anyone to the bathroom or feed anyone snacks and be alone just as a grown up with no attachments. I will sleep and pray and eat and talk about important things with people I respect and care for.
This is a gift I give myself. I have to keep reminding myself of this every time I think "I can't go to Clyde this February..." It is not an obligation. It is something just for me. Now, I probably can't go to Clyde THIS February, since baby's arrival will be around the 16th of January or so and I won't even be staggering down the stairs the first weekend of February. But I can go in May. Really, I can. With Edward Something in tow.
Which is part of why I'm so very much looking forward to this trip.
But the panicking? It's legitimate. Atrium calls to me; I have meetings and things I have to plan (trees, dog care while we're gone in Tennessee) and girl scouts and packing and housework and just 3 short days to get it all done in.
And I'm awake. It's after 12:30 in the morning and I'm still up. Daft. But it's because I'm actually already asleep in St. Joseph's House with the window open and the alarm set for Dark (like 4:45 a.m. dark).
A large part of my brain is already there. And the rest of my brain is panicking like a little kid caught drawing on the wall. I get to ride the train there (for $25 each way), I get to spend the weekend with Rachel, with the sisters, with the place. I will knit on the train and not have to take anyone to the bathroom or feed anyone snacks and be alone just as a grown up with no attachments. I will sleep and pray and eat and talk about important things with people I respect and care for.
This is a gift I give myself. I have to keep reminding myself of this every time I think "I can't go to Clyde this February..." It is not an obligation. It is something just for me. Now, I probably can't go to Clyde THIS February, since baby's arrival will be around the 16th of January or so and I won't even be staggering down the stairs the first weekend of February. But I can go in May. Really, I can. With Edward Something in tow.
Which is part of why I'm so very much looking forward to this trip.
But the panicking? It's legitimate. Atrium calls to me; I have meetings and things I have to plan (trees, dog care while we're gone in Tennessee) and girl scouts and packing and housework and just 3 short days to get it all done in.
And I'm awake. It's after 12:30 in the morning and I'm still up. Daft. But it's because I'm actually already asleep in St. Joseph's House with the window open and the alarm set for Dark (like 4:45 a.m. dark).
Sunday, September 21, 2008
A Meme from Annie (a.k.a., I slept through 1992)
From Annie. Mostly no one will care...but I blogged about music over here so I couldn't leave well enough alone.
The rules (which I have changed due to my inability to figure out how to strikethrough on blogger):
A) Go to Music Outfitters
B) Enter the year you graduated from high school in the search function and get the list of 100 most popular songs of that year
C) Annotate your list:
Bold the songs you like, italicize your favorites. Do nothing to the ones you don’t remember (or don’t care about), and change the font color to red if you would lunge violently at the radio and break one or more fingernails trying to change the station as fast as possible.
And all I gotta say right here is that I must have been listening to some other station that year. Where is Tori Amos? Pearl Jam? Trent Reznor? Could we have a little less Richard Marx, please? But the few that I do recognize, if I've blogged about them on Most Nigh, I linked them up right here.
1. End Of The Road, Boyz II Men
2. Baby Got Back, Sir Mix A-lot
3. Jump, Kris Kross
4. Save The Best For Last, Vanessa Williams
5. Baby-Baby-Baby, TLC
6. Tears In Heaven, Eric Clapton (one time last summer, this was on THREE stations at the same time)
7. My Lovin' (You're Never Gonna Get It), En Vogue
8. Under The Bridge, Red Hot Chili Peppers
9. All 4 Love, Color Me Badd
10. Just Another Day, Jon Secada
11. I Love Your Smile, Shanice
12. To Be With You, Mr. Big
13. I'm Too Sexy, Right Said Fred
14. Black Or White, Michael Jackson
15. Achy Breaky Heart, Billy Ray Cyrus (really? I mean, I know, but where's the rest of the country music??)
16. I'll Be There, Mariah Carey
17. November Rain, Guns N' Roses
18. Life Is A Highway, Tom Cochrane
19. Remember The Time, Michael Jackson
20. Finally, CeCe Peniston
21. This Used To Be My Playground, Madonna
22. Sometimes Love Just Ain't Enough, Patty Smyth
23. Can't Let Go, Mariah Carey
24. Jump Around, House Of Pain
25. Diamonds and Pearls, Prince and The N.P.G.
26. Don't Let The Sun Go Down On Me, George Michael and Elton John
27. Masterpiece, Atlantic Starr
28. If You Asked Me To, Celine Dion
29. Giving Him Something He Can Feel, En Vogue
30. Live and Learn, Joe Public
31. Come and Talk To Me, Jodeci
32. Smells Like Teen Spirit, Nirvana
33. Humpin' Around, Bobby Brown
34. Damn I Wish I Was Your Lover, Sophie B. Hawkins
35. Tell Me What You Want Me To Do, Teven Campbell
36. Ain't 2 Proud 2 Beg, TLC
37. It's So Hard To Say Goodbye To Yesterday, Boyz II Men (oh, but there's a story here)
38. Move This, Technotronic
39. Bohemian Rhapsody, Queen (really? 1992?)
40. Tennessee, Arrested Development
41. The Best Things In Life Are Free, Luther Vandross and Janet Jackson
42. Make It Happen, Mariah Carey
43. The One, Elton John
44. Set Adrift On Memory Bliss, P.M. Dawn
45. Stay, Shakespear's Sister
46. 2 Legit 2 Quit, Hammer
47. Please Don't Go, K.W.S.
48. Breakin' My Heart (Pretty Brown Eyes), Mint Condition
49. Wishing On A Star, Cover Girls
50. She's Playing Hard To Get, Hi-Five
51. I'd Die Without You, P.M. Dawn
52. Good For Me, Amy Grant
53. All I Want, Toad The Wet Sprocket
54. When A Man Loves A Woman, Michael Bolton
55. I Can't Dance, Genesis
56. Hazard, Richard Marx
57. Mysterious Ways, U2
58. Too Funky, George Michael
59. How Do You Talk To An Angel, Heights
60. One, U2
61. Keep On Walkin', CeCe Peniston
62. Hold On My Heart, Genesis
63. The Way I Feel About You, Karyn White
64. Beauty and The Beast, Calms Dion and Peabo Bryson
65. Warm It Up, Kris Kross
66. In The Closet, Michael Jackson
67. People Everyday, Arrested Development
68. No Son Of Nine, Genesis
69. Wildside, Marky Mark and The Funky Bunch
70. Do I Have To Say The Words?, Bryan Adams
71. Friday I'm In Love, Cure
72. Everything About You, Ugly Kid Joe
73. Blowing Kisses In The Wind, Paula Abdul
74. Thought I'd Died and Gone To Heaven, Bryan Adams
75. Rhythm Is A Dancer, Snap
76. Addams Groove, Hammer
77. Missing You Now, Michael Bolton
78. Back To The Hotel, N2Deep
79. Everything Changes, Kathy Troccoli
80. Have You Ever Needed Somone So Bad, Def Leppard
81. Take This Heart, Richard Marx
82. When I Look Into Your Eyes, Firehouse
83. I Wanna Love You, Jade
84. Uhh Ahh, Boyz II Men
85. Real Love, Mary J. Blige
86. Justified and Ancient, The KLF
87. Slow Motion, Color Me Badd
88. What About Your Friends, TLC
89. Thinkin' Back, Color Me Badd
90. Would I Lie To You?, Charles and Eddie
91. That's What Love Is For, Amy Grant
92. Keep Coming Back, Richard Marx
93. Free Your Mind, En Vogue
94. Keep It Comin', Keith Sweat
95. Just Take My Heart, Mr. Big
96. I Will Remember You, Amy Grant
97. We Got A Love Thang, CeCe Peniston
98. Let's Get Rocked, Def Leppard
99. They Want EFX, Das EFX
100. I Can't Make You Love Me, Bonnie Raitt
The rules (which I have changed due to my inability to figure out how to strikethrough on blogger):
A) Go to Music Outfitters
B) Enter the year you graduated from high school in the search function and get the list of 100 most popular songs of that year
C) Annotate your list:
Bold the songs you like, italicize your favorites. Do nothing to the ones you don’t remember (or don’t care about), and change the font color to red if you would lunge violently at the radio and break one or more fingernails trying to change the station as fast as possible.
And all I gotta say right here is that I must have been listening to some other station that year. Where is Tori Amos? Pearl Jam? Trent Reznor? Could we have a little less Richard Marx, please? But the few that I do recognize, if I've blogged about them on Most Nigh, I linked them up right here.
1. End Of The Road, Boyz II Men
2. Baby Got Back, Sir Mix A-lot
3. Jump, Kris Kross
4. Save The Best For Last, Vanessa Williams
5. Baby-Baby-Baby, TLC
6. Tears In Heaven, Eric Clapton (one time last summer, this was on THREE stations at the same time)
7. My Lovin' (You're Never Gonna Get It), En Vogue
8. Under The Bridge, Red Hot Chili Peppers
9. All 4 Love, Color Me Badd
10. Just Another Day, Jon Secada
11. I Love Your Smile, Shanice
12. To Be With You, Mr. Big
13. I'm Too Sexy, Right Said Fred
14. Black Or White, Michael Jackson
15. Achy Breaky Heart, Billy Ray Cyrus (really? I mean, I know, but where's the rest of the country music??)
16. I'll Be There, Mariah Carey
17. November Rain, Guns N' Roses
18. Life Is A Highway, Tom Cochrane
19. Remember The Time, Michael Jackson
20. Finally, CeCe Peniston
21. This Used To Be My Playground, Madonna
22. Sometimes Love Just Ain't Enough, Patty Smyth
23. Can't Let Go, Mariah Carey
24. Jump Around, House Of Pain
25. Diamonds and Pearls, Prince and The N.P.G.
26. Don't Let The Sun Go Down On Me, George Michael and Elton John
27. Masterpiece, Atlantic Starr
28. If You Asked Me To, Celine Dion
29. Giving Him Something He Can Feel, En Vogue
30. Live and Learn, Joe Public
31. Come and Talk To Me, Jodeci
32. Smells Like Teen Spirit, Nirvana
33. Humpin' Around, Bobby Brown
34. Damn I Wish I Was Your Lover, Sophie B. Hawkins
35. Tell Me What You Want Me To Do, Teven Campbell
36. Ain't 2 Proud 2 Beg, TLC
37. It's So Hard To Say Goodbye To Yesterday, Boyz II Men (oh, but there's a story here)
38. Move This, Technotronic
39. Bohemian Rhapsody, Queen (really? 1992?)
40. Tennessee, Arrested Development
41. The Best Things In Life Are Free, Luther Vandross and Janet Jackson
42. Make It Happen, Mariah Carey
43. The One, Elton John
44. Set Adrift On Memory Bliss, P.M. Dawn
45. Stay, Shakespear's Sister
46. 2 Legit 2 Quit, Hammer
47. Please Don't Go, K.W.S.
48. Breakin' My Heart (Pretty Brown Eyes), Mint Condition
49. Wishing On A Star, Cover Girls
50. She's Playing Hard To Get, Hi-Five
51. I'd Die Without You, P.M. Dawn
52. Good For Me, Amy Grant
53. All I Want, Toad The Wet Sprocket
54. When A Man Loves A Woman, Michael Bolton
55. I Can't Dance, Genesis
56. Hazard, Richard Marx
57. Mysterious Ways, U2
58. Too Funky, George Michael
59. How Do You Talk To An Angel, Heights
60. One, U2
61. Keep On Walkin', CeCe Peniston
62. Hold On My Heart, Genesis
63. The Way I Feel About You, Karyn White
64. Beauty and The Beast, Calms Dion and Peabo Bryson
65. Warm It Up, Kris Kross
66. In The Closet, Michael Jackson
67. People Everyday, Arrested Development
68. No Son Of Nine, Genesis
69. Wildside, Marky Mark and The Funky Bunch
70. Do I Have To Say The Words?, Bryan Adams
71. Friday I'm In Love, Cure
72. Everything About You, Ugly Kid Joe
73. Blowing Kisses In The Wind, Paula Abdul
74. Thought I'd Died and Gone To Heaven, Bryan Adams
75. Rhythm Is A Dancer, Snap
76. Addams Groove, Hammer
77. Missing You Now, Michael Bolton
78. Back To The Hotel, N2Deep
79. Everything Changes, Kathy Troccoli
80. Have You Ever Needed Somone So Bad, Def Leppard
81. Take This Heart, Richard Marx
82. When I Look Into Your Eyes, Firehouse
83. I Wanna Love You, Jade
84. Uhh Ahh, Boyz II Men
85. Real Love, Mary J. Blige
86. Justified and Ancient, The KLF
87. Slow Motion, Color Me Badd
88. What About Your Friends, TLC
89. Thinkin' Back, Color Me Badd
90. Would I Lie To You?, Charles and Eddie
91. That's What Love Is For, Amy Grant
92. Keep Coming Back, Richard Marx
93. Free Your Mind, En Vogue
94. Keep It Comin', Keith Sweat
95. Just Take My Heart, Mr. Big
96. I Will Remember You, Amy Grant
97. We Got A Love Thang, CeCe Peniston
98. Let's Get Rocked, Def Leppard
99. They Want EFX, Das EFX
100. I Can't Make You Love Me, Bonnie Raitt
An Award from Indigo Bunting
I started this over on Alphabridge but wanted to pass it along over here. Happy evening courtesy of Indigo Bunting, who has just awarded me this award.
I've never received a blog award before...I read many blogs where people pass awards back and forth, but never has it gone to me. I'm not saying I'm the Susan Lucci of blogging, because most awards are things like "happiest blogger I know" and "kick-ass mamma" and things like that. I'm not really sure what this one is, frankly, because I think it doesn't have much to do with me...I mean, as blog design goes, my blogs have bare minimum blogger tweaking and a photo at the top. But here are the five little rules. I feel like an 8 year old who's just received her first chain letter.
1. Pick five blogs that you consider deserve this award for creativity, design, interesting material, and also contribute to the blogger community, no matter what language.
2. Each award has to have the name of the author and also a link to his or her blog to be visited by everyone.
3. Each of the award-winning has to show the award and put the name and link to the blog that has given her or him the award itself.
4. Award winner and the one who has given the prize have to show the link of Arte y pico blog, so everyone will know the origin of this award.
5. To show these rules.
6. Send postcards to the first two people on the list. If everyone does this, you'll receive 36,000 postcards by the end of the month!! Really! It works! Ok, that one's not a rule.
But it is a nice way to say nice things about other people you read. Indigo Bunting has some very nice things about me that really very much made my day:
So now I get to pass it on. Very cute. I choose the following--my one other criterion (do I have that right) is that any random entry on that blog has fewer than 10 comments. Power to the little blogger! And there are blogs that aren't here that deserve to be, of course--like Elizabeth's, due to its completely understandable password protection, and Stephen (aka Q) at Emerging from Babel because, alas, he has been too silent over there
1. Cats, Bicycles, and Vintage Dresses. This is my sister's blog. The youngest. I like reading her because it strikes me every time that holy crap, she's an adult. She's the photo at the top of this page at the moment. She is everything she looks like. Her blog is a mix of story and poetry and pictures and movies. And the title kind of sums her up. Completely.
2. Happy Notions. Kaylen is Mike's brother Pete's girlfriend. Mike has two brothers, Pete and Steve, and although they don't look alike (they are twins) it is sometimes hard to keep them separate in my mind. Having girlfriends has helped a great deal. But that's nothing to do with Kaylen's blog. It truly is just happy notions. She posts about things she finds online that are cute or interesting. She cries at commercials, most recently, and has pretty little pictures of clothes she likes and things that Pete and she are up to. Another one of those shocking moments when I have to realize that these boys, who were 10 when I got married, are now grown ups themselves. And I know the idea of the college relationship can be either tenuous or cemented, and so I try to just hope from the sidelines. And keep my big mouth shut.
3. It's Not All Mary Poppins, written by Mary, who is a home-based daycare provider in Canada. I love that her blog lists her childcare philosophy and her cast of characters. She manages to post photos of her little ones without having any of them look at the camera ever. And her recurring toddler dialogue posts, like this one, are worth their weight in gold.
4. Annie Knits. In late winter 2006, she mentioned that she'd started blogging. And by the end of the car trip, she'd almost convinced me to do the same. I think I'm about 10 or 12 years younger than Annie, and I feel just about that far behind. Which is good. She does things I want to do and things I can do, but just not as fast or as well as she does. Her blog is mostly a recording of the things she does, with the usual smattering of news about family and dogs and so forth. I wish more of my fellow parishioners would blog (and tell me about it, of course).
5. Going in Circles. Kate, in Australia, is one I've only recently started reading. But the pictures are thought provoking and the way she tells a story, I keep waiting for my style of thud at the end, and it doesn't happen (and I am always glad of that). I want to read more.
6. My honorable mentions, people maybe you should go take a look at? My mom over at Running on Empty. She should write more. Texan Mama at Who Put Me In Charge of These People? because when she writes about things like comparing children to white carpeting I laugh and cry...and she also blogs about things that matter to me. K, Nutsy--basically, if you make the blogroll on the side, you know I read you and that I like what you say. I miss you when you go away (~Easy? Helen?) and hope you return to talk to me some more. And there are others that I've just started reading...that may soon show up to the right there. It's fascinating and satisfying how these little tendrils reach out and find folks from all over with all sorts of things to say. Where would I be without blogs? I guess my house would be cleaner...but I'd certainly have less to think about.
I've never received a blog award before...I read many blogs where people pass awards back and forth, but never has it gone to me. I'm not saying I'm the Susan Lucci of blogging, because most awards are things like "happiest blogger I know" and "kick-ass mamma" and things like that. I'm not really sure what this one is, frankly, because I think it doesn't have much to do with me...I mean, as blog design goes, my blogs have bare minimum blogger tweaking and a photo at the top. But here are the five little rules. I feel like an 8 year old who's just received her first chain letter.1. Pick five blogs that you consider deserve this award for creativity, design, interesting material, and also contribute to the blogger community, no matter what language.
2. Each award has to have the name of the author and also a link to his or her blog to be visited by everyone.
3. Each of the award-winning has to show the award and put the name and link to the blog that has given her or him the award itself.
4. Award winner and the one who has given the prize have to show the link of Arte y pico blog, so everyone will know the origin of this award.
5. To show these rules.
6. Send postcards to the first two people on the list. If everyone does this, you'll receive 36,000 postcards by the end of the month!! Really! It works! Ok, that one's not a rule.
But it is a nice way to say nice things about other people you read. Indigo Bunting has some very nice things about me that really very much made my day:
Bridgett’s Alphabridge: It’s where I read her now, although I should be trying to keep up with her South City Musings blog as well. Bridgett’s the gal who came right along with me from 365 to Dancing About Architecture to alphablogging. She is the only person to have completed the Dancing About Architecture project (kudos!). Bridgett has a way of bringing me into her world and making me feel it—yes, suddenly a world that is so very different from mine feels like my very own. Some of her last lines punch me in the gut. In a way that somehow keeps me coming back for more.
So now I get to pass it on. Very cute. I choose the following--my one other criterion (do I have that right) is that any random entry on that blog has fewer than 10 comments. Power to the little blogger! And there are blogs that aren't here that deserve to be, of course--like Elizabeth's, due to its completely understandable password protection, and Stephen (aka Q) at Emerging from Babel because, alas, he has been too silent over there
1. Cats, Bicycles, and Vintage Dresses. This is my sister's blog. The youngest. I like reading her because it strikes me every time that holy crap, she's an adult. She's the photo at the top of this page at the moment. She is everything she looks like. Her blog is a mix of story and poetry and pictures and movies. And the title kind of sums her up. Completely.
2. Happy Notions. Kaylen is Mike's brother Pete's girlfriend. Mike has two brothers, Pete and Steve, and although they don't look alike (they are twins) it is sometimes hard to keep them separate in my mind. Having girlfriends has helped a great deal. But that's nothing to do with Kaylen's blog. It truly is just happy notions. She posts about things she finds online that are cute or interesting. She cries at commercials, most recently, and has pretty little pictures of clothes she likes and things that Pete and she are up to. Another one of those shocking moments when I have to realize that these boys, who were 10 when I got married, are now grown ups themselves. And I know the idea of the college relationship can be either tenuous or cemented, and so I try to just hope from the sidelines. And keep my big mouth shut.
3. It's Not All Mary Poppins, written by Mary, who is a home-based daycare provider in Canada. I love that her blog lists her childcare philosophy and her cast of characters. She manages to post photos of her little ones without having any of them look at the camera ever. And her recurring toddler dialogue posts, like this one, are worth their weight in gold.
4. Annie Knits. In late winter 2006, she mentioned that she'd started blogging. And by the end of the car trip, she'd almost convinced me to do the same. I think I'm about 10 or 12 years younger than Annie, and I feel just about that far behind. Which is good. She does things I want to do and things I can do, but just not as fast or as well as she does. Her blog is mostly a recording of the things she does, with the usual smattering of news about family and dogs and so forth. I wish more of my fellow parishioners would blog (and tell me about it, of course).
5. Going in Circles. Kate, in Australia, is one I've only recently started reading. But the pictures are thought provoking and the way she tells a story, I keep waiting for my style of thud at the end, and it doesn't happen (and I am always glad of that). I want to read more.
6. My honorable mentions, people maybe you should go take a look at? My mom over at Running on Empty. She should write more. Texan Mama at Who Put Me In Charge of These People? because when she writes about things like comparing children to white carpeting I laugh and cry...and she also blogs about things that matter to me. K, Nutsy--basically, if you make the blogroll on the side, you know I read you and that I like what you say. I miss you when you go away (~Easy? Helen?) and hope you return to talk to me some more. And there are others that I've just started reading...that may soon show up to the right there. It's fascinating and satisfying how these little tendrils reach out and find folks from all over with all sorts of things to say. Where would I be without blogs? I guess my house would be cleaner...but I'd certainly have less to think about.
Saturday, September 20, 2008
Our Tree
We have a tree. We have many trees, in fact, too many. We have a silver maple trash tree in the front yard that we need to take down this fall before it gets too big for its britches. There's a lovely sweetgum on the tree lawn--I may be one of the few fans of sweetgums left in the midwest, We have several baby oaks in front, too, that I need to just close my eyes and cut off at the base. In the back, we share a gorgeous old magnolia that twists up in three trunks. It's old enough that Mary, who owned our house before us, told us that when the owners before her parents lived there, it was struck by lightning. That puts it at around 80, at least. Healthy and perfect. Around the yard, we have a redbud and two scarlet oaks and a silver-red maple hybrid--I think Anne behind me called it an Armstrong?--which means it's a straight silver maple, essentially. I like it, but I know it can't stay.
And then we have the mulberry. In this photo, it's on the right hand side. I don't have a full picture of it because it is unbeautiful and has a comfortable mind (from e.e. cummings, total flight of ideas there...).
It is on the alley. It is in the wires. It is part of the problem with the flickering electricity, and it is messy. The only good thing about this tree continuing to live is that, for whatever reason, it does not fruit. Our electric company did come through after the devastating storms of 2006 and trim the heck out of it--it sits firmly at the utility pole, but half its crown is missing--it doesn't have anything overhanging the alley or the high tension wires at all.
We had astounding bids. Like tuition for a year at a Catholic grade school astounding. A tree service took down a mulberry, a sycamore, a trash maple, and a sick elm behind us and I said, hey, can you give me a bid?
That was two years ago and we haven't taken the tree down yet. Mike took down one large overhanging branch last fall. And we trim it back where we can each summer. Our electric company took some more bites off the alley side. But it's still there. It is like a hydra--cut off a branch and by the end of the season, there are three in its place. Crazy weedy thing.
This afternoon, I mentioned the tree to my neighbors again, who said, basically, anytime is fine. Then I went to a barbecue at my parents' house, and lo and behold, my Uncle Glennon (named for the Cardinal, not the hospital) was there. Glennon, I think, has no fear. He's impossibly skinny and looks like someone who should play guitar in a country & western band. He smokes too much and drinks too much and, like me and my siblings and my father and all those Blakes, TALKS TOO MUCH. Everybody has his or her area of expertise, and there ain't no shutting us up. Glennon, it's trees.
"That won't be no thing," he tells me, smoking a cigarette in my empty parking pad, looking up at the wires. "Nothing but little trash branches and a million leaves. It'll be a full day's work, maybe 12 hours in a tree, and I'll charge you 15, let's say, an hour. You'll lose your fence, you might lose some plants and that maple tree, but you want to lose the maple tree anyway."
I tell him that if he wants to charge me that, he can do whatever he wants. We'll be stuck with the debris, but he'll take anything big enough and straight enough for fence posts, since mulberry "just don't rot." It also burns hot and long, like locust, and takes forever to dry out.
By Thanksgiving, if the river don't rise and the electric company doesn't hassle me about dropping my line into the house, we will be mulberry free. Of course, then we'll have to drill holes in the stump and fill it "fulla motor oil or kerosene," Glennon says while we're still at the barbecue.
"Or stump rot," my dad points out.
"Stump rot?" I ask.
"You can get it at the store," he says.
"You can buy a product called Stump Rot?"
I won't fill our alley tree stump with motor oil, dear neighbors. Or dynamite or saltpeter or all the other suggestions I've found online. I will probably try something like this combined with hyper-vigilant sucker-shoot removal. I've waited 8 years to take this baby down, I can fight a stump for 4 or 5 more. Surely.
And then we have the mulberry. In this photo, it's on the right hand side. I don't have a full picture of it because it is unbeautiful and has a comfortable mind (from e.e. cummings, total flight of ideas there...).
It is on the alley. It is in the wires. It is part of the problem with the flickering electricity, and it is messy. The only good thing about this tree continuing to live is that, for whatever reason, it does not fruit. Our electric company did come through after the devastating storms of 2006 and trim the heck out of it--it sits firmly at the utility pole, but half its crown is missing--it doesn't have anything overhanging the alley or the high tension wires at all.
We had astounding bids. Like tuition for a year at a Catholic grade school astounding. A tree service took down a mulberry, a sycamore, a trash maple, and a sick elm behind us and I said, hey, can you give me a bid?
That was two years ago and we haven't taken the tree down yet. Mike took down one large overhanging branch last fall. And we trim it back where we can each summer. Our electric company took some more bites off the alley side. But it's still there. It is like a hydra--cut off a branch and by the end of the season, there are three in its place. Crazy weedy thing.
This afternoon, I mentioned the tree to my neighbors again, who said, basically, anytime is fine. Then I went to a barbecue at my parents' house, and lo and behold, my Uncle Glennon (named for the Cardinal, not the hospital) was there. Glennon, I think, has no fear. He's impossibly skinny and looks like someone who should play guitar in a country & western band. He smokes too much and drinks too much and, like me and my siblings and my father and all those Blakes, TALKS TOO MUCH. Everybody has his or her area of expertise, and there ain't no shutting us up. Glennon, it's trees.
"That won't be no thing," he tells me, smoking a cigarette in my empty parking pad, looking up at the wires. "Nothing but little trash branches and a million leaves. It'll be a full day's work, maybe 12 hours in a tree, and I'll charge you 15, let's say, an hour. You'll lose your fence, you might lose some plants and that maple tree, but you want to lose the maple tree anyway."
I tell him that if he wants to charge me that, he can do whatever he wants. We'll be stuck with the debris, but he'll take anything big enough and straight enough for fence posts, since mulberry "just don't rot." It also burns hot and long, like locust, and takes forever to dry out.
By Thanksgiving, if the river don't rise and the electric company doesn't hassle me about dropping my line into the house, we will be mulberry free. Of course, then we'll have to drill holes in the stump and fill it "fulla motor oil or kerosene," Glennon says while we're still at the barbecue.
"Or stump rot," my dad points out.
"Stump rot?" I ask.
"You can get it at the store," he says.
"You can buy a product called Stump Rot?"
I won't fill our alley tree stump with motor oil, dear neighbors. Or dynamite or saltpeter or all the other suggestions I've found online. I will probably try something like this combined with hyper-vigilant sucker-shoot removal. I've waited 8 years to take this baby down, I can fight a stump for 4 or 5 more. Surely.
Forest Park Balloon Glow 2008
It was one of my first dates with Mike. Never mind that we went along with the other freshman adviser (Mike was the RA; I was a sophomore assistant, a more user-friendly version without real power, and we were there with another Mike who held the same position I did). September 1993. I'd just gotten out of the high school relationship (which I did badly), and we went to the balloon glow.
Went a few other times in the pre-children era. Then took Sophia and Maeve in 2005. Mike swears we took them in '06 and '07, but I didn't go. He even remembers where we parked. And that I was ticked off by how far away it was. I think he's amalgamating memories together. Once again, staying in one place too long creates a fog of memory for me.
Either way, we went last night. We got there and the younger daughter, bold little Maeve, said, "I want to go in a balloon." We explained that they weren't going up--they were just here to be pretty. "Then I want to stand in the baskets."
And she did. The American flag/stars and stripes balloon was allowing kids to step into the basket and pull on the flame valve. Sophia looked at that, along with a few of her friends, and said, "no way, it's hot and loud." No regrets over being timid at all. But Maeve wanted to. So we walked up and she pulled the valve and let out the huge flame into the balloon while I tried to get my heart restarted. Brent down the street is sometimes referred to as Mr. Safety Patrol, but I definitely follow as a close second (and beat him when it comes to water safety, I would bet). And there she is, my 4 year old, with her hand on a dang flamethrower, essentially.
The rest of the evening was pleasant, few mosquitoes, good weather, nice time.
Went a few other times in the pre-children era. Then took Sophia and Maeve in 2005. Mike swears we took them in '06 and '07, but I didn't go. He even remembers where we parked. And that I was ticked off by how far away it was. I think he's amalgamating memories together. Once again, staying in one place too long creates a fog of memory for me.
Either way, we went last night. We got there and the younger daughter, bold little Maeve, said, "I want to go in a balloon." We explained that they weren't going up--they were just here to be pretty. "Then I want to stand in the baskets."
And she did. The American flag/stars and stripes balloon was allowing kids to step into the basket and pull on the flame valve. Sophia looked at that, along with a few of her friends, and said, "no way, it's hot and loud." No regrets over being timid at all. But Maeve wanted to. So we walked up and she pulled the valve and let out the huge flame into the balloon while I tried to get my heart restarted. Brent down the street is sometimes referred to as Mr. Safety Patrol, but I definitely follow as a close second (and beat him when it comes to water safety, I would bet). And there she is, my 4 year old, with her hand on a dang flamethrower, essentially.
The rest of the evening was pleasant, few mosquitoes, good weather, nice time.
Industrial Vestiges
(Double posted on Alphabridge)
"Wait before you leave," Sr. Mary says to me after the worship commission meeting. "I have something for your dad." So I wait at the rectory dining room table for her, and she returns with a yellow cigar box.
I know these cigar boxes. I know where she must have found it. We recently sold our 100+ year old school building; the deal closes later this fall. It's the oldest building on our campus, where mass was held before the church was built in the 20s. I taught in this school building, a couple of years before it closed and we merged with other small, formerly segregated parishes (meaning, German, Irish, Polish, of course...) to form our current school just a few blocks southeast of us. Our school building has been purchased by a group looking to start a charter school next August, so the purpose will still be there (as opposed to those who thought they could turn it into senior housing..probably not, the way the plumbing is scattered around...). Anyway, there's a maintenance room on the bottom floor of the school as you enter from the parking lot side. It's always been "Steve's office" as long as I've known the school--he was hired the same August I was.
In fact, he's the reason why I was coated in chalk dust my first year--one of my classroom's old slate boards was mistreated and fell apart, so he put up plywood on top of it and spraypainted it with "chalkboard paint." That stuff is great for transforming a small board into a child's toy. It is not so great for a 4 x 16 foot panel in the room where MATH IS TAUGHT.
But I digress. His maintenance office had these shelves filled with the same yellow cigar boxes. Mary puts it down in front of me on the table and opens it.
Huh.
"Tom on the building and maintenance committee thought these might have something to do with woodworking," she explains.
I pick one up. They're heavy squares, about an 3/4 of an inch thick by 2 inches square. They are obviously used for creation of some kind, but how that would be accomplished is totally beyond me. Mary, Sr. Dorothy, and I of course immediately note the cruciform shape to many of them. Could these be some sort of interchangeable pieces in a carving kit? I think about how my dad turns wood to make knobs or table legs and such--but the blades that do that work look nothing like the outcome, since they spin around to curve all around. I think about spritz cookie presses, how the plates in them don't always look like the cookies they produce. I just don't know.
There have been other mysteries like this lately--an antique dealer showed me a strange pointed wooden thing earlier this summer, thinking a knitter might know what it was for. My best guess was rug punching, but I just didn't know. Obviously well-used and sturdy, but just a mysterious vestige now. So many things that, 50 or 100 years ago, were common and useful, have fallen out of use because of the loss of handcraft and the mechanization of many industrial crafts. I tell Mary I'll ask my dad.
I go there right after the meeting and plunk the box down on his kitchen counter. I preface: Mary doesn't know what these are, she thought you might. I open the box and he picks one up.
"It's a pipe-fitter die," he says immediately. "Puts threads on pipe. These fit into some sort of hand machine," he makes a motion with both his hands like he's turning a wheel or a handle on a press. "The pipe goes in the center. They should be marked," he looks at the one he has. I pick another up, marked 3/4R.
"Yeah. 3/4 inch pipe regular. As opposed to National Fine. National Standard. Oh, these might be old enough that the R means a right hand twist. Maybe."
"How do you know that?" I ask him. Sometimes the weird bits of knowledge just baffle me. Of course, I'm the same way in my own areas of interest.
"Because my father was a machinist," he points out like that should be obvious. "He had a whole set of these, except that they weren't square--I've never seen square ones."
I knew my grandfather was an airline mechanic, but then again, I guess I don't know much about what that means. It shouldn't surprise me. His basement and garage were full of mysterious dirty metal tools.
"Mary said you're welcome to them," I tell him, even though I realize now he probably has no use for them, and he confirms this suspicion.
"Unless I were going to make a whole set of interchangeable broomsticks or something." My mom suggests threading the ends of my wooden knitting needles and putting seasonal stops on them, like Santas at Christmastime.
"Ah, but to do that, you'd have to have the taps that go with these dies," he says. "It's a tap and die set. The dies make the threads on a screw, or bolt, or on the outside of a pipe. And the taps make the threads on the nut, or wherever the pipe is going to fit."
The conversation turns, so to speak, and I leave later with the box of square dies. I think about the 1950s, how my grandfather owned a set of these, new or recently new, and used them, perhaps every day, to do his job. I sit here at my computer, which my husband uses to do his job, and look at them as some kind of vestige, almost a sort of art.
I call my dad this morning to ask him again for the words "national fine" because I couldn't remember them to write this.
"You trying to sell them on ebay?" he asks.
"No, not yet anyway--I was just writing a blog entry about how little vestiges from the pre-electronic era, you know, the late industrial period, I guess, are now not much more than strange knick-knacks."
"Oh, no, people still use these, I mean, how do you think screws are made?"
"But they're made by machine, in a factory. They're not made by hand. People don't, you know, have these in their homes." In their garages soaked with oil, cardboard over the old teachers' desks turned black and greasy, with strange scary metal parts strewn across.
"A machinist or pipefitter might. You never know when something needs rethreading."
I'm thinking that pipe that needs rethreading these days will be discarded to the junk heap in favor of a new pipe. But I'd like to think that someone might use these still. I looked them up with Google and Ebay, looking for what to call them. Square taper pipe die. Used for rethreading, mostly in the oil and construction trades. You can still buy them new. I guess not everything is throwaway after all.
But unless Sr. Mary is clamoring for them back, I think they'll get a bath and a home on a shelf by the computer. Kind of a reminder of where we're from.
"Wait before you leave," Sr. Mary says to me after the worship commission meeting. "I have something for your dad." So I wait at the rectory dining room table for her, and she returns with a yellow cigar box.
I know these cigar boxes. I know where she must have found it. We recently sold our 100+ year old school building; the deal closes later this fall. It's the oldest building on our campus, where mass was held before the church was built in the 20s. I taught in this school building, a couple of years before it closed and we merged with other small, formerly segregated parishes (meaning, German, Irish, Polish, of course...) to form our current school just a few blocks southeast of us. Our school building has been purchased by a group looking to start a charter school next August, so the purpose will still be there (as opposed to those who thought they could turn it into senior housing..probably not, the way the plumbing is scattered around...). Anyway, there's a maintenance room on the bottom floor of the school as you enter from the parking lot side. It's always been "Steve's office" as long as I've known the school--he was hired the same August I was.
In fact, he's the reason why I was coated in chalk dust my first year--one of my classroom's old slate boards was mistreated and fell apart, so he put up plywood on top of it and spraypainted it with "chalkboard paint." That stuff is great for transforming a small board into a child's toy. It is not so great for a 4 x 16 foot panel in the room where MATH IS TAUGHT.
But I digress. His maintenance office had these shelves filled with the same yellow cigar boxes. Mary puts it down in front of me on the table and opens it.
Huh.
"Tom on the building and maintenance committee thought these might have something to do with woodworking," she explains.
I pick one up. They're heavy squares, about an 3/4 of an inch thick by 2 inches square. They are obviously used for creation of some kind, but how that would be accomplished is totally beyond me. Mary, Sr. Dorothy, and I of course immediately note the cruciform shape to many of them. Could these be some sort of interchangeable pieces in a carving kit? I think about how my dad turns wood to make knobs or table legs and such--but the blades that do that work look nothing like the outcome, since they spin around to curve all around. I think about spritz cookie presses, how the plates in them don't always look like the cookies they produce. I just don't know.
There have been other mysteries like this lately--an antique dealer showed me a strange pointed wooden thing earlier this summer, thinking a knitter might know what it was for. My best guess was rug punching, but I just didn't know. Obviously well-used and sturdy, but just a mysterious vestige now. So many things that, 50 or 100 years ago, were common and useful, have fallen out of use because of the loss of handcraft and the mechanization of many industrial crafts. I tell Mary I'll ask my dad.
I go there right after the meeting and plunk the box down on his kitchen counter. I preface: Mary doesn't know what these are, she thought you might. I open the box and he picks one up.
"It's a pipe-fitter die," he says immediately. "Puts threads on pipe. These fit into some sort of hand machine," he makes a motion with both his hands like he's turning a wheel or a handle on a press. "The pipe goes in the center. They should be marked," he looks at the one he has. I pick another up, marked 3/4R.
"Yeah. 3/4 inch pipe regular. As opposed to National Fine. National Standard. Oh, these might be old enough that the R means a right hand twist. Maybe."
"How do you know that?" I ask him. Sometimes the weird bits of knowledge just baffle me. Of course, I'm the same way in my own areas of interest.
"Because my father was a machinist," he points out like that should be obvious. "He had a whole set of these, except that they weren't square--I've never seen square ones."
I knew my grandfather was an airline mechanic, but then again, I guess I don't know much about what that means. It shouldn't surprise me. His basement and garage were full of mysterious dirty metal tools.
"Mary said you're welcome to them," I tell him, even though I realize now he probably has no use for them, and he confirms this suspicion.
"Unless I were going to make a whole set of interchangeable broomsticks or something." My mom suggests threading the ends of my wooden knitting needles and putting seasonal stops on them, like Santas at Christmastime.
"Ah, but to do that, you'd have to have the taps that go with these dies," he says. "It's a tap and die set. The dies make the threads on a screw, or bolt, or on the outside of a pipe. And the taps make the threads on the nut, or wherever the pipe is going to fit."
The conversation turns, so to speak, and I leave later with the box of square dies. I think about the 1950s, how my grandfather owned a set of these, new or recently new, and used them, perhaps every day, to do his job. I sit here at my computer, which my husband uses to do his job, and look at them as some kind of vestige, almost a sort of art.I call my dad this morning to ask him again for the words "national fine" because I couldn't remember them to write this.
"You trying to sell them on ebay?" he asks.
"No, not yet anyway--I was just writing a blog entry about how little vestiges from the pre-electronic era, you know, the late industrial period, I guess, are now not much more than strange knick-knacks."
"Oh, no, people still use these, I mean, how do you think screws are made?"
"But they're made by machine, in a factory. They're not made by hand. People don't, you know, have these in their homes." In their garages soaked with oil, cardboard over the old teachers' desks turned black and greasy, with strange scary metal parts strewn across.
"A machinist or pipefitter might. You never know when something needs rethreading."
I'm thinking that pipe that needs rethreading these days will be discarded to the junk heap in favor of a new pipe. But I'd like to think that someone might use these still. I looked them up with Google and Ebay, looking for what to call them. Square taper pipe die. Used for rethreading, mostly in the oil and construction trades. You can still buy them new. I guess not everything is throwaway after all.
But unless Sr. Mary is clamoring for them back, I think they'll get a bath and a home on a shelf by the computer. Kind of a reminder of where we're from.
Thursday, September 18, 2008
So, it's a baby on the way
Yup. Maeve went with me to the ultrasound. It's amazing what they can see, even if it will cost me the proverbial arm and leg. Cross sections of the spine (no neural tube defects), the upper lip (no cleft), other things she didn't elaborate on. Baby has all parts included, and baby is a boy.
I'm still wrapping my head around that bit of information. I have two wonderful girls. A boy? Really? Is that going to work? Are we going to be good boy parents? Some sets of parents are definitely one or the other. I don't care either way about gender this time (which is why I was willing to have her tell me). When I was pregnant with Maeve, I wanted another girl so badly, I knew if I found out in month 5 that I was having a boy, I'd spend the rest of the pregnancy absolutely crushed. But if a boy was born, surprise! I'd be fine. So we didn't find out, and I got my second girl anyhow. This time, I just didn't care. Whatever. As my neighbor Amanda put it, I just wanted the gender to be predetermined. I didn't want to have to choose. That makes me laugh every time I think about it--I mean, telling people that.
So he's well on his way. Youngest child, first grandson on both sides. Edward Something. Yes, Mary Helen, we're doing the Edward thing. Mike is Edward Michael, and his dad is Edward Jeffrey. Mike and Jeff. So we'll have an Edward Something and call him Something. My mother suggested Edward Ian (Edwardian), but I'm thinking, no puns. Plus my brother is Ian, even if that was a legitimate choice. We were thinking Edward Finn, but I'm worried about what bishop will be assigned here, and if it's Finn from KC, I don't want to answer that question for the next 5 years or whatever: Did you name him for the bishop? No. Same reason why we'll not be having a Benedict. And I'm not going to wait till the last moment to read whether we have Finn or someone else whose last name isn't one of our top boy name choices. There are other ones in the running, but they're actually more likely, so I'm waiting to reveal them. Like till he's born. I don't want any disappointments ("But I thought you were going to name him Edward Giovanni, and now you're ruined it for me!"). And no, Giovanni is not one of the choices.
So my anomaly scan, as it is sometimes referred to as, was all normal, so I can lean back and stop worrying about this pregnancy and start worrying about...Halloween costumes! Thanksgiving plans! Christmas gifts! Birthdays! I'm hoping it will keep me from negative fantasies about hurricanes, earthquakes, and other destruction. I get weird when I'm pregnant. Weirder. With Sophia, I got obsessed with rules--I was still teaching--and fairness. With Maeve, it was drug dealer surveillance. This one seems to be natural disasters. Joy.
PS--Maeve has decided a little brother will be ok (Sophia wanted a brother this time). If she gets to sleep on the top bunk, that is.
I'm still wrapping my head around that bit of information. I have two wonderful girls. A boy? Really? Is that going to work? Are we going to be good boy parents? Some sets of parents are definitely one or the other. I don't care either way about gender this time (which is why I was willing to have her tell me). When I was pregnant with Maeve, I wanted another girl so badly, I knew if I found out in month 5 that I was having a boy, I'd spend the rest of the pregnancy absolutely crushed. But if a boy was born, surprise! I'd be fine. So we didn't find out, and I got my second girl anyhow. This time, I just didn't care. Whatever. As my neighbor Amanda put it, I just wanted the gender to be predetermined. I didn't want to have to choose. That makes me laugh every time I think about it--I mean, telling people that.
So he's well on his way. Youngest child, first grandson on both sides. Edward Something. Yes, Mary Helen, we're doing the Edward thing. Mike is Edward Michael, and his dad is Edward Jeffrey. Mike and Jeff. So we'll have an Edward Something and call him Something. My mother suggested Edward Ian (Edwardian), but I'm thinking, no puns. Plus my brother is Ian, even if that was a legitimate choice. We were thinking Edward Finn, but I'm worried about what bishop will be assigned here, and if it's Finn from KC, I don't want to answer that question for the next 5 years or whatever: Did you name him for the bishop? No. Same reason why we'll not be having a Benedict. And I'm not going to wait till the last moment to read whether we have Finn or someone else whose last name isn't one of our top boy name choices. There are other ones in the running, but they're actually more likely, so I'm waiting to reveal them. Like till he's born. I don't want any disappointments ("But I thought you were going to name him Edward Giovanni, and now you're ruined it for me!"). And no, Giovanni is not one of the choices.
So my anomaly scan, as it is sometimes referred to as, was all normal, so I can lean back and stop worrying about this pregnancy and start worrying about...Halloween costumes! Thanksgiving plans! Christmas gifts! Birthdays! I'm hoping it will keep me from negative fantasies about hurricanes, earthquakes, and other destruction. I get weird when I'm pregnant. Weirder. With Sophia, I got obsessed with rules--I was still teaching--and fairness. With Maeve, it was drug dealer surveillance. This one seems to be natural disasters. Joy.
PS--Maeve has decided a little brother will be ok (Sophia wanted a brother this time). If she gets to sleep on the top bunk, that is.
Wednesday, September 17, 2008
Notes From Texas
A Tiger on Bolivar Peninsula.
Infectious Disease in Galveston.
The New York Times aftermath photos (Chronicle has many more, but this is a good, short sampling).
And Crystal Beach. From the Dallas Morning News, interviewing a woman with her name and SSN scrawled on her arm so her body could be identified. This isn't as painful as the comments below the article. They're all like "My dad lived on Crystal Beach and I don't have any word, his name is..."
And this one: Hey Matt, I'm your uncle Mark Chapman, Miles Brother. We've not heard anything either. I'm at Billy's in NC. Call Billy at 828-443-2537 as soon as you can. If anyone has any information about Crystal beach, please let us know.
The thing about Bolivar Peninsula is...from what I understand as not living there and not being there at the moment...is that the residents (besides the stubborn ones who would not have left anyway) thought they had till Friday morning to evacuate. So many of them were found in their cars by the Coast Guard on Friday, the water up to the roofs, waving at helicopters. They'd stayed to help a neighbor evacuate. They'd picked up a stranded motorist. But the storm surge flooded the place long before the skies started to darken. Like I said last night, I would have packed up the van and left the coast behind in the dust (well, the wet sand) long before that point...but a lot of people thought they had a little longer. And if they chose to take the ferry to Galveston instead of the eastern route off the peninsula, they found the ferry already shut down. And then it's too late to turn around. Not everyone in Crystal Beach and Bolivar was a stubborn "ride it out" maverick. Some of them just borrowed time they didn't have.
One thing I read, from a geologic surveyor or maybe it was the county judge or somebody--is that in West Galveston and the Bolivar Peninsula, they'll never find people. They've been washed to sea. They'll figure it out in the coming year when mail can't be forwarded and nobody has heard from them and folks get declared deceased.
Deep breath. Time for my "big" ultrasound, heading out the door. Life goes on--my one last contact down there besides my brother and his family is a guy I went to high school with. House and family came through ok. And he let me know he and his wife are expecting their second. So that's something good today.
Infectious Disease in Galveston.
The New York Times aftermath photos (Chronicle has many more, but this is a good, short sampling).
And Crystal Beach. From the Dallas Morning News, interviewing a woman with her name and SSN scrawled on her arm so her body could be identified. This isn't as painful as the comments below the article. They're all like "My dad lived on Crystal Beach and I don't have any word, his name is..."
And this one: Hey Matt, I'm your uncle Mark Chapman, Miles Brother. We've not heard anything either. I'm at Billy's in NC. Call Billy at 828-443-2537 as soon as you can. If anyone has any information about Crystal beach, please let us know.
The thing about Bolivar Peninsula is...from what I understand as not living there and not being there at the moment...is that the residents (besides the stubborn ones who would not have left anyway) thought they had till Friday morning to evacuate. So many of them were found in their cars by the Coast Guard on Friday, the water up to the roofs, waving at helicopters. They'd stayed to help a neighbor evacuate. They'd picked up a stranded motorist. But the storm surge flooded the place long before the skies started to darken. Like I said last night, I would have packed up the van and left the coast behind in the dust (well, the wet sand) long before that point...but a lot of people thought they had a little longer. And if they chose to take the ferry to Galveston instead of the eastern route off the peninsula, they found the ferry already shut down. And then it's too late to turn around. Not everyone in Crystal Beach and Bolivar was a stubborn "ride it out" maverick. Some of them just borrowed time they didn't have.
One thing I read, from a geologic surveyor or maybe it was the county judge or somebody--is that in West Galveston and the Bolivar Peninsula, they'll never find people. They've been washed to sea. They'll figure it out in the coming year when mail can't be forwarded and nobody has heard from them and folks get declared deceased.
Deep breath. Time for my "big" ultrasound, heading out the door. Life goes on--my one last contact down there besides my brother and his family is a guy I went to high school with. House and family came through ok. And he let me know he and his wife are expecting their second. So that's something good today.
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
I think it's bad now
The phone rings. I'm pouring flour into the butter, sugar, and eggs to make the cookie dough. Totally spontaneous decision after dinner. I pick up the phone, and except for typical little female communication "uh-huh" and "oh, wow" kind of stuff on my end, this is what I hear:
Bridgett? This is Ashley. You got any bread, milk and eggs we can borrow? Cause nobody down here has anything. The Wal*Mart closed early--it's 24 hour, it's not supposed to close--because they don't have food on their shelves. Kroger was out of everything. We lost all the stuff in the fridge and it's not like we stocked up big anyway, just what we usually had in the cabinet, you know. And we lost all the meat and milk and eggs, I didn't want to save any of that, you know? Didn't want to get salmonella from it or something. So everybody has heard that we have some power back up out here and nobody has any power so they're coming up here and there's no groceries left because anything you don't have to refrigerate people are buying up and taking back. And there's no gas anywhere. I waited for 2 hours for gas and all these people filling up gas cans for their generators and there's no place to buy it.
My parents can't leave their house because they have enough gas to get maybe to the next town to a gas station but if there's no gas there, they can't get back home. So they're out there, and FEMA hasn't even made it to Liberty County yet and my grandmother is 80 years old and no power and nothing so everybody's living at my aunt's house and you know my sister's car got crushed and there's no telling when the insurance adjuster will make it out there. Nobody's answering the phone at work and there aren't any title companies with power and people need to close on their houses and so I have to bet on making it to work and back home to pick up all these files, and my boss? She has $36 million in listings and half of them aren't sellable. Some of them are just gone. You can't sell a house that isn't there.
And did you see Bolivar? The media wasn't allowed to fly over until yesterday and the guy on channel 13 called the governor out on it, but he said it wasn't his problem, it was the FAA, but you know what? They didn't want anybody out there looking because they were afraid the place would be strewn with bodies. That place is just gone. And Galveston? It's never going to be the same. It is like a cesspool right now and they say it may take decades to bring the beaches back to what they used to be and a lot of people lost everything even if their houses are still standing. Nobody has any power, either. We do, but Steve? He called his power company and they said it might be early October. Can you believe that? He stood in line today for 8 hours for water and ice from a National Guard station. And my neighbor Chris is in the Reserve and he was called up to patrol or something down in Houston, where it's all a mess because all those buildings had their windows blown out. It's like we've been dropped in the middle of some kind of third world country. FedEx wouldn't deliver to Hempstead yesterday so Ian didn't get paid. Hempstead. Nothing's going on there. Why can't they deliver, huh? We're getting regular mail here at the house, which is great, just what I want, some bills with no groceries and Ian didn't get paid.
So like, I'm going to Hempstead tomorrow to look and see if the HEB has anything to sell me. I found toilet paper, the last 4 pack, at a Walgreens, and I bought it because I figure that you can eat tomato sauce with a spoon out of the jar but I don't know what the hell to do without toilet paper. I kept thinking, it'll be better Monday when the workweek starts, but it's not better. It's been since Friday when the water started rising and my babysitter evacuated to Austin and doesn't know when she'll be back because college is kind of postponed but Kennedy doesn't have school again till who knows when so Ian's going in late tomorrow so I can try to go to work and pick up those files. I bought a land line phone, I mean, we have one, but I bought one with an answering machine because all the calls for work are funneling to my house now. My cell doesn't work--the towers are down and overused and everything, so you'll need to call the house. Or you can leave a message on my cell phone because I can check messages late at night.
So like I was just wanting to give you an update and everything. It's not like we flooded or anything, but it's not good here.
I tell her good luck--I'll talk to you tomorrow--and hang up the phone. Put the cookies in the oven and try to let that all soak in a moment.
Bridgett? This is Ashley. You got any bread, milk and eggs we can borrow? Cause nobody down here has anything. The Wal*Mart closed early--it's 24 hour, it's not supposed to close--because they don't have food on their shelves. Kroger was out of everything. We lost all the stuff in the fridge and it's not like we stocked up big anyway, just what we usually had in the cabinet, you know. And we lost all the meat and milk and eggs, I didn't want to save any of that, you know? Didn't want to get salmonella from it or something. So everybody has heard that we have some power back up out here and nobody has any power so they're coming up here and there's no groceries left because anything you don't have to refrigerate people are buying up and taking back. And there's no gas anywhere. I waited for 2 hours for gas and all these people filling up gas cans for their generators and there's no place to buy it.
My parents can't leave their house because they have enough gas to get maybe to the next town to a gas station but if there's no gas there, they can't get back home. So they're out there, and FEMA hasn't even made it to Liberty County yet and my grandmother is 80 years old and no power and nothing so everybody's living at my aunt's house and you know my sister's car got crushed and there's no telling when the insurance adjuster will make it out there. Nobody's answering the phone at work and there aren't any title companies with power and people need to close on their houses and so I have to bet on making it to work and back home to pick up all these files, and my boss? She has $36 million in listings and half of them aren't sellable. Some of them are just gone. You can't sell a house that isn't there.
And did you see Bolivar? The media wasn't allowed to fly over until yesterday and the guy on channel 13 called the governor out on it, but he said it wasn't his problem, it was the FAA, but you know what? They didn't want anybody out there looking because they were afraid the place would be strewn with bodies. That place is just gone. And Galveston? It's never going to be the same. It is like a cesspool right now and they say it may take decades to bring the beaches back to what they used to be and a lot of people lost everything even if their houses are still standing. Nobody has any power, either. We do, but Steve? He called his power company and they said it might be early October. Can you believe that? He stood in line today for 8 hours for water and ice from a National Guard station. And my neighbor Chris is in the Reserve and he was called up to patrol or something down in Houston, where it's all a mess because all those buildings had their windows blown out. It's like we've been dropped in the middle of some kind of third world country. FedEx wouldn't deliver to Hempstead yesterday so Ian didn't get paid. Hempstead. Nothing's going on there. Why can't they deliver, huh? We're getting regular mail here at the house, which is great, just what I want, some bills with no groceries and Ian didn't get paid.
So like, I'm going to Hempstead tomorrow to look and see if the HEB has anything to sell me. I found toilet paper, the last 4 pack, at a Walgreens, and I bought it because I figure that you can eat tomato sauce with a spoon out of the jar but I don't know what the hell to do without toilet paper. I kept thinking, it'll be better Monday when the workweek starts, but it's not better. It's been since Friday when the water started rising and my babysitter evacuated to Austin and doesn't know when she'll be back because college is kind of postponed but Kennedy doesn't have school again till who knows when so Ian's going in late tomorrow so I can try to go to work and pick up those files. I bought a land line phone, I mean, we have one, but I bought one with an answering machine because all the calls for work are funneling to my house now. My cell doesn't work--the towers are down and overused and everything, so you'll need to call the house. Or you can leave a message on my cell phone because I can check messages late at night.
So like I was just wanting to give you an update and everything. It's not like we flooded or anything, but it's not good here.
I tell her good luck--I'll talk to you tomorrow--and hang up the phone. Put the cookies in the oven and try to let that all soak in a moment.
Perhaps it's time to scale back
I just folded 8 loads of laundry. No--actually, I folded 6, because two loads of Mike's work and Sophia's school clothes were simply transferred to the living room where I will iron them and wish I could drink amaretto sours this evening. Then I took Mike's laundry to his closet off the bathroom (old German built house: we have 4 closets in the whole danged place, two of which are too small for Sophia and Maeve to hide in together. The one in the front hall is a disaster, and the one large "trunk room" closet off the bathroom is where all the baby clothes, seasonal clothes, and Mike's clothes go). I glanced at the floor on the bathroom by the tub, which is where I sort (I wish I had a chute). I couldn't believe the pile that was developing. So I sorted it to get it started downstairs. I sorted out 5 loads. Five. Then I took one of those down. There was a load in the dryer and one in the washer. And one on the "folding table" that is never used for this. What the heck is going on here?
It is September, and summer clothes are being washed one last time to be put away. I was sick Sunday and so the sheet and blanket I used on the couch make up the load in the washer. But still. That's like...way too much clothing.
I got Maeve's fall clothes out and at first I was worried. All of her clothes are hand-me-downs and Value Village purchases (or gifts from relatives). So sometimes I lose perspective. We have a lot of kid clothes because they are cheap or free. But I looked at the box and thought, oh, this isn't going to cut it for the fall. Not enough here. I put them in the drawers, though, and there wasn't any room for anything else. I was too scared to trade out Sophia's just yet. I'm waiting until she's home to "help" me.
A big part of it is too many towels. The girls use way too many towels. And Maeve changes clothes three times a day if I don't catch her. Cause it ain't my clothes, let me tell you. I've been wearing the same 6 t-shirts and 4 pairs of yoga pant capris since I couldn't button the jeans anymore. Maybe I'm taking in laundry without realizing it.
Think of me tonight. I don't even have a decent movie to watch right now...I guess it's back to TV reruns on DVD while I steam and starch and hang ten dozen shirts and pants. But I'll feel so much more...accomplished...when it's done. Sure I will.
It is September, and summer clothes are being washed one last time to be put away. I was sick Sunday and so the sheet and blanket I used on the couch make up the load in the washer. But still. That's like...way too much clothing.
I got Maeve's fall clothes out and at first I was worried. All of her clothes are hand-me-downs and Value Village purchases (or gifts from relatives). So sometimes I lose perspective. We have a lot of kid clothes because they are cheap or free. But I looked at the box and thought, oh, this isn't going to cut it for the fall. Not enough here. I put them in the drawers, though, and there wasn't any room for anything else. I was too scared to trade out Sophia's just yet. I'm waiting until she's home to "help" me.
A big part of it is too many towels. The girls use way too many towels. And Maeve changes clothes three times a day if I don't catch her. Cause it ain't my clothes, let me tell you. I've been wearing the same 6 t-shirts and 4 pairs of yoga pant capris since I couldn't button the jeans anymore. Maybe I'm taking in laundry without realizing it.
Think of me tonight. I don't even have a decent movie to watch right now...I guess it's back to TV reruns on DVD while I steam and starch and hang ten dozen shirts and pants. But I'll feel so much more...accomplished...when it's done. Sure I will.
Monday, September 15, 2008
The pictures start trickling in
Ike was not a let down. Ike was bad. Ike was very very bad. Stunningly bad. The Houston Chronicle finally has new pictures up on their main site (if you have a moment, take a look--click on the picture on the left side to open up a window).
The damage done to Crystal Beach and Bolivar Peninsula and Galveston, it's like looking at a car wreck. The conditions on Galveston are deteriorating with raw sewage, hot temperatures, and stranded residents. I do not envy the emergency personnel who are trapped there. And while I'm the type of person who would have FLED the moment I saw that hurricane turn, I mean, I'm in the basement with my kids the moment the sky turns green in tornado season, I cannot wish this sort of grisly conditions on anyone. Not even Texans.
I think about people I used to know. I hope they're making it ok. It's the problem with too many past homes. You can't hold onto everyone you meet, not even everyone you kiss. Day to day, I don't think about what I lose and gain by leaving this or that place. But something like this and I'm left wondering.
Another reason to stay put, even if the Mississippi is rising again. I don't have to say so many mystery goodbyes.
Enough about me and my nostalgic melancholia. This hurricane, is not so great akshually.
The damage done to Crystal Beach and Bolivar Peninsula and Galveston, it's like looking at a car wreck. The conditions on Galveston are deteriorating with raw sewage, hot temperatures, and stranded residents. I do not envy the emergency personnel who are trapped there. And while I'm the type of person who would have FLED the moment I saw that hurricane turn, I mean, I'm in the basement with my kids the moment the sky turns green in tornado season, I cannot wish this sort of grisly conditions on anyone. Not even Texans.
I think about people I used to know. I hope they're making it ok. It's the problem with too many past homes. You can't hold onto everyone you meet, not even everyone you kiss. Day to day, I don't think about what I lose and gain by leaving this or that place. But something like this and I'm left wondering.
Another reason to stay put, even if the Mississippi is rising again. I don't have to say so many mystery goodbyes.
Enough about me and my nostalgic melancholia. This hurricane, is not so great akshually.
And...we're back
Meaning pregnancy induced intestinal bugs. Saturday, skip a day, Monday. I'm pleased as can be, lemme tell ya.
Why am I Catholic, Again?
So it's all got me thinking. I almost, this morning, considered starting another blog, and limiting religion to that, but then I decided it would attract too many aggravating people, plus, I need a 5th blog like I need a hole in the head (ok, so only two are active, but still). So I'm posting here, and then, seriously, I need to get back to knitting and neighbors and things kids say and so forth. I know. I won't abandon religion entirely (not with Advent crashing into us as fast as it is--and Christmas, and baby, and Atrium starting in like, three weeks....no, it won't go away).
My faith journey is not hard-won or anxious. It does fall directly in line with a little temporal lobe problem I seem to have (What is subclinical, Alex?) and I remember a former pastor sighing at me: Bridgett, you are so young to be worried about all this. Religion is important to me. Parish life is important to me. I think you make of it what you need.
I've been leaving the Catholic Church since my freshman year of college. Each version of "leaving" brought about a deeper understanding of what it means to be a person of faith. I never had a place I was jumping to--although I investigated the Orthodox and the Friends most thoroughly. Seems funny to have those two in the same basket of maybes. It makes sense to me.
I did not say yes in one fell swoop. I did not think my way to God or unthink my way there. I have a little bit of Jesuit background (small, but 4 years of college and a theology minor is more than some) and that just about burned away any fledgling faith life I might have had. But on the other hand, I didn't simply take that ole time religion good enough for me and decide that if somebody 700 years ago thought it was a good idea, I didn't have to do any more searching. I was caught in the middle between logical parsing out of the existence of God (that would be my husband) and the anti-intellectual "but that's wot duh Bible sez" view of many of my neighbors back in Texas. On recommendation from a former pastor, I read as much Teilhard de Chardin as I could without falling asleep, before realizing I should be reading Dorothy Day and Walker Percy. And Joan Chittister and Karen Armstrong and Henri Nouwen.
I realized my faith was bigger than the Catholic catechism. But try as I might, I never found a place that matched me better. Becoming an oblate was a good start towards that--if I'd been a braver young adult, I might have answered that call to religious life (but as my blog friend Stephen aka Q said, there are many callings--very few of us have ONE CALL the way Mary or Jeremiah did). But here I am, a secular Benedictine with a husband and two kids and a house and a mouth that's hard to keep a hold of. Where do I fit? Don't know. But I know that I like being Catholic. I love the Atrium experiences my children have had. I love listening to converts talk about their faith journeys. I like parish life and community and (most) meetings. I love planning out a church year in terms of what decoration do we want (which reminds me, OH CRAP, ANN, I need to make the greenery order for Christmas!!). I love doing small things to make our liturgy beautiful.
So on the way to pick Sophia up from school today, I thought about some moments that defined my view of organized religion. In no particular order.
1. When I was in a Renew 2000 small group bible study program at my parish, one of the women in my group, a high strung fragile person who belonged to our parish because she was heavily focused on my ex-pastor, brought in a copy of the Catholic Catechism. These are hefty items. She clunked it down on Ruth's coffee table and said, "I was flipping through this last night, and oh my, I was just stunned at everything it said I believed."
I laughed out loud. Then I realized it wasn't a joke. Seriously. I didn't think anyone in the post-conciliar period would say something like that. The point is that even if the bishops with Vatican II buyers remorse might want it otherwise, they do not determine my faith.
2. When the last bishop here in St. Louis placed the Polish church under interdict, I read one of the last things I would ever read in our diocesan newspaper (I no longer receive it). The bishop mentioned that he was responsible for these people's souls, as their shepherd, on judgment day. I didn't laugh this time--he was extremely unfunny--but I shook my head. Not only was he anti-pastoral in many deep ways, but I truly believe that in the end, it comes down to me and God. Yes, if I directly lead someone down the primrose path with me, I hold some of that responsibility, but I truly believe in the idea of the informed conscience and that I can't point to anyone else and say I was just following orders.
3. In my various searches for a new church home, I found myself sitting in liturgies that were half-assed, at best. Tiny vestiges of Catholicism left behind. I would leave each one critiquing how it was done. How it wasn't the way it should be. Now, I have no problem with protestant religions, and I find schismatic Christian churches absolutely fascinating. What makes people leave, especially en masse, and not just fall into no faith, but to develop their own way, is just beautiful in a way that many Catholics probably would disagree with me on. Many paths up the mountain, and the only person not making their way to the top is the one at the base of the hills telling everyone else they're on the wrong path. But non-Catholic liturgy makes me crazy.
I realized that liturgy is a big reason why I'm Catholic. If I viewed everything else as incomplete, why go there? Until I found the Friends, of course, because their liturgy is not recognizable at all. And it is soothing. I could belong there. But I'd still go to Catholic mass.
4. Br. Stephen, OSB, was my 6th and 7th grade religion teacher. Taught Old and New Testament from the Bible, not from those pansy PSR textbooks. And every Friday, he told us a story he'd made up (and later published through Ligouri Press) to illustrate some part of faith life. All the stories were very much like Buddhist tales or Desert Father analogies, outside of time and place with obvious lessons contained within. One story I remember vividly involved two friends, one of whom pledged his life to the community during young adulthood, and the other did not. And how their lives, and afterlives, diverged from that point. I was 12 when I heard this story. I had moved to 5 different cities already, and I had 4 more moves coming up. Flight, not fight, was an instinct. But I held onto that story: I needed a place, and I needed to stay in a place.
5. So, 20 years later, I make my oblation at Clyde. I take the three Benedictine vows seriously: stability, conversion of heart, and obedience. None of these is face-value, though. I've realized in the year that's passed since then that I belong to the Catholic Church because I'm a Catholic. I have a Catholic world view. I am steeped in Catholicism. I am not a Catholic because the hierarchy has politics that match mine. I am not a Catholic because I like to tell other people they aren't in the One True Church. I am a Catholic because that's what I am. Try as I might to be something else, it's not happening. I can't hide that identity. That identity is more than the protestant propaganda about Catholics and the Church. It is more than the secular press view. It is more than bishops and well-shod popes, and it is more than a sex scandal and a frothing view of American politics. I am a Catholic because I love the mass, I love the liturgy, the people, and the community we build together.
That said, I find it interesting how many former Catholics and how many non-Catholics are offended by my Catholicism. "Just trying to help you find a church home where you would fit better" is offensive. I fit here just fine, and, as an outsider, I question the place from which you claim the right to tell me that I don't fit inside my church.
I would never, ever, in my wildest dreams or weakest snarky moments, tell a former Catholic, "Maybe you should just come home to Mother Church." Ever. I would never tell a Protestant neighbor or friend that they should just give up their probably hard-earned beliefs and community lives and see how heretical their church's tenets are. I don't do this. (Side note: Benedictine spirituality predates the orthodox and protestant schisms, ergo, any trinitarian Christian can be an oblate). I often view pseudo-Christian churches with skeptical wariness (like Jehovah's Witnesses, I mean). But I never look at schismatic trinitarian Christians and say, "But I had a minister from your church one time, I was talking with him, and he openly disagreed with what you just said. You should leave." [Implying that he is right in that context and you are wrong, but that right and wrong change somehow by finding a new denomination]. Ordination or a degree from Bob's Bible College does not make someone an expert on how you experience the divine presence of God.
Basically, I didn't pick a church based on my political beliefs. And I didn't pick my political beliefs based on my church (thank you Brent). They inform one other, one is far more important than the other, but they are not asking the same questions. Just like religion and science. Not two sides of the same coin. Different coins. If you don't like my reasons for being Catholic, that's too bad. I think I make a pretty good one, all told.
My faith journey is not hard-won or anxious. It does fall directly in line with a little temporal lobe problem I seem to have (What is subclinical, Alex?) and I remember a former pastor sighing at me: Bridgett, you are so young to be worried about all this. Religion is important to me. Parish life is important to me. I think you make of it what you need.
I've been leaving the Catholic Church since my freshman year of college. Each version of "leaving" brought about a deeper understanding of what it means to be a person of faith. I never had a place I was jumping to--although I investigated the Orthodox and the Friends most thoroughly. Seems funny to have those two in the same basket of maybes. It makes sense to me.
I did not say yes in one fell swoop. I did not think my way to God or unthink my way there. I have a little bit of Jesuit background (small, but 4 years of college and a theology minor is more than some) and that just about burned away any fledgling faith life I might have had. But on the other hand, I didn't simply take that ole time religion good enough for me and decide that if somebody 700 years ago thought it was a good idea, I didn't have to do any more searching. I was caught in the middle between logical parsing out of the existence of God (that would be my husband) and the anti-intellectual "but that's wot duh Bible sez" view of many of my neighbors back in Texas. On recommendation from a former pastor, I read as much Teilhard de Chardin as I could without falling asleep, before realizing I should be reading Dorothy Day and Walker Percy. And Joan Chittister and Karen Armstrong and Henri Nouwen.
I realized my faith was bigger than the Catholic catechism. But try as I might, I never found a place that matched me better. Becoming an oblate was a good start towards that--if I'd been a braver young adult, I might have answered that call to religious life (but as my blog friend Stephen aka Q said, there are many callings--very few of us have ONE CALL the way Mary or Jeremiah did). But here I am, a secular Benedictine with a husband and two kids and a house and a mouth that's hard to keep a hold of. Where do I fit? Don't know. But I know that I like being Catholic. I love the Atrium experiences my children have had. I love listening to converts talk about their faith journeys. I like parish life and community and (most) meetings. I love planning out a church year in terms of what decoration do we want (which reminds me, OH CRAP, ANN, I need to make the greenery order for Christmas!!). I love doing small things to make our liturgy beautiful.
So on the way to pick Sophia up from school today, I thought about some moments that defined my view of organized religion. In no particular order.
1. When I was in a Renew 2000 small group bible study program at my parish, one of the women in my group, a high strung fragile person who belonged to our parish because she was heavily focused on my ex-pastor, brought in a copy of the Catholic Catechism. These are hefty items. She clunked it down on Ruth's coffee table and said, "I was flipping through this last night, and oh my, I was just stunned at everything it said I believed."
I laughed out loud. Then I realized it wasn't a joke. Seriously. I didn't think anyone in the post-conciliar period would say something like that. The point is that even if the bishops with Vatican II buyers remorse might want it otherwise, they do not determine my faith.
2. When the last bishop here in St. Louis placed the Polish church under interdict, I read one of the last things I would ever read in our diocesan newspaper (I no longer receive it). The bishop mentioned that he was responsible for these people's souls, as their shepherd, on judgment day. I didn't laugh this time--he was extremely unfunny--but I shook my head. Not only was he anti-pastoral in many deep ways, but I truly believe that in the end, it comes down to me and God. Yes, if I directly lead someone down the primrose path with me, I hold some of that responsibility, but I truly believe in the idea of the informed conscience and that I can't point to anyone else and say I was just following orders.
3. In my various searches for a new church home, I found myself sitting in liturgies that were half-assed, at best. Tiny vestiges of Catholicism left behind. I would leave each one critiquing how it was done. How it wasn't the way it should be. Now, I have no problem with protestant religions, and I find schismatic Christian churches absolutely fascinating. What makes people leave, especially en masse, and not just fall into no faith, but to develop their own way, is just beautiful in a way that many Catholics probably would disagree with me on. Many paths up the mountain, and the only person not making their way to the top is the one at the base of the hills telling everyone else they're on the wrong path. But non-Catholic liturgy makes me crazy.
I realized that liturgy is a big reason why I'm Catholic. If I viewed everything else as incomplete, why go there? Until I found the Friends, of course, because their liturgy is not recognizable at all. And it is soothing. I could belong there. But I'd still go to Catholic mass.
4. Br. Stephen, OSB, was my 6th and 7th grade religion teacher. Taught Old and New Testament from the Bible, not from those pansy PSR textbooks. And every Friday, he told us a story he'd made up (and later published through Ligouri Press) to illustrate some part of faith life. All the stories were very much like Buddhist tales or Desert Father analogies, outside of time and place with obvious lessons contained within. One story I remember vividly involved two friends, one of whom pledged his life to the community during young adulthood, and the other did not. And how their lives, and afterlives, diverged from that point. I was 12 when I heard this story. I had moved to 5 different cities already, and I had 4 more moves coming up. Flight, not fight, was an instinct. But I held onto that story: I needed a place, and I needed to stay in a place.
5. So, 20 years later, I make my oblation at Clyde. I take the three Benedictine vows seriously: stability, conversion of heart, and obedience. None of these is face-value, though. I've realized in the year that's passed since then that I belong to the Catholic Church because I'm a Catholic. I have a Catholic world view. I am steeped in Catholicism. I am not a Catholic because the hierarchy has politics that match mine. I am not a Catholic because I like to tell other people they aren't in the One True Church. I am a Catholic because that's what I am. Try as I might to be something else, it's not happening. I can't hide that identity. That identity is more than the protestant propaganda about Catholics and the Church. It is more than the secular press view. It is more than bishops and well-shod popes, and it is more than a sex scandal and a frothing view of American politics. I am a Catholic because I love the mass, I love the liturgy, the people, and the community we build together.
That said, I find it interesting how many former Catholics and how many non-Catholics are offended by my Catholicism. "Just trying to help you find a church home where you would fit better" is offensive. I fit here just fine, and, as an outsider, I question the place from which you claim the right to tell me that I don't fit inside my church.
I would never, ever, in my wildest dreams or weakest snarky moments, tell a former Catholic, "Maybe you should just come home to Mother Church." Ever. I would never tell a Protestant neighbor or friend that they should just give up their probably hard-earned beliefs and community lives and see how heretical their church's tenets are. I don't do this. (Side note: Benedictine spirituality predates the orthodox and protestant schisms, ergo, any trinitarian Christian can be an oblate). I often view pseudo-Christian churches with skeptical wariness (like Jehovah's Witnesses, I mean). But I never look at schismatic trinitarian Christians and say, "But I had a minister from your church one time, I was talking with him, and he openly disagreed with what you just said. You should leave." [Implying that he is right in that context and you are wrong, but that right and wrong change somehow by finding a new denomination]. Ordination or a degree from Bob's Bible College does not make someone an expert on how you experience the divine presence of God.
Basically, I didn't pick a church based on my political beliefs. And I didn't pick my political beliefs based on my church (thank you Brent). They inform one other, one is far more important than the other, but they are not asking the same questions. Just like religion and science. Not two sides of the same coin. Different coins. If you don't like my reasons for being Catholic, that's too bad. I think I make a pretty good one, all told.
It's Electric!
This morning when I returned from dropping kids at school, I didn't have any electricity in half the kitchen. Typical: the spaghetti wiring in my house often leads to breakers flipping. But then, in the basement? No breaker flipped. Hmm. Then, the washer was out. But the lights in the basement were on. Upstairs, no electricity on the second and third floors. But the TV worked. I decided to worry. Called my dad: mystery to him. Mary Helen called Jeff who talked to an electrician on the job he was working. My neighbor Jim recommended Volz Electric.
I called Volz, who told me that it was probably outside my house. Then Mary Helen called back with the same information. So I put in a call to Ameren "We're trying hard to be liked" UE. Very nice people, no ETA on a lineman.
It came back on at 3. The lineman was on the side of my house messing with wires that frighten me every time we eat dinner outside. He showed me something. "See, all burned up." Great.
But now the power, which had flickered all weekend in scary ways, is back on. I guess I need to go rescue the freezer food from Mary's house...Maeve said she was "babysitting" the food.
Happy Monday!
I called Volz, who told me that it was probably outside my house. Then Mary Helen called back with the same information. So I put in a call to Ameren "We're trying hard to be liked" UE. Very nice people, no ETA on a lineman.
It came back on at 3. The lineman was on the side of my house messing with wires that frighten me every time we eat dinner outside. He showed me something. "See, all burned up." Great.
But now the power, which had flickered all weekend in scary ways, is back on. I guess I need to go rescue the freezer food from Mary's house...Maeve said she was "babysitting" the food.
Happy Monday!
Making it
I think I'll make it.
I spent a day sick, and woke up to the news that the remnants of Ike drowned someone in St. Louis. Flooding sporadically but deep all over the place. Oy. We didn't lose power, and the only branches that fell were less than an inch in diameter. Had no idea.
I spent a day sick, and woke up to the news that the remnants of Ike drowned someone in St. Louis. Flooding sporadically but deep all over the place. Oy. We didn't lose power, and the only branches that fell were less than an inch in diameter. Had no idea.
Sunday, September 14, 2008
Ok, Ten Things
This is not a meme. This is my weekend/life at the moment:
1. Went to the best secular wedding I've ever attended. Well thought out, nice ritual, excellent readings (e.e. cummings and Edna St. Vincent Millay, two of my favorite poets). And it was at the TIVOLI. At the theater. It was very cool.
2. Was so inspired by the Millay poem that I went home between the wedding and the reception and made a photocopy transfer print of the poem on the background of trees and other faded things. Photocopy transfer prints are made with, duh, photocopies, placed upside down on the paper you wish to print to, soaked through with wintergreen oil, and burnished (rubbed on the back with a wooden spoon) until they transfer like a decal. Alas, I did not get a photo before it was time to rush out to the reception, but it became a sort of spontaneous wedding gift. I like ptp's. I should make them more often. I read online that laser printer ink works, too. Hmm.
3. Got sick Saturday right before the reception. Am unsure if it was just the return of the pregnancy nightmare I'm living in or if it was the wintergreen oil (which reeks, by the way). I used it outside in the fresh air, but maybe? Don't know. We left the reception early. By 11, we were debating a trip to the ER, I was so weak I couldn't sit up without help. I got to the point that I was a little afraid to go to sleep. But I woke up to the remains of Ike barreling through and decided we would "shelter in place" today. Which means I'm still dressed for bed and it's 8:10 in the evening the next day. I have slept and drank gatorade and lay very very still.
4. On another blog, in the comments section, I wound up getting sucked into a religion vs. politics (or religion & politics) argument. Why is it that so many people wish to persuade me to leave Catholicism? These people aren't Catholic, and they're not recruiting me--they disagree with everything I'm saying. But because I admitted that, gasp, I don't think homosexuality should be ranked up there with war, abortion, immigration policy, etc., I'd better reconsider my membership in the Catholic Church, since for some reason, outsiders view this as THE issue in the Church. Yeah, I disagree with the Church's stance on this. But I also disagree on so many other things...it was just funny that this somehow negated my Catholic identity. Not that I think we should revisit the definition of priesthood, or the role of the laity, or that I think one-issue abortion war bishops should be called out of their not-for-profit status and become known as lobbyists. Or that the pseudo-science of birth control is just silly. My goodness. I know, the Church stand is pretty clear and I kind of just shrug. So maybe I'm a big cafeteria Catholic with no moral grounding. But why does this make so many people angry? That's what I don't get. Why can't the Church be big enough for dissent, again? How Pharisaical. Maybe it all comes down to the need to be correct instead of the desire to be good. But that still left me scratching my head when I decided I had to stop reading the blog in question (or at least the entry): Why are non-Catholics angry about it? Is it because evangelicals started looking to American Catholics as fellow bastions of moral conservatism and I don't fit that model so I should just find myself some Quaker or Methodist or Unitarian friends and stop pretending? All I can figure is it's a small view of religion, of the Church, of Christianity. And I'm finding that it actually is ceasing to bother me. Been working on that hang up a long time.
5. Which always reminds me of my junior year theology teacher telling me that "one can be correct without being right." I am striving to err on the side of right.
6. Mike made chocolate pudding pie this afternoon. Not that I should eat it but of course I did.
7. Kids played at our house, at other neighbors' houses, and cleaned up their mess today. It's like they have little sensors that tell them not to push it sometimes.
8. It's still a little windy from the front that moved through. It's lovely and cooler again like it's supposed to be. Down in Texas, my brother and his family weathered it pretty well. Physically, at least. They lost a shed but nothing else--they're like 80 miles inland, but the eye passed right overhead. It was harrowing, though--I don't know if Ashley even lived on the Gulf for Hurricane Alicia. I just sent a note to the one guy I keep in touch with down there (he was the best friend of the boyfriend back in the day--funny, sometimes, that my mom still talks with him and I hear from him every so often, although I think the ex would stab me with a kitchen knife, here, 15 years later...ah well). The pictures from Galveston make me kind of sick, but it is even now still too early to know much. And speaking of knifing people, my sister-in-law is about to do that to Ian. Where was he during the hurricane? In New Orleans for a bachelor party. Good job. Her father told her if she wanted to come home a while...and she said to me on the phone, "Oh, I'm not LEAVING him. HELL no. That would be too easy on him." Ah, Texas.
9. Ann taught me how to drop down a cable done incorrectly, within the body of a sweater, and reknit it without bothering the rest of the fabric. This was like that opening scene in 100 Years of Solitude where the villagers go to see ice for the first time. This was stunning. I've since gone back and fixed other errors in this sweater I'm making. Of course, I picked up my knitting today in a fog of weak nausea and knit backwards (turned the piece in the middle) but caught it in one row, at least.
10. I've been watching "Are You Being Served", the old BBC show based on a department store and one long string of double entendres. One of my mainstay blog friends is a man down in Australia who goes by the handle "Mrs. Slocombe," a character out of this show. I'd never seen any of it except in clips on his website. Watched 4 episodes today while I drifted in and out of consciousness. I've signed up on Netflix for more.
So, maybe back in the game, maybe not. Tomorrow I'll know better. And Wednesday, yes, I'll mention it to the doctor.
1. Went to the best secular wedding I've ever attended. Well thought out, nice ritual, excellent readings (e.e. cummings and Edna St. Vincent Millay, two of my favorite poets). And it was at the TIVOLI. At the theater. It was very cool.
2. Was so inspired by the Millay poem that I went home between the wedding and the reception and made a photocopy transfer print of the poem on the background of trees and other faded things. Photocopy transfer prints are made with, duh, photocopies, placed upside down on the paper you wish to print to, soaked through with wintergreen oil, and burnished (rubbed on the back with a wooden spoon) until they transfer like a decal. Alas, I did not get a photo before it was time to rush out to the reception, but it became a sort of spontaneous wedding gift. I like ptp's. I should make them more often. I read online that laser printer ink works, too. Hmm.
3. Got sick Saturday right before the reception. Am unsure if it was just the return of the pregnancy nightmare I'm living in or if it was the wintergreen oil (which reeks, by the way). I used it outside in the fresh air, but maybe? Don't know. We left the reception early. By 11, we were debating a trip to the ER, I was so weak I couldn't sit up without help. I got to the point that I was a little afraid to go to sleep. But I woke up to the remains of Ike barreling through and decided we would "shelter in place" today. Which means I'm still dressed for bed and it's 8:10 in the evening the next day. I have slept and drank gatorade and lay very very still.
4. On another blog, in the comments section, I wound up getting sucked into a religion vs. politics (or religion & politics) argument. Why is it that so many people wish to persuade me to leave Catholicism? These people aren't Catholic, and they're not recruiting me--they disagree with everything I'm saying. But because I admitted that, gasp, I don't think homosexuality should be ranked up there with war, abortion, immigration policy, etc., I'd better reconsider my membership in the Catholic Church, since for some reason, outsiders view this as THE issue in the Church. Yeah, I disagree with the Church's stance on this. But I also disagree on so many other things...it was just funny that this somehow negated my Catholic identity. Not that I think we should revisit the definition of priesthood, or the role of the laity, or that I think one-issue abortion war bishops should be called out of their not-for-profit status and become known as lobbyists. Or that the pseudo-science of birth control is just silly. My goodness. I know, the Church stand is pretty clear and I kind of just shrug. So maybe I'm a big cafeteria Catholic with no moral grounding. But why does this make so many people angry? That's what I don't get. Why can't the Church be big enough for dissent, again? How Pharisaical. Maybe it all comes down to the need to be correct instead of the desire to be good. But that still left me scratching my head when I decided I had to stop reading the blog in question (or at least the entry): Why are non-Catholics angry about it? Is it because evangelicals started looking to American Catholics as fellow bastions of moral conservatism and I don't fit that model so I should just find myself some Quaker or Methodist or Unitarian friends and stop pretending? All I can figure is it's a small view of religion, of the Church, of Christianity. And I'm finding that it actually is ceasing to bother me. Been working on that hang up a long time.
5. Which always reminds me of my junior year theology teacher telling me that "one can be correct without being right." I am striving to err on the side of right.
6. Mike made chocolate pudding pie this afternoon. Not that I should eat it but of course I did.
7. Kids played at our house, at other neighbors' houses, and cleaned up their mess today. It's like they have little sensors that tell them not to push it sometimes.
8. It's still a little windy from the front that moved through. It's lovely and cooler again like it's supposed to be. Down in Texas, my brother and his family weathered it pretty well. Physically, at least. They lost a shed but nothing else--they're like 80 miles inland, but the eye passed right overhead. It was harrowing, though--I don't know if Ashley even lived on the Gulf for Hurricane Alicia. I just sent a note to the one guy I keep in touch with down there (he was the best friend of the boyfriend back in the day--funny, sometimes, that my mom still talks with him and I hear from him every so often, although I think the ex would stab me with a kitchen knife, here, 15 years later...ah well). The pictures from Galveston make me kind of sick, but it is even now still too early to know much. And speaking of knifing people, my sister-in-law is about to do that to Ian. Where was he during the hurricane? In New Orleans for a bachelor party. Good job. Her father told her if she wanted to come home a while...and she said to me on the phone, "Oh, I'm not LEAVING him. HELL no. That would be too easy on him." Ah, Texas.
9. Ann taught me how to drop down a cable done incorrectly, within the body of a sweater, and reknit it without bothering the rest of the fabric. This was like that opening scene in 100 Years of Solitude where the villagers go to see ice for the first time. This was stunning. I've since gone back and fixed other errors in this sweater I'm making. Of course, I picked up my knitting today in a fog of weak nausea and knit backwards (turned the piece in the middle) but caught it in one row, at least.
10. I've been watching "Are You Being Served", the old BBC show based on a department store and one long string of double entendres. One of my mainstay blog friends is a man down in Australia who goes by the handle "Mrs. Slocombe," a character out of this show. I'd never seen any of it except in clips on his website. Watched 4 episodes today while I drifted in and out of consciousness. I've signed up on Netflix for more.
So, maybe back in the game, maybe not. Tomorrow I'll know better. And Wednesday, yes, I'll mention it to the doctor.
Saturday, September 13, 2008
Fair Enough, I Can't Say No
Mrs. Slocombe, who is worth reading even if you sometimes need an English to English dictionary to get the joke, hath tagged me. It's all very unspectacular.
Here are 6 unspectacular things about me:
1. I broke my collarbone when I was 15, playing volleyball in a PE class I didn't have to take.
2. I like Stevie Nicks.
3. I don't like it when people try to solve me. Problems, personality, whatever. No unsolicited advice, please, especially if it's sanctimonious.
4. I like candy corn and sour balls.
5. I think my kids are freakin adorable.
6. I am prone to nostalgic melancholia.
I tag Kaylen, Texas Mama (if she's still reading me, flinch, flinch), Ann (even though she won't), Wiener, Mom, and Nutsy. Wow. That's the first time I've ever had enough people to tag to. I'm no good at that part of memes. I love joining but not passing the baton.
Meme terms & conditions
1. link the person who tagged you
2. mention the rules on your blog
3. list 6 unspectacular things about you
4. tag 6 other bloggers by linking them
Here are 6 unspectacular things about me:
1. I broke my collarbone when I was 15, playing volleyball in a PE class I didn't have to take.
2. I like Stevie Nicks.
3. I don't like it when people try to solve me. Problems, personality, whatever. No unsolicited advice, please, especially if it's sanctimonious.
4. I like candy corn and sour balls.
5. I think my kids are freakin adorable.
6. I am prone to nostalgic melancholia.
I tag Kaylen, Texas Mama (if she's still reading me, flinch, flinch), Ann (even though she won't), Wiener, Mom, and Nutsy. Wow. That's the first time I've ever had enough people to tag to. I'm no good at that part of memes. I love joining but not passing the baton.
Meme terms & conditions
1. link the person who tagged you
2. mention the rules on your blog
3. list 6 unspectacular things about you
4. tag 6 other bloggers by linking them
Thursday, September 11, 2008
Ok, but it's actually good news
So I forgot to mention this earlier this week until I saw Kaylen's post on it and thought, oh yeah, I might could mention that to folks.
Mike is the oldest of 4. Christy is two years younger, and then, when Mike was 13, Pete and Steve were born.
They just graduated from SLU (our alma mater) and have teaching jobs and apartments and all those grown up things. On Monday evening, Steve called to let us know that the assumptions I'd been making were true--he and Mary were getting married, officially now. Probably in February or March.
It both makes me very happy to have Mary joining us, and makes me feel very, very old. But it's not about me.
Mike is the oldest of 4. Christy is two years younger, and then, when Mike was 13, Pete and Steve were born.
They just graduated from SLU (our alma mater) and have teaching jobs and apartments and all those grown up things. On Monday evening, Steve called to let us know that the assumptions I'd been making were true--he and Mary were getting married, officially now. Probably in February or March.
It both makes me very happy to have Mary joining us, and makes me feel very, very old. But it's not about me.
Wednesday, September 10, 2008
I vote "present"
Ok, I'm here, but that's about all I'll say. I need to turn off the computer for a while because Hurricane Ike is making me crazy. My brother is out of harm's way in Cypress but the whole Cone of Uncertainty includes everywhere I know from high school. I keep checking Weather Underground and SciGuy's blog and comparing things to the map of Texas I generated in Google Maps. Weather Underground is predicting a category 4 and the National Hurricane Center is inching the eye closer and closer to Matagorda Bay, Freeport...
I got my hair cut this evening, and Jo always does a quick scalp massage before she washes my hair and I nearly fell asleep. I need to go to bed--because I've been home for an hour from the appointment and I've spent the WHOLE HOUR clicking around for the same damned information: computer models are just models and they can be dead-on (Cocodrie, Louisiana was predicted for Gustav's landfall three days out and it hit exactly there) or it can be 200+ miles off (Katrina was forecast to hit Florida three days out, and Rita was almost as wrong).
I laugh about Texas a lot, and I say things like "Texas is a good place to be from. But not in." I'm glad I live here. I love the midwest and my city and all of it. But Texas, especially the Gulf Coast, holds a lot of powerful memories and stories and meaning for me, and I'm just dreading what's coming. I remember this mass on the beach in Corpus Christi...walking on the beach in Freeport...skipping school to go to Galveston...driving the Triumph Spitfire down into southern Brazoria County...moon snails..the smell of the salt air when the wind was just right, heat and sand and Colonel Bubbie's Army Surplus and sourball candy and my daughters seeing the ocean, for what it is in the Gulf, for the first time.
So anyway, I'm taking a few days off. I'll be back Saturday unless something just simply hilarious or earth shattering happens between now and then. I cannot stay up all night and click on three day forecasts any longer. I cannot watch videos of men in Freeport deciding whether to stay with the shrimp boats. I must go and put some blinders on and chill the hell out.
I got my hair cut this evening, and Jo always does a quick scalp massage before she washes my hair and I nearly fell asleep. I need to go to bed--because I've been home for an hour from the appointment and I've spent the WHOLE HOUR clicking around for the same damned information: computer models are just models and they can be dead-on (Cocodrie, Louisiana was predicted for Gustav's landfall three days out and it hit exactly there) or it can be 200+ miles off (Katrina was forecast to hit Florida three days out, and Rita was almost as wrong).
I laugh about Texas a lot, and I say things like "Texas is a good place to be from. But not in." I'm glad I live here. I love the midwest and my city and all of it. But Texas, especially the Gulf Coast, holds a lot of powerful memories and stories and meaning for me, and I'm just dreading what's coming. I remember this mass on the beach in Corpus Christi...walking on the beach in Freeport...skipping school to go to Galveston...driving the Triumph Spitfire down into southern Brazoria County...moon snails..the smell of the salt air when the wind was just right, heat and sand and Colonel Bubbie's Army Surplus and sourball candy and my daughters seeing the ocean, for what it is in the Gulf, for the first time.
So anyway, I'm taking a few days off. I'll be back Saturday unless something just simply hilarious or earth shattering happens between now and then. I cannot stay up all night and click on three day forecasts any longer. I cannot watch videos of men in Freeport deciding whether to stay with the shrimp boats. I must go and put some blinders on and chill the hell out.
Tuesday, September 09, 2008
Maeve Says (and one thing Sophia said)
Some recent Maeve proclamations:
"But I want a blanket that's already warm!" Said last night at 4 a.m. when she came into my room to sleep in the baby bed (three sides like a daybed, just never put it away after she moved to Sophia's room, and she is allowed to come in late at night to sleep in there if she wants). There's a window right next to it, open, and it was in the low 50s last night. Everything was chilly. There were no pre-warmed blankets, except in her already warm bed. Guess who got to sleep with Mom for 45 minutes until things got all settled.
"I want to live in your house," she told my neighbor yesterday. They have two kids--a girl Sophia's age and a boy in kindergarten, and I guess she was done living in my house. Me too, kid.
"Before, when I was dead, I was an old person. Very old. Then I died, and now I'm new and here I am." I swear, reincarnation is not one of the tenets of our faith. It is not something I am instilling. (Although I must say, if I did believe in it, the fact that possums exist would keep me on the straight and totally narrow--the fear of coming back as a possum? Yikes).
Actually, my favorite kid saying of late came from Sophia last night at bathtime:
"But we had a bath Saturday!"
"And today is Monday," I patiently (at that point) told her.
"But we had a bath on Friday, too, so we were extra clean on Saturday night." I tried to explain that it doesn't work that way, that after a bath, you are simply clean--you can take baths every hour and it won't make you extra clean. But she wasn't buying it. Tears streaming down her face (can you tell it was Monday and she was exhausted?), she wails:
"But now it's not even anymore! Now it's out of balance!"
Goodness, I guess she hasn't lived in this house very long. Consistency is not one of our traits. Out of balance? Everything is, honey.
"But I want a blanket that's already warm!" Said last night at 4 a.m. when she came into my room to sleep in the baby bed (three sides like a daybed, just never put it away after she moved to Sophia's room, and she is allowed to come in late at night to sleep in there if she wants). There's a window right next to it, open, and it was in the low 50s last night. Everything was chilly. There were no pre-warmed blankets, except in her already warm bed. Guess who got to sleep with Mom for 45 minutes until things got all settled.
"I want to live in your house," she told my neighbor yesterday. They have two kids--a girl Sophia's age and a boy in kindergarten, and I guess she was done living in my house. Me too, kid.
"Before, when I was dead, I was an old person. Very old. Then I died, and now I'm new and here I am." I swear, reincarnation is not one of the tenets of our faith. It is not something I am instilling. (Although I must say, if I did believe in it, the fact that possums exist would keep me on the straight and totally narrow--the fear of coming back as a possum? Yikes).
Actually, my favorite kid saying of late came from Sophia last night at bathtime:
"But we had a bath Saturday!"
"And today is Monday," I patiently (at that point) told her.
"But we had a bath on Friday, too, so we were extra clean on Saturday night." I tried to explain that it doesn't work that way, that after a bath, you are simply clean--you can take baths every hour and it won't make you extra clean. But she wasn't buying it. Tears streaming down her face (can you tell it was Monday and she was exhausted?), she wails:
"But now it's not even anymore! Now it's out of balance!"
Goodness, I guess she hasn't lived in this house very long. Consistency is not one of our traits. Out of balance? Everything is, honey.
Monday, September 08, 2008
Stuff I Don't Get
Texan Mama occasionally gives a report about things she doesn't get. Like here. I've always wanted to write an entry like that but every time I sit down, all I can think about is Andy Rooney style weirdness so I never do. But here are two things I thought of today in the car.
1. Our oldies station. Not the whole thing. I get the music, which is why it's one of my presets. I flip radio stations a lot, and in the car, I am unwilling to learn new things, so oldies and 80s and such are my music of choice (usually, when it isn't Election Season, I listen 24/7 to NPR, but right now it's getting my blood pressure rising and so I just can't). The oldies station in town (a clear channel station, I might add) has decided its tagline should be "My 103." Like how Microsoft has tagged everything "My computer" "My Pictures" and so on. It's like putting those little shirts on babies that say "I love Daddy." Putting words in our mouths. What if they aren't my pictures? Ah well. They're mine now. So the point of My 103 is that you can go online and make a playlist of oldies songs, and then a couple times a day, they pick someone and the next hour belongs to that person. So we have Craig's 103 or Tanya's 103. Most of the time, these are better hours to listen to than the average, which I find amusing. But the part I don't get is when the gravelly voiced DJ comes on and says "My 103. Where the 'my' stands for America."
What? How does that work? Is it a word for word substitution puzzle and we're supposed to read it "America 103"? But shouldn't it at least fit the part of speech? Or is it a blatantly cynical attempt to cash in our patriotism in a grammatically erroneous way? Like car dealership ads that wave flags in your face. Or are they trying to get us to say "My 103, My America," in which case the 103 should stand for America. Right? I just don't get it.
2. Bumper Sticker Politics. I was following a van the other day with a serious problem. It had too many things to say and not enough bumper, so the stickers bled onto the doors and windows of the back. This came up at mah jongg on Friday--I really should learn your last name at least before I know where you stand on war, abortion, or whether I should love America or leave it. Seriously.
I don't care about alma mater stickers or the St. Louis Art Museum member decals. Feel free to tell me where you live or that you love German Shepherds. But really. If you're trying to convince me of your opinion, for instance, this is not the way. While I do ruminate upon what people say to me, people I know and respect and care about, and wonder if maybe I should think about things differently, there is no bumper sticker in the world that would make me say, "My GOD, what was I THINKING? OF course I should love it or leave it!!" No bumper sticker will convince me to give war a chance. Or that Catholics are going to hell if they consider voting for a democrat. And if the bumper stickers express ideas I already agree with, well, good for you, I guess, but I know you're getting my father's dander up and he'll probably cut you off in traffic.
Speaking of my father, who is one of those angry conservatives I can't have a political conversation with, his truck has nothing on it but a Shiner Bock sticker. Of all the people to express opinion in ways one cannot argue with, he does nothing but say he likes Texas beer.
I considered once putting a Benedictine cross on my van. But I reconsidered. I think I like to be anonymous.
1. Our oldies station. Not the whole thing. I get the music, which is why it's one of my presets. I flip radio stations a lot, and in the car, I am unwilling to learn new things, so oldies and 80s and such are my music of choice (usually, when it isn't Election Season, I listen 24/7 to NPR, but right now it's getting my blood pressure rising and so I just can't). The oldies station in town (a clear channel station, I might add) has decided its tagline should be "My 103." Like how Microsoft has tagged everything "My computer" "My Pictures" and so on. It's like putting those little shirts on babies that say "I love Daddy." Putting words in our mouths. What if they aren't my pictures? Ah well. They're mine now. So the point of My 103 is that you can go online and make a playlist of oldies songs, and then a couple times a day, they pick someone and the next hour belongs to that person. So we have Craig's 103 or Tanya's 103. Most of the time, these are better hours to listen to than the average, which I find amusing. But the part I don't get is when the gravelly voiced DJ comes on and says "My 103. Where the 'my' stands for America."
What? How does that work? Is it a word for word substitution puzzle and we're supposed to read it "America 103"? But shouldn't it at least fit the part of speech? Or is it a blatantly cynical attempt to cash in our patriotism in a grammatically erroneous way? Like car dealership ads that wave flags in your face. Or are they trying to get us to say "My 103, My America," in which case the 103 should stand for America. Right? I just don't get it.
2. Bumper Sticker Politics. I was following a van the other day with a serious problem. It had too many things to say and not enough bumper, so the stickers bled onto the doors and windows of the back. This came up at mah jongg on Friday--I really should learn your last name at least before I know where you stand on war, abortion, or whether I should love America or leave it. Seriously.
I don't care about alma mater stickers or the St. Louis Art Museum member decals. Feel free to tell me where you live or that you love German Shepherds. But really. If you're trying to convince me of your opinion, for instance, this is not the way. While I do ruminate upon what people say to me, people I know and respect and care about, and wonder if maybe I should think about things differently, there is no bumper sticker in the world that would make me say, "My GOD, what was I THINKING? OF course I should love it or leave it!!" No bumper sticker will convince me to give war a chance. Or that Catholics are going to hell if they consider voting for a democrat. And if the bumper stickers express ideas I already agree with, well, good for you, I guess, but I know you're getting my father's dander up and he'll probably cut you off in traffic.
Speaking of my father, who is one of those angry conservatives I can't have a political conversation with, his truck has nothing on it but a Shiner Bock sticker. Of all the people to express opinion in ways one cannot argue with, he does nothing but say he likes Texas beer.
I considered once putting a Benedictine cross on my van. But I reconsidered. I think I like to be anonymous.
Baby?
Ok. Baby update? Not much to say. My head keeps having horrible graphic dreams (last night involved being in a hotel watching horror movies, which I never do, and then finding out that the people in the next room were butchered during the night). But not much on the pregnancy front.
Now that the first trimester is over, this is an easy pregnancy lie Maeve's. I'm starting to get winded when I go from the basement all the way up to the third floor, but otherwise no big changes. I show a little bit. I tend to move up instead of out, so I just look kind of odd until about 7 months or so.
I am 20 weeks, so in the 5th month. More than halfway there, since this one won't go 40. TXMama asked if I was going with an MD. Yes. Sophia was a 37 hour labor followed by c-section. Maeve was a 52 hour labor followed by c-section. What I said to my doctor this time is that there is no way I'm ever going to hurt like that on purpose ever again. I am pretty convinced that a hundred years ago I'd be buried out in the back lot with the first baby. I have failure to progress in spades. And trust me, if there was any mother who was the kind to home birth or have a midwife or do everything all crunchy granola, it would be me. I mean, I breastfeed until the kids nickname it. I sleep next to babies, nurse on demand, don't use bottles.
But this point is just one of those mysteries for me to handle, I guess. If I had easy births, I'd probably have 5 or 6 kids. Which probably would not be the best thing for various reasons. But I am past the point where I ruminate on this for very long. It's just the way things are and Maeve's c-section was gloriously easy. I'm thinking this one will be, too. So, sometime around week 38, I'll have a date circled on the calendar and walk in, rested and ready.
Gender? Don't know. I have another week to decide whether I want to know (the big ultrasound is next week). I didn't find out with the other two but this one is feeling more like a business transaction than a mysterious process, so I might find out.
Poor baby. Poor third baby.
Oh, don't believe it. He or she will be just fine.
Now that the first trimester is over, this is an easy pregnancy lie Maeve's. I'm starting to get winded when I go from the basement all the way up to the third floor, but otherwise no big changes. I show a little bit. I tend to move up instead of out, so I just look kind of odd until about 7 months or so.
I am 20 weeks, so in the 5th month. More than halfway there, since this one won't go 40. TXMama asked if I was going with an MD. Yes. Sophia was a 37 hour labor followed by c-section. Maeve was a 52 hour labor followed by c-section. What I said to my doctor this time is that there is no way I'm ever going to hurt like that on purpose ever again. I am pretty convinced that a hundred years ago I'd be buried out in the back lot with the first baby. I have failure to progress in spades. And trust me, if there was any mother who was the kind to home birth or have a midwife or do everything all crunchy granola, it would be me. I mean, I breastfeed until the kids nickname it. I sleep next to babies, nurse on demand, don't use bottles.
But this point is just one of those mysteries for me to handle, I guess. If I had easy births, I'd probably have 5 or 6 kids. Which probably would not be the best thing for various reasons. But I am past the point where I ruminate on this for very long. It's just the way things are and Maeve's c-section was gloriously easy. I'm thinking this one will be, too. So, sometime around week 38, I'll have a date circled on the calendar and walk in, rested and ready.
Gender? Don't know. I have another week to decide whether I want to know (the big ultrasound is next week). I didn't find out with the other two but this one is feeling more like a business transaction than a mysterious process, so I might find out.
Poor baby. Poor third baby.
Oh, don't believe it. He or she will be just fine.
Sunday, September 07, 2008
Sunday Night
Well, the house is clean. Book club is over and my obligation is done for another year--I get all nervous about hosting even though I've been coming for just under 4 years and I know these women and whatnot. I just fear I'm forgetting something, always. But I think I did ok this time. The book, Floatplane Notebooks, is one of my very favorites, which was intriguing because Julie hated it. It's intriguing because one of my other very favorites, One Hundred Years of Solitude, she also hated. I don't think she liked Nine Stories, either. I guess I should continue the trend through the years. Maybe I'll pick The Woman Warrior next fall. Dandelion Wine. Chronicle of a Death Foretold. Eh. Maybe I'll just, second grade teacher Mary Jane style, clutch them to my chest and run out of the room.
Huh?
Mary Jane taught with me my last two years of teaching. She was second grade; I was middle school math. She was totally old school. I rewrote the math curriculum. At some point, in my standard no-roots purging attitude, I mentioned that I wanted to clean out the faculty lounge, which was a pit. This was met with eagerness from other new teachers and other upper school teachers, and met with silent moping by Mary Jane. On the day I started, during my break, with help from a couple of other volunteers, she ran into the lounge, grabbed up all this pastel bulletin board border rolls, clutched them to her chest, and ran from the room. She's one of the archetypes in my head, I guess, for running away and avoiding confrontation but still keeping things I love.
Julie, who is reading this right now: I don't mean any of this.
Anyway, the house is clean and the kids are asleep and Mike? Where's Mike? He's at a dork bachelor party. You know the standard bachelor party, with strippers and blackjack and cigars and pub crawls? Well, toss all that out the window. Start the party at one in the afternoon. And play Axis and Allies. Or maybe some dungeons and dragons. Dorks. But clean dorks, I might add. I won't have to hose him down when he gets home. Still, though, it's after eleven. That's way too late on a Sunday night to be out playing Axis and Allies.
Fully in the swing of things now. Two weeks of school under the belt. I have, as Ann put it this morning, my September pants on. I'm rolling from here to Christmas, nonstop. Oh. There is this whole baby thing. No--I stick with the rolling. This baby had just better get used to it early. We're busy here.
Huh?
Mary Jane taught with me my last two years of teaching. She was second grade; I was middle school math. She was totally old school. I rewrote the math curriculum. At some point, in my standard no-roots purging attitude, I mentioned that I wanted to clean out the faculty lounge, which was a pit. This was met with eagerness from other new teachers and other upper school teachers, and met with silent moping by Mary Jane. On the day I started, during my break, with help from a couple of other volunteers, she ran into the lounge, grabbed up all this pastel bulletin board border rolls, clutched them to her chest, and ran from the room. She's one of the archetypes in my head, I guess, for running away and avoiding confrontation but still keeping things I love.
Julie, who is reading this right now: I don't mean any of this.
Anyway, the house is clean and the kids are asleep and Mike? Where's Mike? He's at a dork bachelor party. You know the standard bachelor party, with strippers and blackjack and cigars and pub crawls? Well, toss all that out the window. Start the party at one in the afternoon. And play Axis and Allies. Or maybe some dungeons and dragons. Dorks. But clean dorks, I might add. I won't have to hose him down when he gets home. Still, though, it's after eleven. That's way too late on a Sunday night to be out playing Axis and Allies.
Fully in the swing of things now. Two weeks of school under the belt. I have, as Ann put it this morning, my September pants on. I'm rolling from here to Christmas, nonstop. Oh. There is this whole baby thing. No--I stick with the rolling. This baby had just better get used to it early. We're busy here.
Friday, September 05, 2008
Falling
I am a fall baby. End of October--used to be, my birthday week was when it got too cold at night to sleep with the windows open. First frosts usually happen sometime around then here in St. Louis. Our official first frost date is October 15, but we've had them as early (since I lived on Halliday, I mean) as the 10th and as late as Thanksgiving. The 23rd is a good average.
Today is the gunmetal sky and breeze and damp 65 degrees. It makes me scurry like a squirrel to get ready for winter (or perhaps for baby in this year's case). I prefer the stark blue sky against the orange and yellow leaves and the air so crisp and smoke-tinged you can't breathe enough in. But both extremes are good for me.
My brain works best in the fall. I succumb to seasonal affective disorder in spades some years (oh, like LAST YEAR), and summer wilts me. Springs, in the past few years, have been hard--trying to launch back into reality from winter, remembering all the things I'm supposed to do. Lent makes sense to me now that I'm an adult. Spring is about obligation.
Fall is about excitement for me. The promise of winter holidays and hot chocolate and traditions--the end of fall is heavy on the traditions in my life, more than summer, even. Maybe it's just that the late fall and early winter traditions are institutionalized and reinforced by family and friends. Summer traditions tend to be smaller and private (the first black tomato, the first swim, hikes, bikes, camps).
We have, again, thank you St. Louis, gone from summer low-90s to fall mid-60s in a week. Yeah, Tuesday'll be 80 at noontime, but summer has lost its hold. Like a dictator overthrown in a coup. We're just mopping up the rest of the supporters and hoping for the best. Ok, maybe not the best analogy for something so perfect.
Yesterday was the kitchen. Today is the dining room. The pumpkin pie candle is burning and Jimmy Buffett's Changes in Latitudes album is on downstairs. Maeve (my fall baby) has a neighbor friend over and I'm ruminating on an acorn cap I found in my old camera bag this morning. Brown velvet. Fall.
Today is the gunmetal sky and breeze and damp 65 degrees. It makes me scurry like a squirrel to get ready for winter (or perhaps for baby in this year's case). I prefer the stark blue sky against the orange and yellow leaves and the air so crisp and smoke-tinged you can't breathe enough in. But both extremes are good for me.
My brain works best in the fall. I succumb to seasonal affective disorder in spades some years (oh, like LAST YEAR), and summer wilts me. Springs, in the past few years, have been hard--trying to launch back into reality from winter, remembering all the things I'm supposed to do. Lent makes sense to me now that I'm an adult. Spring is about obligation.
Fall is about excitement for me. The promise of winter holidays and hot chocolate and traditions--the end of fall is heavy on the traditions in my life, more than summer, even. Maybe it's just that the late fall and early winter traditions are institutionalized and reinforced by family and friends. Summer traditions tend to be smaller and private (the first black tomato, the first swim, hikes, bikes, camps).
We have, again, thank you St. Louis, gone from summer low-90s to fall mid-60s in a week. Yeah, Tuesday'll be 80 at noontime, but summer has lost its hold. Like a dictator overthrown in a coup. We're just mopping up the rest of the supporters and hoping for the best. Ok, maybe not the best analogy for something so perfect.
Yesterday was the kitchen. Today is the dining room. The pumpkin pie candle is burning and Jimmy Buffett's Changes in Latitudes album is on downstairs. Maeve (my fall baby) has a neighbor friend over and I'm ruminating on an acorn cap I found in my old camera bag this morning. Brown velvet. Fall.
Thursday, September 04, 2008
Spaghetti Squash Success
I fear spaghetti squash. So strange to try to substitute a vegetable for pasta. Huh? But I followed directions and cooked it in the crock pot on low for 9 hours. Cut it open, tore out its insides, and put them in the refrigerator overnight. Then, last night, I did this:
One onion, three cloves garlic, chopped up and sauteed until clear.
Add 4 fresh tomatoes, chopped up but not de-seeded or peeled.
Add 1/4 pesto (or so, probably more--we make it ourselves so we don't skimp).
Cook this down with a little salt and pepper (unless your pesto is already doctored). When it's getting thick, add half a spaghetti squash's worth of innards. Cook till hot. Serve with bread and olive oil.
Even Sophia ate it. Sophia who hates squash. That would be her Cherokee name--Girl Who Hates Squash. But she declared that spaghetti squash is ok. Maybe it's regular squash texture that's the problem. Or maybe this is my way in to get her to eat squash. Because we have a lot. Two gigantic zucchini and a butternut downstairs staring at me.
Tonight is a squash soup, in fact. I know right now it will FAIL with girls. Oh well!
One onion, three cloves garlic, chopped up and sauteed until clear.
Add 4 fresh tomatoes, chopped up but not de-seeded or peeled.
Add 1/4 pesto (or so, probably more--we make it ourselves so we don't skimp).
Cook this down with a little salt and pepper (unless your pesto is already doctored). When it's getting thick, add half a spaghetti squash's worth of innards. Cook till hot. Serve with bread and olive oil.
Even Sophia ate it. Sophia who hates squash. That would be her Cherokee name--Girl Who Hates Squash. But she declared that spaghetti squash is ok. Maybe it's regular squash texture that's the problem. Or maybe this is my way in to get her to eat squash. Because we have a lot. Two gigantic zucchini and a butternut downstairs staring at me.
Tonight is a squash soup, in fact. I know right now it will FAIL with girls. Oh well!
Rain!
The remnants of Hurricane Gustav are here. Not that it's anything like hurricane, but it's rain. It started all at once at 1 in the morning. Enough that I worried about the shingle problem we have (the problem stems from the fact that Mike is a son of a contractor: he knows how to do this stuff, but hates to and won't, but because he does know how to do it, he won't pay someone else...). But we seem ok. It has rained now for 11 hours straight. It makes me sleepy, but in a good way. Not like the heat from earlier this week. I don't want to escape life--I want to be cozy and watch movies with the girls.
I can do that today. Maeve's day off. But I'm scrubbing my kitchen instead because I spent the early morning at Ann's house talking about, among more important topics, housework. Coming home to the tidy-but-dirty kitchen was hideous. When that's done (probably another half hour or so), then I can curl up on the couch with the knitting for a while.
Tonight is Irish Dance: Intermediate Class for Sophia. So it's early dinner to get her there on time, since class isn't over till 8:15. Dang. But I feel like I'm falling into a schedule now. Perhaps that's why we call it fall.
I can do that today. Maeve's day off. But I'm scrubbing my kitchen instead because I spent the early morning at Ann's house talking about, among more important topics, housework. Coming home to the tidy-but-dirty kitchen was hideous. When that's done (probably another half hour or so), then I can curl up on the couch with the knitting for a while.
Tonight is Irish Dance: Intermediate Class for Sophia. So it's early dinner to get her there on time, since class isn't over till 8:15. Dang. But I feel like I'm falling into a schedule now. Perhaps that's why we call it fall.
Wednesday, September 03, 2008
A River Runs East of Us
My mother has a little column this week in the South Side Journal. Old Man River Gives Me a Sense of Direction.
Darned Peanuts and Other Rules
The note came home last week. Due to a severe peanut allergy in your child's classroom....
Why is it that any restriction placed upon me by school makes me want to homeschool again? Why can't I just relent and conform?
The next day, Sophia's lunch came home half-eaten. "The granola bar might have been near peanuts," she explained. Oh, and she has decided she doesn't like watermelon. That's nobody's fault but her own (who doesn't like watermelon? What's with that?).
I read the side of the box of TLC granola bars. Processed on equipment shared by peanuts and tree nuts. Ok, then. I'll fix this.
Found the correct bread and the probably horrendous soynut butter (but I wasn't paying $9 for 10 ounces of almond butter, no thanks). Found chocolate chips from a peanut free facility (because my skinny kid can have a chocolate chip cookie, thank you very much).
I'm bristling under authority. Who didn't see this coming? I'm finally at a school run by people who think a lot like I do. And, just like I do, they wish to impose belief on others. But I'm one of the others this time. Peanut allergies aside, because that's serious and I will obey those rules, don't tell my kid how to eat. Yeah, I know, there are 4 garlic stuffed olives in a little glass jar in her lunch. And two soy hot dogs with ketchup on the side and a nectarine. I don't get it either. But trust me, she eats a balanced diet and burns it all off on the scooter and swingset when she gets home. I can count ribs and collarbones and vertebrae on this kid. Let her have the damned sugar cookie.
I do better when I'm the only one, I realize. No--I do just fine on this block with like-minded moms. I fall to the extreme sometimes, and they each fall to the extreme on their own pet food issues. But nobody says, "oh, you should never let Sophia have grape juice," or "I can't believe you let her eat sundried tomatoes out of the jar." And I don't question them, either. I look askance at the yogurt popsicles and wasabi rice cakes sometimes, I will admit, but that's my problem. Sophia and Maeve don't seem to mind.
I think it's the preaching. It's not the common belief system. It's the assumption, for whatever reason, that I need to be taught.
Lemme tell ya, if I want to learn it, I'll seek you out. This is not an unexamined life over here.
Why is it that any restriction placed upon me by school makes me want to homeschool again? Why can't I just relent and conform?
The next day, Sophia's lunch came home half-eaten. "The granola bar might have been near peanuts," she explained. Oh, and she has decided she doesn't like watermelon. That's nobody's fault but her own (who doesn't like watermelon? What's with that?).
I read the side of the box of TLC granola bars. Processed on equipment shared by peanuts and tree nuts. Ok, then. I'll fix this.
Found the correct bread and the probably horrendous soynut butter (but I wasn't paying $9 for 10 ounces of almond butter, no thanks). Found chocolate chips from a peanut free facility (because my skinny kid can have a chocolate chip cookie, thank you very much).
I'm bristling under authority. Who didn't see this coming? I'm finally at a school run by people who think a lot like I do. And, just like I do, they wish to impose belief on others. But I'm one of the others this time. Peanut allergies aside, because that's serious and I will obey those rules, don't tell my kid how to eat. Yeah, I know, there are 4 garlic stuffed olives in a little glass jar in her lunch. And two soy hot dogs with ketchup on the side and a nectarine. I don't get it either. But trust me, she eats a balanced diet and burns it all off on the scooter and swingset when she gets home. I can count ribs and collarbones and vertebrae on this kid. Let her have the damned sugar cookie.
I do better when I'm the only one, I realize. No--I do just fine on this block with like-minded moms. I fall to the extreme sometimes, and they each fall to the extreme on their own pet food issues. But nobody says, "oh, you should never let Sophia have grape juice," or "I can't believe you let her eat sundried tomatoes out of the jar." And I don't question them, either. I look askance at the yogurt popsicles and wasabi rice cakes sometimes, I will admit, but that's my problem. Sophia and Maeve don't seem to mind.
I think it's the preaching. It's not the common belief system. It's the assumption, for whatever reason, that I need to be taught.
Lemme tell ya, if I want to learn it, I'll seek you out. This is not an unexamined life over here.
Tuesday, September 02, 2008
Boundless Ennui Spotted on Halliday
It's hot. It's not lent--I can say that. We had a fantastic summer, unless you're a tomato plant in my backyard, but now, like one last hurrah or punishment, we've had three hot days. I went walking with Elizabeth and Janine this morning and nearly passed out halfway through. The way home was in the shade, or else I'd probably be lying in Tower Grove Park, sweaty and exhausted.
So it's hot, but I did exercise. And I ate the eggs I'm supposed to and avoided driving to Starbucks for a grande mocha frozen diabetic coma. I kept the house tidy and put the spaghetti squash in the crockpot to cook all day (it's dinner tomorrow night with pesto and olive oil and mozzarella). I read, I blogged, I cleaned up from the weekend. I arranged playtime for Maeve and picked up Sophia on time.
It's the second week at school and my day is suddenly empty. By next week I'll have it full again, and it won't be so damned hot, which will help immensely. But today, it was this stream of consciousness:
I should knit. Nah. I should vacuum. Uh. Tired. I don't want to play polly pockets. Ok, I will. For a moment. Maybe I'll go weave. Too hot in the attic. Clean out the pantry. The basement...oh, the laundry. I can't think about this right now. Atrium. Girl Scouts. Paralyzed by ennui. What's my problem? Should I nap? Nap didn't help. Still so unmotivated. Tomorrow I will have caffeine. It will be a different day. A better one.
And so on. Now Mike is making deer and rice in the kitchen, the kids are setting the table, and I can fake it till bedtime. Then, though, I will crawl into bed and rest until tomorrow brings coffee and plans and energy to get all this stuff done...
So it's hot, but I did exercise. And I ate the eggs I'm supposed to and avoided driving to Starbucks for a grande mocha frozen diabetic coma. I kept the house tidy and put the spaghetti squash in the crockpot to cook all day (it's dinner tomorrow night with pesto and olive oil and mozzarella). I read, I blogged, I cleaned up from the weekend. I arranged playtime for Maeve and picked up Sophia on time.
It's the second week at school and my day is suddenly empty. By next week I'll have it full again, and it won't be so damned hot, which will help immensely. But today, it was this stream of consciousness:
I should knit. Nah. I should vacuum. Uh. Tired. I don't want to play polly pockets. Ok, I will. For a moment. Maybe I'll go weave. Too hot in the attic. Clean out the pantry. The basement...oh, the laundry. I can't think about this right now. Atrium. Girl Scouts. Paralyzed by ennui. What's my problem? Should I nap? Nap didn't help. Still so unmotivated. Tomorrow I will have caffeine. It will be a different day. A better one.
And so on. Now Mike is making deer and rice in the kitchen, the kids are setting the table, and I can fake it till bedtime. Then, though, I will crawl into bed and rest until tomorrow brings coffee and plans and energy to get all this stuff done...
My Biennial Political Blog Entry
So here we are, September of an even-numbered year. I know, there are other elections, but my votes for alderman and mayor are simple, really, compared to state-wide and national votes. For instance, my alderman has no power over how long we'll be in Iraq; and really, there isn't much choice when I vote for alderman anyway. I usually write in my neighbor Brent's name, just because I will not, cannot, vote for the incumbent. The mayor doesn't have much sway in the health care debate; I usually try to find the one with the fewest scandals and daft acts in his past. Most local elections make me roll my eyes and laugh, a bit of gallows humor. But statewide and national elections make me have to think.
No one candidate matches what I believe, although I'm getting pretty close to one. It takes a bit of cognitive dissonance to vote for someone who doesn't match me letter-for-letter. But unless I ran for office myself, I must do this every time. I reflect that this is the curse of conscience, of two-party democracy, of our modern age. We know so much, there are so many issues, there is much to ponder. I hope, and actually, I'm pretty sure, that most of you are pondering these things as well.
As a Catholic, I'm already getting knocked over by angry non-pastoral pontificating bishops. As a city-dweller, I'm worried about the economy and its relationship to crime. As someone with crappy health insurance, I worry about what will happen if one of my kids comes down with leukemia or if Mike were to die or lose his job. As a woman, I am concerned with maternity leave, with rights to health care and the fact that we as an industrialized nation lag behind so many others in so many important areas. As a mother, I'm ticked about the state of our school system, and its relationship to crime and our exploding inmate population. As someone who eats, I am exhausted by bad news about what's in our food. China. Iraq. Iran. Immigration. The environment. Human rights.
So again, I offer you Thomas Merton's prayer.
No one candidate matches what I believe, although I'm getting pretty close to one. It takes a bit of cognitive dissonance to vote for someone who doesn't match me letter-for-letter. But unless I ran for office myself, I must do this every time. I reflect that this is the curse of conscience, of two-party democracy, of our modern age. We know so much, there are so many issues, there is much to ponder. I hope, and actually, I'm pretty sure, that most of you are pondering these things as well.
As a Catholic, I'm already getting knocked over by angry non-pastoral pontificating bishops. As a city-dweller, I'm worried about the economy and its relationship to crime. As someone with crappy health insurance, I worry about what will happen if one of my kids comes down with leukemia or if Mike were to die or lose his job. As a woman, I am concerned with maternity leave, with rights to health care and the fact that we as an industrialized nation lag behind so many others in so many important areas. As a mother, I'm ticked about the state of our school system, and its relationship to crime and our exploding inmate population. As someone who eats, I am exhausted by bad news about what's in our food. China. Iraq. Iran. Immigration. The environment. Human rights.
So again, I offer you Thomas Merton's prayer.
Save us from the compulsion to follow our adversaries in all that we most hate, confirming them in their hatred and suspicion of us. Resolve our inner contradictions, which now grow beyond belief and beyond bearing. They are at once a torment and a blessing; for if you had not left us the light of conscience, we would not have to endure them. Teach us to be long-suffering in anguish and insecurity, teach us to wait and trust. Grant light, grant strength and patience to all who work for peace…grant us prudence in proportion to our power, wisdom in proportion to our science, humaneness in proportion to our wealth and might. And bless our earnest will to help all races and peoples to travel, in friendship with us, along the road to justice, liberty and lasting peace.
Amen.
Monday, September 01, 2008
A New Scam...
My mother-in-law is selling puppies. They are black labs, papered, dewormed, the whole bit. They're listed for sale in several local papers down in southern Missouri and Illinois.
Today she got a phone call from someone who said he was acting as a relay person for someone calling on a TDD (deaf telephone service). He asked for information on the puppies, and then said, maybe it would be easier if this woman simply emailed her. Mary Helen gave him her email address and then got this message:
So Mary Helen called me. Forwarded the message. I googled "overdraft money order" and found a dozen exact copies, except for "audio equipment" instead of puppies...or car, or boat, or horse. They're part of the Nigerian 419 family. Sort of a distant cousin. So I sent her the information on the database the secret service keeps on these scams. It's the newest version--post a classified ad in your paper, and then the paper posts it on their website, and then scammers cull your phone number from the website. The TDD line is in between to a) conceal the real location, and b) to throw you off, because it's so odd to have that kind of call.
People have lost thousands on these sorts of scams--you cash the money order into your account, and then the bank catches that it's a fake and takes the money back out. After you've forwarded the delivery fee to the agent in London, that is. Mary Helen's puppies are not that expensive, but if you were selling a car? A boat? Bam.
Today she got a phone call from someone who said he was acting as a relay person for someone calling on a TDD (deaf telephone service). He asked for information on the puppies, and then said, maybe it would be easier if this woman simply emailed her. Mary Helen gave him her email address and then got this message:
Hi ,
Thanks very much for your email, it was really nice speaking with you
on the phone, I am sending you this email is to make confirmation of
the puppy for sale and that payment will be by Money Order. with
this I want you to email me your information that may be needed to
send the Money Order, as I might not want it gets into the wrong
hands.
Regarding the shipping, I have a company that takes care of the pick
up of my consignments for me and ship to my destination in the U.S.A,
you do not worry about shipping, the company will send down a
representative to arrange the sales documentation and the pick up from
your end for onward transfer to my destination.
i want you to reserve the 1 male or 1 female puppy for sale for me
and I also want you to know that you will be recieving an overdraft
Money Order, which will cover the your balance and shipment to my
destination which will be paid to the company that will take care of
the pickup and the documentation with you. So please, as soon as you
receive the Money Order, go and cash them,deduct your money with the
Western Union charge send the balance to the Head Office my shipping
company that will handles the shipment in London United Kingdom via
the nearest Western Union agent in your area immediately .
The Money Order will be in your name to make it easier for you to
cash, deduct your balance with the Western Union charge and send the
balance via Western Union as regards my earlier direction,and I
will give you the details of the shipping company in London once I
get a reply and agreement to my offer Once the money is received by
the agent in London, you will contacted for arrangement of the
documentation as well as the pick up immediately. So in view of the
above, here are some of the
details I will need for final issuance of the Money Order to you.
(1) Full Name
(2) Mailing address, no p.o.box please
(3) Your direct telephone numbers
(4) Acceptance of my offer
(5)The last selling price
Once you get back to me with all the above, the Money Order will be
issued out immediately and it will be sent to you .
Hope to hear from you immediately.
Regards,
NB;
I will add extra 50 $ for you to reserve the kitten sale for me
Best Regards
Serena
So Mary Helen called me. Forwarded the message. I googled "overdraft money order" and found a dozen exact copies, except for "audio equipment" instead of puppies...or car, or boat, or horse. They're part of the Nigerian 419 family. Sort of a distant cousin. So I sent her the information on the database the secret service keeps on these scams. It's the newest version--post a classified ad in your paper, and then the paper posts it on their website, and then scammers cull your phone number from the website. The TDD line is in between to a) conceal the real location, and b) to throw you off, because it's so odd to have that kind of call.
People have lost thousands on these sorts of scams--you cash the money order into your account, and then the bank catches that it's a fake and takes the money back out. After you've forwarded the delivery fee to the agent in London, that is. Mary Helen's puppies are not that expensive, but if you were selling a car? A boat? Bam.
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