Has anyone seen the July 24 edition of Our Sunday Visitor?
Cool stuff.
Familiar blogs.

Whatever...




Take the What High School
Stereotype Are You? quiz.

I could buy a Volvo with what I’ve spent on LEGOS.

I've seen the needle and the damage done
A little part of it in everyone...
or
Where have I been?
Good question.
At work - a lot. And I have a few other little projects that I’m trying to do. Heaven knows it isn’t because I’m throwing myself into household maintenance. Work is always interesting - never the same day twice. But since I’ve been putting in more hours I come home all achy and irritable from sitting so much. Shame on me for laughing at the former Wisconsin Senator William Proxmire’s stand-up desk. (It’s not an urban legend. I saw it when I visited his office in the seventies.) No kidding...sitting is a killer. (Yeah, there are other killers, too. This having been one of those weeks that I started to think that the funeral choir should add The Needle and the Damage Done to its repertoire.)

Yesterday started out all wrong. I just wanted a strawberry smoothy to energize me and soothe my agitated stomach. So why couldn’t I find the business end of the blender? And why did all that other junk (including about 25 pieces of antique sterling and my strawberry bowl with the holes in the bottom) have to fall on my head? What a way to start the last day of a long week. I shouldn’t be complaining. I like the job. It’s air-conditioned. (except for the morning when we couldn’t figure out why no one was quite comfortable - until someone realized the thermostat was turned to HEAT) I’m having one of those weeks when I have trouble being “in the moment.” And no matter where I am I think I should be somewhere else doing something else. So I’m not doing such a great job with anything. Now that I think of it....I was uptown and stopped in at work to do a few things. But I forgot to check the sacristy to see how many sick call hosts ( 1 1/8” diameter versus 1 3/8”) we had in the cabinet. That’s not 100% my job, but the compulsive part of me wants to stay on top of things. Maybe I’ll go in and check before Mass tomorrow morning. And I thought my mother was out of her mind for waking up in the middle of the night to remember details in need of attention at her job doing newspaper paste-up and proof-reading. Like mother, like daughter.

Although I did get to sleep in this morning. Rick took the boys to the opening to a new Apple Store at a nearby mall. Free shirts and a chance to mingle with the similarly nerdy. Not to mention the super-nerdy types who were reading their new Harry Potter while waiting in line for the Apple Store to open. I should have gone along. All I got for some extra sleep time was stiff joints and a sense that I was even farther behind. So I spent a little time on the NordicTrack. And then got caught up with the latest Vanity Fair (I’m obviously stalling on something if I’m dedicating my time to reading about the scandals behind the Jimmy Choo shoe empire. I mean, really, I think any shoes over $20 - not including medically prescribed orthopedic shoes - are ridiculous. Reading about women who would pay $900 for a pair of shoes is like reading about alien abductions. Strange. Not especially credible. But I guess it happens. The shoe purchases, that is.) and then I took a little nap.

About that cabbage...
The girls think that my two year old godson stepped on it while he was visiting last week. I’m relieved that we don’t have some obscure cabbage disease threatening us. And we’ll just entertain two year olds in the back yard. With the nightshade gone, the garden would be safe for him. But is he safe for the garden?

Purslane
I don’t care if it is higher in omega-3 fatty acids than any other leafy vegetable. Portulaca oleracea is a weed that drives me crazy. Almost falling headlong into the garden while pulling a balky weed is more gardening excitement than I would like.

That and the nightshade. (I think it’s nightshade. ) Oh, maybe next year I’ll let the purslane take over the garden and start eating it. If you can’t beat it.

Purslane is best when it's young and tender. Grow it in pots or shallow wide containers and harvest as needed, using mostly top leaves and stems. Once the plant blooms it won't be as tender and tasteful. Just a note-don't confuse purslane with Moss Rose, Portulaca grandiflora, an annual that is grown for it's rose like bloom. Confusing the purslane with the moss roses was my mistake in years past. By the time I figured out what was going on, that stuff had taken over everywhere. This year I tried a pre-emergent weed treatment that has kept the purslane at bay. Sort of.

	Your travel type: Culture Buff The culture buff needs to see a museum, an art gallery, a 16-th century church every day during his holiday. When he travels he is always well prepared. He has read history books, speaks a few words of the lingo, knows about the strange habits the locals have.
	top destinations: Alice Springs Tahiti New York	stay away from: Kashmir Ciudad Perdida Darien Gap

get your own travel profile
Thanks to TSO for the tickle to my imagination.
I haven't gone anywhere in ages. Right now I'm so averse to going out into the heat and humidity that I would have to think twice about a free trip to anywhere...if it involved driving to the airport. And I'm only in Chicago in July. Wish I were made of sterner stuff.

Death lies on her like an untimely frost...
Am beyond commentary on the world in general. What can I say that will add anything substantive?

So I’ll drone on about my garden. Looking great. Except for white decorative kale #4 (Let’s number them from left to right. I’m crazy for the ornamental cabbage, but not to the extent of naming the babies...) Totally pale and wilted. Dead but not yet brown. What happened? I shall hope it is foul play (or perhaps an accidental footfall by some misguided visitor last evening) and not some cabbage disease that will threaten the other seven survivors. Or revenge of the white butterflies...

High point of summer...
and a three day week-end. So it’s time to start thinking about our educational plans for the fall. Due to the anticipated return of King Tut to the Field Museum next May, I think we are going to make Ancient Egypt the thrust of our school year. Big Ed had a good idea at dinner on Friday night. To kick off the school year, we should visit the permanent Egypt exhibit at the Field this fall. Now that I think of it, Eddie may have been in a stroller the last time we went through the Field and Chuck was going through one of his more sensitive phases - in which he was obsessed with the danger of being locked in the museum. I vaguely remember some sort of panic attack in a corridor that hit a dead end instead looping back around to the main hall, the way most of the exhibits do. So I think we’ll do the Field (and maybe the Art Institue, too, while we’re at it) to start off the school year.

Another project I have in mind is having the boys keep “diaries” of their Egyptian study. In the manner of a fake-simile book, much like Egyptology by Emily Sands. I already have the sketch books. We just need to work up some enthusiasm.

I Knew It!
"I'm on my 400th day of purpose and I still feel invigorated. My purpose in life is to find my purpose. It's like a constant high."

Often I feel as if there is a tight band around my head.
So give me a big ”RCd - dem - Demoralization RC3 - cyn - Cynicism” on the MMPI.
With all due respect to Amy Welborn and her Brigittine Nuns I’m starting to feel a little squeezed. Real life stresses at home and work. Plus every piece of equipment at work malfunctioned in some way. Including the phones, which rang when and where they shouldn’t and didn’t where they should...the highlight being the demoralizing moment when an incoming call sounded like a buzz from another extension and I greeted the Vicar General of the Archdiocese with “Hey, what’s up.” (Yeah, it could have been worse. I could have said “ahoy, hoy” or something really moronic.”)

Rick’s dad wound up in the emergency room (everything is OK now) and Rick spent the day at his parent’s house awaiting the arrival of the family foreign exchange student (circa 1976) and his family who were flying in from Germany and renting a Winnebago for a tour of the Great Lakes. Our house could have used paternal attention, but better that Martin and family go to the in-laws than come to my house. It’s just been that bad this week. Of course, Rick’s afternoon plan included making a last hour payment on the phone bill. So I hustled home to zoom around and take care of that. When I checked the caller ID when I came back I just about plotzed. “ARCHDIOCESE OF...” was the second to last caller. Could the Cardinal have found out what a bad week I was having? Was this going to be some sort of official reprimand? No...just the Respect Life office wanting to get my updated e-mail address. Thanks.

In my hurry to get out with the phone bill, I decided not to check the sacristy to see if there was enough altar bread. (This hasn’t always been my job, but I think I’m phasing into inventory on top of procurement.) I was sure there was enough to get through the week-end. Around 1:00 o’clock this morning I began to have doubts. So I went to Mass at 8:00am with more than prayer on my agenda. It was all good. (There was no imminent danger of disaster anyway. We had about 10,000 hosts in the rectory store room. But it isn’t Father’s responsiblity to jog from building to building looking for things when preparing for Mass. I haven’t forgotten last week’s voice-mail message from the sacristan asking where the new shipment of altar candles went. How should I know? I signed off on the delivery and sent the candles to church with the maintenance man. I mean, how many places can candles hide?)

Halfway through writing this we had a thirty second black-out and I lost my more trenchant thoughts. Perhaps it’s for the best.

I’ll try to have a more positive outlook. The girls have made it to Michigan. They have successfully turned on the water. (That was touch and go....since Dad forgot to tell them to turn off the drain valves before turning on the other valves. So things got a bit damp.) Gold finches are showing up at the feeder. And I’ve seen a few rose finches out front. God’s in his heaven and all is right in this part of the world. As long as I keep my dewclaws away from the technology.

Time to try out my anniversary present. A fifteen decade rosary. No moving parts. Nothing to malfunction.

Penguins are charming...
I like the bad penguin in Wallace & Gromit and my disappointment in not going along with the boys to see Madagascar was missing those rascally penguins. I’ll do my best not to miss March of the Penguins, which looks to be charming and touching yet not cloying or boring in the manner of some animal movies. Chuck says it is or will be at one of the ‘art houses’ in Highland Park, so I hope if the hot weather returns, we can spend an evening chillin’ with the penguins.

... and when I heard that it was for awareness, that sealed the deal!
I must confess to being somewhat confused by the Live 8 concerts. It all reminds me of the New Awareness Awards on The Simpsons Behind the Laughter episode. Not that I am against awareness or helping eradicate poverty in Africa, etc. But to my basically uninformed mind it may take more than an effort to ”double aid, cancel debt and rework unfair trade laws to lift African nations out of poverty.” In my more curmudgeonly moments I think of all I’ve read about corruption in many African governments and wonder if the money raised 20 years ago by Live Aid would have been better spent assassinating (OK - that’s not very humanitarian - let’s say kidnapping and imprisoning) those corrupt government officials who pillage their own nations. I guess I’m just a little irritable today. Bit of a headache after last night’s birthday party for pater/27th anniversary celebration. And worry about three of the kids as they head up to the family “farm” in the UP for two days of vacation is bouncing around the back of my mind. So I’ll admit to being curmudgeonly.

If the Live 8 folks had been asking for pledges I would gladly contribute. To buy the pole Beyond Knowles needed for her Philadelphia performance which was essentially a pole-dance sans pole. And that has what to do with awareness, justice and poverty?

We’re not talking...
And we’re glad.
I’ve become increasingly amazed by newscast sound bytes featuring persons tangentially related to a story who blather on without restraint. There are more and more of these people with less and less to say. And often grammatically comedio-tragic.
Where do those people come from? This week we came excrutiatingly close to becoming them.

Fran received a phone call around 1:00am Tuesday telling her that her high school sweetheart had been killed in Iraq. Hopes that this was just a bad rumor were quashed by a note on my desk at work informing me of a young former parishioner who had been killed in action. And even though I talked with a close friend of the young man’s mother, I waited until the name was released by the Dept. of Defense until I actually put his name on the list of prayers for the deceased.

Fran is a tough girl to read. Familial stiff upper lip and all that stuff. But I know the unconscious attachment one can keep for first loves and old friends. (I had a card in the mail from my childhood beau - we’re talking fifth grade - the day before Fran’s news and I found myself holding off on opening lest it be a bearer of bad news. It wasn’t. Just “how are you guys doing?” etc.) Her current suitor attended a different high school and never knew her old friend. So their was no opportunity for shared grief and I could tell she would keep any feelings under wraps, if only out of consideration for the man of the moment. (OK, man of the century, since they’ve been dating more than 5 years.)

Unnerved by this encroachment of reality, I tried to muddle through my day at work. There were enough snafus of the office technology ilk to keep me occupied. (almost broke the fax machine changing ink cartridges, strange lines through any correspondence printed on the laser writer and to top it off, a missing toner cartridge for the copier and a copier company that disavowed any knowledge of an on going relationship with our office. By two in the afternoon my voice was taking on a metallic edge as I phoned back and forth between the 800 number and the local corporate office...”But what about your service man, Josh? Why would Josh be here every other week if didn’t have a service contract for this (here I am imagining a string of obscenities) machine?”)

On Wednesday, things were not going a whole lot better. The office was short handed. Two of the three priests were out for two days and we were doing our best to do work that involved no copying, no pastor’s signature and no imminent decision making. That is when a call came in from a reporter for Channel 7 in Chicago. She wanted to know what we knew about a young man from Lake Forest who had been killed in Iraq. There was no one for her to talk to. The parish school that he had attended was empty. The pastor wasn’t in. (Not that our new pastor even knew this fellow.) So I volunteered Fran. Not having a long time to talk on the phone (yes, there is a certain ‘rush’ from putting a reporter on hold to answer two other lines...) I mentioned that my daughter dated this man about 8 years ago and perhaps she could share some thoughts and names of other friends. So I did that which we are never supposed to do. Give out a parishioner’s phone number to a caller. Tough nuts. I’m the parishioner’s mother. And I gave her Fran’s cell number.

Ten minutes later I received another call. Fran was helpful but declined to speak on camera. Would I mind standing in front of the church and making a brief statement? For one wretched second there was the appeal of a moment all my own to blather on camera. But I caught myself before I succumbed. For a number of reasons, the least of which was the fact that the pastor would certainly not be thrilled to turn on the telly at bedtime (and I know with my luck it would be Channel 7) and see his parish church and the only person tending the rectory phones standing out front babbling incoherently. And what would I say? What could I say?
It is tragic. Sad. He was a nice boy when I knew him. Maybe I could talk a little about the sweet musical snow globe he gave Franny (gawdy, but heart felt, with a bit of “my mom helped pick this out because I don’t know a thing about girly presents” written all over it) and that is still somewhere in our house. And now how could we dare get rid of this memento of a fallen graduate of LFHS? Maybe I would become completely unglued and segue into a bit of slander about the bungling fools at the copier company and how they had ruined my day. And then, filled with remorse at devoting so much of my time to photocopying and helping other people with their problems, I would burst into tears and wave at the camera and shriek, “Mom loves you boys. I’ll be home soon.”

No, discretion is the better part of valor.
I’m proud of Fran for keeping her feelings to her self, except for a few kind words off camera. I’m glad I caught myself before I could fall into the trap of making a tragedy an excuse for pathetic TV performance art. (And because I am a sucker for sad line, I had a second moment of temptation when the reporter dropped a hint about coming all the way out to Lake Forest and not getting anybody on tape. Should I have bailed her out? I think not. And I’m not pleased to see any further tragedy, but I did notice on the 10:00 o’clock news that she was in Buffalo Grove at the scene of a deadly fire of suspicious origins. So she didn’t spend a whole day’s work without getting her money shot.)

So we were thinking. And praying. Just off camera.