Those Christmas Shoes...
My sister called me before work this morning because she regards me as the source of her theological advice. (Which might not be the best choice, but, well, I'm a professional Church lady and she knows she can ask me anything. Whether I can answer is another matter.) So, besides calling to tell me that 100 feet of fresh pine garland in the back of the mini-van is the best car air freshener ever, she wants to know what kind of God requires shoes for entrance into heaven. And would want a dying woman's child out shoe shopping on Christmas Eve. Yes, you can see where the Smith sisters stand on mawkish religiosity. We may differ on many other metaphysical details, but this one? Oh great googly moogly, how nauseating can popular 'art' get? (Maybe worse...but I'll save that for later.)

My professional opinion was that:
Are we so sure she's going straight to heaven?
If shoes were necessary, wouldn't the kid been better off at his mother's bedside checking out Zappos on his laptop?
Last, but not least, the Mother of God who went straight to heaven didn't need shoes. And I think she sets the standard.

Haven't heard that song yet this year. (If it is playing on the PA at the gas station, I would choose to get back in my car and drive off without filliing up. Or scream.) But Barbra Streisand singing Jingle Bells caught me off guard on my way home from Dominick's. Oh, the inhumanity.

A Splendid Time was Had by All!

We should use the 'good' stuff more often!

It's Showtime, Folks!
Busy, busy.
Those few so-called extra days between Thanksgiving and Christmas aren't helping. A co-worker leaving her job at the end of this week won't help much either. (Or maybe it will) Well, that's all I'll say about that.

Don't think you're funny calling to ask the Christmas Mass schedule. Those calls started in October. And we've already had a few Ash Wednesday calls, too.

”We Need that Like a Social Disease”
A favorite phrase of my late father’s. Applicable to so many situations. So true...so often. What I’m thinking of today is work calls I get from people doing geneological research. Geneology is fascinating. (Especially when it’s my family) But from the Church mouse/ low level office pencil pusher point of view, it’s a pain. There is no such thing as a good time for these calls. And, in the few years of my Church work I have found that the calls often come at the most inconvenient times. I care. I really care. I’m also paid to care. But,in the daily triage of tasks, looking through the books for your long deceased ancestors is usually bumped to the bottom of the agenda. Pardon me for not sounding enthused if you call on Holy Thursday because you would like documentation of your great-grandmother’s baptism so that you can apply for Irish-American dual citizenship. (Not that that’s such a bad idea - I should pursue it myself. Time permitting.)

Advent is very close and already time is at a premium. Which disappoints me. During our visit to my sister’s we were going through old Smith family memorabilia and I discovered where my grandmother is buried. (Not just affirmation of the cemetery where I thought she was, but the actual lot, section etc.) And I found where my paternal grandparents were married, my father was baptised and from where my grandmother was buried. So I’d like to write to this parish. But the empathetic part of me knows how welcome the request for more info would be. (I can only imagine: “The nerve of her. She works in a rectory and she thinks we’re sitting around with nothing else to do!”) Our parish is very well off and amply supplied with office help and still the geneology stuff is a pain in the derriere. A parish more stretched in the office would probably not be thrilled to expedite my sentimental journey. Their parish website says that they are “vibrant and caring.” I know all too well the kind of stuff that knocks the vibrancy out of the administrative assistants. The kind of stuff that “we need like a social disease.” Maybe I’ll wait until after Christmas...in those few slow days before preparations for Lent.

(God forgive me, when I’ve been really pressed by people who need to know about great-uncle Joe and need to know now! I ask them if they’ve talked to the Mormons. )

Please stop questioning my competency and demanding to see my credentials. I didn't have to complete a course in catering to successfully cook dinner for my family; I don't need a degree in teaching to educate my children. If spending at least twelve years in the kind of chew-it-up-and-spit-it-out educational facility we call public school left me with so little information in my memory banks that I can't teach the basics of an elementary education to my nearest and dearest, maybe there's a reason I'm so reluctant to send my child to school.
Just one of 25 modest demands on The Bitter Homeschooler's Wish List. (via Fr. Daren) Yeah, and I like "quit asking us if it is legal," too. I know some people who have been asking me several times a year for the better part of the past decade. We're not in jail. The kids are alright. So please quit asking.

Why, if we were all wiener dogs, our problems would be solved.
Allergies and all, my "dog nephew" still appears to be in a better mood than I am. I am really looking forward to the week-end.
I mean, it's been a bad week when real life work leaves you so worn out that you fall asleep right as The Office is starting. The Office - the Thursday carrot in front of this little mule. I resent it when life at the office makes me unfit to participate in The Office.

Fr. Robert Barron on Hitchens and that book...

"This is the hunter's badge of honor, which he protects and wears as his shield, to guard, while in the fine and honorable profession of hunting; which also honors the Creator and his creations."
Alas, the Jager girl is still on the sick list and will not be honoring St. Hubert by promoting the green glass-bottled NyQuil substitute. ( I think Jager girls should be given November 3 as a paid holiday.)

The Jagermeister factory is a huge gothic castle that sits deep in the black forests of Germany. It can only be found by consuming a fifth of the dark brown liquor and passing out drunk on your friends porch in the rain. This past weekend I had the luck to experience just that. I wanted to share my visit with the good people of Über so as they know where this magical drink comes from. My guide was a man named Hubertus. I think he is the patron saint of vomiting miserably. Having had more than a little experience with hyperemesis gravidarum, I avoid any product associated with miserable vomiting. Especially one with 56 herbs and spices.

Family Reunion
Official group portrait (minus my nephew, as Napoleon, Emperor of France, who had already left for another function) Just a few hours before the Bee's appendix malfunctioned.

Sisters, sisters. There were never such devoted sisters!
or
No I'm just tryin' to have me some fun
Well done, hot dog bun, my sister's a nun!

I did not choose the costume. It was chosen for me.
And, with the enthusiasm of a child dressing as WonderWoman or BatMan, I allowed myself to play make-believe I'm a super hero for one night. And it was incredibly comfortable. Until it started to give me a headache... which was OK. The head-ache kept me well rested and sober for that 4:00am run to the emrgency room.

And I was just a nun. Not a naughty nun, mean nun, goofy nun or pregnant nun. It suited me. And to jolly up Bridget in the ER I grabbed one of the white blankets with the blue lines at each end and asked her if I should be Mother Teresa next year. She didn't laugh - but the look of horror on her face showed that her mind was momentarily off of her pain.

Just for the record...

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Wow! You are totally educated in the Catholic faith. A real genius! Have you thought of teaching the faith to others? Be sure to share your wealth of knowledge with those who need it.

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"Be sure to share your wealth of knowledge with those who need it."
Make your fortune answering phones and reciting Mass times. Just remember the name of your parish. And if it is morning or afternoon.