Ooops. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry.
I played around with that new iGoogle art thing on my work computer this morning. I wanted to try the Coldplay homage to Delacroix or whatever. But I got something else instead. More than two minutes of noodling around cut into my productivity.

Then I remembered one could get a free Coldplay download. I tried that during my next non-productive break. It worked. (If I were twelve years old, this might not be surprising. But I'm not.) Then I lost a little more time reminiscing about those paper "records" that were sometimes inserted into magazines. Those, in their time, were cutting edge. Though, I think, they could also destroy your record player.

The best part of my day was making place cards for a special dinner with a very special guest. (Remember, this was at work. If this special guest had been at my house I definitely would have nixed the wiener casserole.) This request came very close to my quitting time so I was spared endless deliberation over font, cardstock etc. If I had been given a week I could have really worried it to death.

Now that I am back home on my lap-top, I've given the art thing another try. Success...of a sort. Except that I've changed Rick's iGoogle to Coldplay and now it won't let me sign out. Have no fear, dear, the emo art will be gone ASAP and you can make your own choice. Robert Mankoff, perhaps?

Thank you! Your account has been charged. Your balance is zero. Please come back when you can afford to make a purchase.
Life-imitates-art week continues.
Time to make that most exquisite of all delights: wiener casserole. High quality Hebrew National Wieners and brand name macaroni, so who's complaining? (Me, right?)

I hadn't given a lot of thought or planning to that 'stimulus' package stuff, but right now I'm a wee bit overdrawn and if the government wants to bail me out and call it economic stimulus - FINE!

My other nutrition advice is: "Don't assume everything that says "Newman's Own" is meant for you. It wasn't til I had my hand in the bag that I noticed that they were organic doggy treats. (For the record, the treats must have been some sort of freebie that came in with the Dog Show samples and that sweet, sweet Dental Show swag. I do not buy organic dog munchies while feeding wiener casserole to the family. For the record.)

Please come back when you can afford to make a purchase. Your kids are starving. Carl's Jr. believes that no child should go hungry. You are an unfit mother. Your children will be placed in the custody of Carl's Jr....

"He's a psychopath addicted to human attention."
Little Knut is growing up. And may be the mascot for Vanity Fair sweethearts.

Comin' up next on The Violence Channel: An all-new "Ow...
Has anyone noticed the resemblance between a certain Pepsi ad (featuring Justin Timberlake) and a fictional TV show depicted in a dystopian cult fave movie?

I'm not as easily shocked as many of my friends - in fact, I fear at times that I have become inured to most of the 'mysterium iniquitatis.' But lately...well, things just seem bizarre. I've spent close to fifty years adopting the personnae of my favorite fictional characters. I am caught off guard by the sudden realization that I am no long Nancy Drew, Cherry Ames or Lucy Van Pelt. I'm feeling like a 21st C. feminine Dr. Tom More - without the luxury of a HoJo's hideout.

and the question came to me: has it happened at last?
If only there were a lapsometer stashed under my bed/office, down there with the Bop-It Extreme, two broken rosaries, a pair and a half of L.L.Bean Maine-Isle Flip-Flops and a substantial ball of dog hair. Electrolytes, anyone?

FLDS men have many wives and the pope has none, which goes to show there's more than one way to keep women pregnant and in their place.
And I'm too busy participating in my own oppression to write one more indignant letter to the Trib.

Memories of a Lifetime
A series of books of exquisite vignettes for paper crafts, each with an accompanying CD. I may get another one or two, provided I don't have to endorse our whole freakin' 'stimulus package' over to ComEd and North Shore Gas. (...and what about the North Shore Sanitary District? Gotta send them something, too. That's the bill that really kills. Paying big bucks to send out the effluent. Totally bizarre. Either I, as a kid, missed out on a big chunk of reality or where I came from stuff just went down the drain. The penalty was included with the price of the incoming water.)

They Sound Good to Me
Frog monitors listen for croaks as scientists look for signs of disease in Illinois.
The sounds are much more nuanced than an amateur such as I could comprehend.

And get out your awareness ribbons: Conservationists worldwide declared 2008 the Year of the Frog.

Save The Banana Boys
Chicago Public Schools have dire problems, while far a north suburban school makes sure a moment of merriment is punished. The Banana Boys sound uncommonly mature in their willingness to take their punishment and move on. (There are some school districts - I shall refrain from naming them - where it would be more common for the parents of the 'offenders' to get a lawyer and take it to the Supreme Court.)

All she was looking for was the courage to tackle the chaos, "and the wisdom to accept the bathroom tiles I cannot change."
Soothing reading in anticipation of the week-end.

Not Bad...Considering my Recent Level of Irritation

Created by OnePlusYou

Via the "too nice" Dylan

Another disaster avoided...
This year's take someone to work day passed without notice. I have had occasion to bring some of the kids to work and it was no jolly holiday. There was the time Rick and Chuck were out and I had to bring Eddie with me. Parking him on a little stool next to my desk, he helped stuff envelopes for the Christmas mailing. When that became tedious (after seven minutes) he amused himself with some work books and coloring books we brought along as back-up. His father bailed him out as soon as possible.

There was the time Eddie and I worked on a project of sorting and organizing homilies for one of the priests. More interesting and with a bit more prestige, Ed still had to have the project parceled out in tolerable chunks of time.

Maybe next year everybody should bring their kids to work. Except that most of us don't have kids who are especially young nor interested in church-lady-work. It could be a fun experiment. Especially is we let the young people answer the phones. Maybe they could make sense of some of the calls.

I...
would have gone with a snappier ribbon.

I predict...
very little. My prognostications are often well informed but still off the mark.
But I am confident in my prediction that this will be a good year for frogs. It is only April and I am sitting in my silent room next to the open window. It would be fairly silent if it weren't for the sound of the frogs from the 'swamp' (of sorts) north of the apartment complex next door. Those are a lotta loud frogs.

And the boggy area around a major intersection east of here, where frog songs abound on hot summer nights is already raucous on mild April mornings. If I were six years old and afraid of frogs, I would be very afraid. Sealing up the doors and windows afraid.

But frogs comin' to get me is not what I would consider to be a credible threat. (Though frog travels won't be constrained by rising gas prices...) And after a winter that seemed to never end, it absolute music to my ears!

Bassackwards
To have a dog, you have to know you can bear the expense. It's not like getting pregnant accidentally and saying, 'Oops I've got a kid on the way.' "
If you happen to be averse to the concepts of canine yoga, massages and posh funerals, this article may be too depressing.

Yes, I did once buy a polo shirt for Scrappy, but that was a special occasion. I don't think of him as a member of the family. (Although he has been kind enough to listen to me when I'm having a bad day. But his life is relatively low stress.) And when he's gone I won't need the " bereavement counseling [that] is available for those who can't move on."

Pardon me while I puke. And, no, it's not a hairball.

Hey Embot:
Would you rather spend a day white water rafting, or alphabetizing your book/CD collections?
Sorry, kid, I couldn't help thinking of you when I saw this question. Chances are you won't have a near-death experience while cataloging. Give this test a try...

Your Score: Eeyore

You scored 18 Ego, 15 Anxiety, and 12 Agency!

You scored as Eeyore!

ABOUT EEYORE: Eeyore lives in his own thistley corner of the
forest and wonders why people don't come to visit him more often. He is
master of the Guilt Trip, and is always gently forgiving his visitors
for neglecting him. Eeyore considers himself to be smarter than the
other inhabitants of the Hundred Acre Wood, and is often exasperated by
their habit of having adventures and general merriment.

WHAT THIS SAYS ABOUT YOU: You are an anxious person, and you
tend to expect the worst. Your friends find you somewhat cynical at
times, because you have found that it is best to expect disappointment.
You often feel unappreciated by the people you work with, but you
rarely actually try and do anything to change that fact.

Your close friends admire you more than you think they do.
They wish that you would learn to stop worrying so much and actually
start trying to fix what is bothering you. If something is making you
unhappy... change it!

The Deep and Meaningful Winnie-The-Pooh Character Test
And I thought I was making progress.

(Via the much less anxious Owl Alicia)

Dear Girls...
You might be interested in some advice from disinterested third party.
Just for your reference. I'm not pointing to specific people, places or events.
But listen to what the inimitable Mr. Luse has to say.

Happy when you're not…
I love the moments in movies when one little thing explains a character. Being, perhaps, the last person to see Juno –alone, in my room on Friday night - I didn't have much of a chance to discuss it with anyone. At this point I feared the disappointment that comes with a big build-up. But it was charming. And full of those tiny defining things.

Give Clinique's Happy high points for brand recognition. I recognized the bottle instantly, before it was mentioned in passing. That perfume with the lilting citrus top note was the perfect dressing table necessity for a woman who was so clearly not happy. Would the same fragrance by any other name have been used? I think not.

A whiff of Happy has been known to help, though. I remember the year when Bridget was plagued with migraines (I think this was in the wake of Rick's pheo, but I'm not exactly sure. Funny how events of a cataclysmic nature can become fuzzy with the passage of time. The thought evokes emotion but some details escape. A few numbers survive. 250 over 110. 9 units of blood. 10th of November. "6 kids – You don't want more, do you?")

Bridget liked Happy. And there I was in the weeks before Christmas stopping at the Clinique counter of every possible store to scam up a free sample tube. A mendicant mom intent on providing some Happy. Marshall Field's, Lord and Taylor, Neiman-Marcus, Carsons, another Marshall Field's. Too broke to buy any Happy, though anteing up $10 to get the limited edition Clinique Happy CD. And voicing no objections when a friend approached a Clinique counter and asked for samples for "a friend's daughter who has bad brain problems." She scored three! samples. I felt that we were pushing some bad karma buttons there, but it wasn't really a lie. And some twelve or so years later, Clinique has a solid customer in Bridget. Guess what she gave me for Christmas this past December?

Free Range Kids
Do you ever...
..let your kid ride a bike to the library? Walk alone to school? Take a bus, solo? Or are you thinking about it? If so, you are raising a Free Range Kid!
Interesting.

Alas, the resemblance does not go unnoticed by my family.
April 28th edition. Hey, that's my sister's birthday. Maybe I should frame this cover and send it to her.

I recommend Pope-a-Palooza, The Most Hated Player in the NHL, a good article on field recording of American folk music plus some fiction that I plan to read over the week-end. With the cover folded over.

Hawking: Unintelligent life is likely on other planets
Is this somehow extrapolated from reading celebu-blogs and calculating outward into the universe?

As is so often the case (remember the measles, pox and our American indigenous peoples?) a the sum of our fears lies in the cooties*:
So should you worry about aliens? Alien abduction claims come from "weirdos" and are unlikely. However, because alien life might not have DNA like us, Hawking warned: "Watch out if you would meet an alien. You could be infected with a disease with which you have no resistance."

*In this case, cooties which might not respond to a bottle of Clorox!

Hedgehog Obesity
I'm very concerned.
OK, so I'm not very concerned.
But it was a nice change of pace from the (may I borrow from Fr. Neuhaus here?) "overweening and preening" Earth stuff on the tube.

Green decorating tips from the Merchandise Mart?
Throwing your couch away is not green. Reupholster.
Sending decent furniture to a landfill is not green good. Putting it on the curb for your neighbors to take is laudable. People appreciate it. They (i.e. we) do, they really, really do.

Found objects make fabulous decorative pieces. Be sure to wash the cooties off. Use bleach if necessary.
It's a sad day when we need the TV news to tell us that miscellaneous junk has that special je ne sais quoi. Driftwood. We had a nice big piece of driftwood back in the 60's. I'm looking for something a little more 'cutting edge.' Maybe...maybe a taxidermied hedgehog. A nice obese hedghog. They're going to be dropping dead from complications, right?

Paris Daily Photo is a daily visual delight. Today's tribute to the Fauchon food market, for instance...OK, so much for the daydreaming. Anyhow, there was an amusing entry a few days ago. The picture itself is not that amusing, but the comments are great. Amusing and enlightening as to the misperceptions of sacramental confession. (I, too, had my first experience of the totally glass confessional while in Paris. I'm too much a child of the television age and was reminded of the glass isolation booth common on many game shows of a certain time. That show with Dennis Miller, I think it's called Amnesia, but I forget - no pun intended - has a glass isolation booth.) I did smile when reading the comment about a confessional line sign being popular in England, not because of piety but on account of the inborn English predilection for queueing up.

April 19...
Celebrating the 2nd anniversary of my artificial left hip. The proof of the success is in the fact that I don't think about it much. I feel, if not exactly young, then at least young for my age. Then I came across this, via Bill W., whereby one can look up the song that was #1 on the day she was born. Now I feel old. The McGuire Sisters? And to add insult, I'm finding myself increasingly out of touch with current tunes. The #1 hit on my birthday this year? Low by Flo Rida and T-Pain. I saw that listed on iTunes yesterday. It looked dumb. And it has been #1? O tempora o mores...

To turn the conversation to music of some substance, I must note the passing of Danny Federici of the E Street Band. The accordion. Sandy. The Uptown Theater, Milwaukee, 1975. That is music.

Dust in the Wind
Not the song one wants to listen while having one's bones scanned.
Though any kind of music was a blessed reprieve.
Rick had some sort of full body scan last year and came home with a CD that the technician burned for him on the spot because he had been so taken with it. (Shaw/Blades' Influence. I was impressed, too. I was never a Styx fan, so I had reservations the first time he suggested I listen.) I was lucky to come home with my sanity intact. This test was not painful or risky, but I still would rather have a colonoscopy.

For a hospital with a 'healing garden' and other soft healing touches, you might think that there would be optional 'healing' music. Though one person's healing music is another's gag inducing treacle. I wonder if I could bring my own invigorating mix disc. Iggy Pop's Lust for Life, a little Mozart, some early Springsteen plus some Beach Boys, especially Good Vibrations topped off by Freebird. No OutKast's HeyYa...I don't want to be encouraged to "shake it" when I'm told to hold perfectly still.

My guess is that ninety-nine out of a hundred people don't want to hear Knockin' on Heaven's Door or Dust in the Wind.
Does anyone ever want to hear Dust in the Wind? Ever?

"If the Pope Googles himself while he is here, maybe he will see it and comment on my blog.”
Funny stuff - with that essential kernel of truth - thanks to the tip from Alicia.

“Remember Us When You Hear City of God!” painted in tempera paint. “Please offer it up for us! My dad’s out of work,”

Shrine of the National Conception?!?
The first time the local news anchor said it, I figured it was a misreading of the story. The third time, I knew it was written wrong. At least they didn't say Immaculate Shrine of the National Conception.

I'm not saying...
that I went in to work late because of the Papal Mass. But I would have been a fool not to watch while cooling my heels at home. I am trying to get the family to watch as much of the coverage as possible, but I there is little sign of anyone being enough of a 'child' relio-geek that they are calling for time out to watch everything. I also do not have anyone to watch the EWTN coverage with who finds Fr. Neuhaus as amusing as I do. Smart, yes; funny, no. So much for the generation raised on JackAss and Jack Black.

The National Rifle Association said it was concerned people in rural areas, where Wal-Mart may be the only purveyor, may no longer have access to guns.
I wouldn't to presume to speak for the NRA. But if I could channel my late father, an NRA life member, let me say, "I might not be a good idea to sell guns in a store where sales counters are left unattended and any ol' shopper can commandeer the public address system.

"The Jury Commissioners have denied your request for excuse."
To be excused.
For an excuse.
What is more baffling? The fact that I could not convince the Jury Commission that I am totally unfit for jury duty - not to mention in need of transportation to the Courthouse, which I do not think is implied in the statement that those who fail to comply may be picked up by the Sheriff - or the wording of the rejection.

I said nothing snarky when calling for a deferral. I sure don't need the Sheriff picking me up for being a smart-aleck. Fortunately I was able to cash in my one-time-only deferral without having to take out my tiny violin and sing a song about sharing the car with Martha, the rheumatologist's appointment etc. combined with the fact that the Lake County Courthouse gives me the willies. I didn't even come close to some comment about all the thieves and whores...in addition to those on trial. Hey - I got that from my sister, who, after 20+ years in criminal law has some strong opinions of the justice system.

So...we'll put off to September what we could do in April. I know that when September comes I will regret this, but for now it feels good.

Memories...
I'm having a flashback. I'm home from school, sick, curled up in my parents' bed, watching Pope Paul VI in New York on the little portable TV. Was I really all that sick, or was I just interested in the Pope? (I was a kind of strange kid...)

Anyway, it sounds like a nice thing. But I think if I called in sick today, my employer would figure out what I was up to... And with the marvels of the Internet - I can keep peeking from my desk.

but attractive to the eye, and soothing to the smell. Poppies... Poppies.
Fran is just about done making slipcovers out of the poppy tablecloths I found about a month and a half ago. I would have been content to just drape them over the couch and wing chair, but Fran went all out and tailored them, with Velco etc. The poppies on a white background add just the right amount of brightness to the living room. As long as the dogs are under control, we should be fine. It doesn't take a lot of imagination to envision muddy paws all over. But I'm not ready to put a slipcover on the slipcover.

No. Helll No.
Like a guy who compulsively stalks his ex-, former priest and professional dissenter Robert McClory just can't leave the Catholic Church alone. I'm not saying he should leave the Church. That's not my call. I'm saying he should leave the Church alone.

Ghostwriting for the Pope, an ego-centric creative exercise in today's Chicago Tribune is a love letter from McClory to the aged and moss-covered Church of What's Happening Now. It's appalling that this type of worn, aren't-we-'hip' theology is hauled out at the time of the Holy Father's visit. Better that the paper should give a platform to those who are honest in their lack of regard for the Catholic Church or ignore the Church altogether.

Why does he get to indulge his fantasy. How about I write a story in which the Pope comes to Chicago, takes us all to Ben & Jerry's for ice cream, gives me a small artifact from the Vatican Museum and calls my pastor to tell him that I deserve a raise?

One more thing...
Every penny counts, right? It just dawned on me how bad some things have become.
I bought gas at the WalMart gas station because it was a dime a gallon less than the Citgo near my house. I spent $35, thinking that I must have saved a lot on such a big sale. On the way home I did the mental math. $35 bought 10 gallons of gas. I saved a dollar. A dollar!

Enough. It's time to play the glad game.
At least I have a car.
And some money left after filling the car with groceries.
Things have been worse.

Vigilante Consumerism!
Mission accomplished.
Not too much of an ordeal. Except for the detour into fabrics. I decided to buy a yard and a half of red striped ticking to recover the bolster on the family room couch. Optimism led me to think that a spiffy 'new' bolster could redeem the dumpster-dive pedigree of our couch and give it a look straight out of the Pottery Barn catalogue.

The first pass through the fabric department was hopeless - too many others waiting for the addled clerk. So I finished my grocery shopping and went back. Now the area was empty. No shoppers, no marginally alert sales associates. I rang the little bell. I waited. I waited some more. I picked up the unattended telephone, in hopes of reaching customer service. Customer service was busy. And busy. And busy.

How good of them to post instructions for use on the phones. Just pick up the receiver and hold down the button that says "PAGE." "Help in fabrics." "Help needed in fabrics." "Customer service in fabrics - PLEASE."* I now had a small crowd around me. None of whom were WalMart employees. I decided to page no more, lest I say something that would have me banned from WalMart for life.

Still no assistance. I picked up a scissors. I measured my fabric and cut. (I always wanted to use that counter with the scissors groove. Fun.) The instructions on the price gun were not as clear cut as the phone's. I gave up and wrote 1 1/2 yards @ 4.17/yd on a piece of paper, which I intended to take to Customer Service. At that point a clerk arrived. She was not terribly impressed one way or another with my self-service. But I handed her my ticking, told her I had cut my own and asked her to generate a price ticket. Because I am basically a law abiding, people pleaser, I put on a charmingly apologetic smile and gestured at the cart laden with $278 worth of groceries and said, "My frozen food was melting." She didn't care. She didn't even measure the cloth to verify the length.

Maybe tomorrow afternoon - after I have recovered and if the weather eases up on my knotty knuckles - I will work on the bolster.

*I sounded good. Crisp, clear, articulate. Obviously not an employee.

Party Time!Sort of...
I hear the mini-van coming down the street. (The fact that I can tell my car from down the block is a bad sign. But not so bad that it will catch anyone else's attention. Rick says its some sort of belt squeak. But we'll not worry about the belt 'til it snaps. Or it is found wrapped around my neck...) So it's time to gird the loins, cowboy up and go to WalMart.

Rick thought the 'educational' rental of Henry V (the one with Kenneth Brannagh) would make a good Saturday night video party. Sounds like a sound idea to me. I won't make the mistake of referring to it as 'edu-tainment' and spoiling it before we start.

Let's get the shopping ordeal out of the way so Mom can rebound in time for a timely dinner and an earlier curtain time for Prince Hal. I have to work tomorrow morning. And be a lector at 7:30am Mass, so I want this to be an early evening. Eddie and I usually go to 7:30 Mass ("more old folks, less crybabies"), but I'm not used to having to be punctual and presentable. One or the other. Both is a stretch.

Killing Time...
waiting for Fran to get back so I can go to WalMart.
The anticipation dread has left me too tired to do anything constructive in the interim. So I'm playing games:

You Are a Pistachio

You are funky, freaky, and a total character. You're very different than anyone you know. There's no way you're changing the way you are... Which is good, because no one wants you to change.

What Nut Are You?

found via
I didn't fare so well on the "How Misanthropic Are You?" and "Has American Culture Ruined You?" quizzes. Everything is tainted by the damned trip to WalMart. (Not that I want the Fountain Square WalMart SuperCenter to disappear - times are tough and cheap soap, milk and gas may be worth the angst.)

Exceptional - because you are
Too many hours spent in the neurologist and neuropsychologist's waiting rooms have taken the appeal off the word "exceptional." (About as delightful as "SHORT BUS - because you ride it!)

A favorite bumper sticker says, "Remember…you are unique. Just like everyone else." Everyone wants to have their absolute exceptionality recognized. If we say it pains us to admit that we are like everyone else, the facts say otherwise. Yesterday's Chicago Trib had another of those articles about the way everyone from the guys sleeping in refrigerator boxes on Lower Wacker to the scions of American industrial dynasties all consider themselves to be Middle Class.

Except for that childhood phase when I was sure that I was a British aristocrat trapped in the body of a Middle Class girl from suburban Milwaukee, I, too, have considered myself Middle Class. Yesterdays article was a little more probing, in that it gave figures. Nasty money figures that aristocrats Middle Class girls don't like to mention. Depressing. It must be natural to draw mental maps or Venn diagrams and place yourself right in the middle, defining everyone according to where they land compared to the center (i.e., you). That's where all the people in the article placed themselves. It can be depressing to lay one's diagram on top of someone else's.

Maybe I should just stop reading the Trib. I started the day as the Baroness von Huben and went home as Brandine Spuckler.

When our pastor went to Rome a year or so ago, he asked if he could bring me anything. I said there was no thing I wanted, but if he had the happy chance to visit Santa Maria della Vittoria and see Bernini's Ecstasy of St. Teresa, I would appreciate hearing a first hand account. (And a bit of reassurance that it was still there and waiting for my eventual visit.)

Father was back in Rome this past week. I received a delightful surprise when I walked into work the other morning and was given a message. Father had called. There was no important work message for me. I was told he had visited and prayed for me at "that, you know, St. Teresa church." I was touched that he had remembered. When he was back in the office this morning, I was eager to debrief him.

"Tell me it is as beautiful as in the art books."

"It is. And more..."

Hard Times?
Aldi, the bargain refuge that so many of us already know about, has started advertising on television. Is this just market expansion or seizing the chance to capitalize on the spiraling cost of living? We're already reduced to doing most of our grocery shopping at WalMart - as much as we despise the corporation - but I don't think I have the mental energy to doing more of my shopping at Aldi. The prices rock, they often have some interesting special items, but I always leave feeling depressingly poor. There are a lot of depressed poor people who shop at Aldi. Maybe they aren't more depressed than the people who shop at my local Dominick's, but the Dominick's shoppers try harder to keep up appearances. (Shopping at WalMart leaves me too nerve-jangled to be introspective or guilty over my complicity in their rape of the American marketplace)

The news is crisis driven, so I take the ranting about inflation, recession etc. to be part of the schtick. But we're also really starting to feel the pinch. We're far from clawing at the dirt a la Scarlett O'Hara but there is that pinch. And I haven't even looked at the North Shore Gas and ComEd bills for this month. The due dates are about two weeks off and "Sufficient for the day is the evil thereof."

Harumph!
NightLine just showed a visually striking snippet of some "Human Foot Print" special coming up. They used little rubber ducks, of the type that Martha is fond of collecting, to demonstrate how many showers the average person takes in a lifetime.
28,433.
So what about the foot print of 29,000 little rubber ducks. Computer generated or enhanced? Or did National Geographic buy all the duckies and then send them to a landfill?

Smells Like a Subliminal Message...

It's not that I'm buying the change message - but there is a feel of reassurance in some Obama promotional stuff. I think I've sniffed it out:

The 11th Commandment is, "Thou shalt not blog."
P.J. O'Rourke has his own update of the 7 Deadly Sins.
3.  Youth. Talk about worshiping false gods; why would anyone pray--or pay!--for youthfulness? The young are spotty, sweaty, chowder-headed, and woefully lacking in wisdom, experience, or control over anything, especially themselves. Yet we bear witness to the eternally babyish baby boom. Men in their sixties are on Harleys and snowboards and basketball courts, from which they will proceed to damnation by way of the emergency room. The women go to and fro in the earth, mutton dressed as lamb, with liposuction well-applied to tummy, butt, and brain. And they all come to Mass, when at all, in shorts, T-shirts, and shower flip-flops.
Very funny. Very profound. Except for the blog part. And, heaven forbid it would be changed to "Thou shall not blog at work." Like Luther in the loo, I do some of my best thinking while on 'the clock.'

Google Moon Phase Gadget
Useful. For those times when things are more bizarre than usual and someone asks, "Is there a full moon?"

Jazz Apples
Jazz. Apples.
Eat them and get jazz hands?
An apple a day keeps Bob Fosse away?
I bought some. (May they not be as misleading as "Delicious" apples.)

So sad..
to hear of the passing of Charlton Heston. Especially at 1:30am. It's been a while since we've gone through the constant week-end barrage of late night phone calls.

So I'm back to being a bit of an alarmist when the phone rings in the very, very early morning hours. The rest of the night was followed by bizarre nightmares in which the phone kept ringing, various neighborhoord ne'er-do-wells passed out in my living room and I tried to check out of a posh resort without being able to pack all my stuff or come up with a suitable method of payment.

Now I'm doing an unusual Sunday Morning at work. (I'll be hear the next two weeks, too! Good times!!!) Trying to wake up. The packets of instant cocoa that I had hidden in my desk are helpful, mixed with hot coffee. Perhaps I shall pick up the phone soon and call Bridget. Turn about could be fair play. We could discuss the late Mr. Heston's filmography...

Bait and Switch?
Today's big excitement at work (besides having my spousal unit skullking about while installing a new computer at the front desk - a feast of St. Isidore act of mercy) was the continued comedy of the callers who have misread the parish website and/or our local newspaper advertisement and think the Pope is coming to our parish.

Maybe I'll stammer a bit with the next caller and say, "Mmmm...I don't know...you probably should come to church. Just in case...Right...?"

“The ribbon ‘appears to signal concern for others...”

Found via First Things Blog, a review of Ribbon Culture, a book about the ubiquitous and sanctimonious awareness ribbon.

”The more that awareness ribbons have become a must-have accessory, the more they have become All About Ourselves.”
And since it’s all about me, I don’t feel so bad about loathing the ribbons.*

Maybe I should use my bright green with pink polka dot ribbon to make Ribbon Awareness Awareness Ribbons. I bought the ribbon for pure enjoyment and have been waiting for a purpose.

*With the exception of the little green ribbons we would make in Girl Scouts. Each Scout would give them to Moms, Sisters, Aunts, Grandmas - any women who had been a Girl Scout - to wear during March to show the ubiquity of Girl Scouting. Those were cute.

Clarifications Dept.
No, the Pope is not coming to Lake Forest. Really.
And this is not the 40th anniversary of the assassination of Dr. Martin Luther King by James Earl Jones.
Let's all get our facts straight.

Santos! Collect Them All!!!
Bridget was tickled to find that there is one of those gum ball and trinket vending machine at Dominick's that has little (maybe one inch?) saint statues. Last week she brought me the Sacred Heart and St. Juan Diego.

Today's numinous coincidence: She was running to the store, so I handed her fifty cents and asked her to get me one of those tiny saints. She splurged and bought me six in hopes of advancing the completion of the total complement. One - on today, April 2 - was a tiny and incredibly realistic John Paul II. (I've seen bigger, much costlier statues that bear much less resemblance!) I had to run back to Dominick's a few hour laters. On the way out I stopped to see 'who' I still needed. Just one...the only one missing is St. Anthony.

UPDATE! I found where I can get 250 of them for $36. Too much of a good thing, I think!

New! Must Have!

The latest by Fr. Robert Barron...Word on Fire: Proclaiming the Power of Christ

(Of course, I got the usual unsettling amazon.com message: Customers who bought the items in your shopping cart also bought: 99 Ways to Cut, Sew, Trim, and Tie Your T-Shirt into Something Special. Huh? Sounds like they were tipped off that my other New - Must Have is a pair of L.L. Bean Maine Isle Pink Polka-Dot Flip-Flops.)

Making Progress.
Am taken to task by boys for mentioning "The Scottish Play" by name.
We are retaining some knowledge.

Hey...It's April

Please read the not-so-fine print...
Our parish website is not particularly vague in its welcome to the Holy Father.
But I have had the opportunity to reassure callers that he is coming to America, not the North Shore. (The good news is that somebody is looking at our website, static as it may be.)

And you kids think I make this stuff up?
Alive and Young supports my appreciation of Kosher for Passover Coca-Cola. For the same reasons the Pope would be appalled at the taste of American made Orange Fanta.