It's Gonna Be That Kind of Week...

The memory of the Bluths in the stair-van is a great consolation when I am being driven to work in a big box truck.  

The Standard...

by which subsequent Thanksgivings are judged.

Compared to '05 this year was quite tame.

No violence, except that wreaked by a head thrown into the wall by a collapsing Forby stool. The IKEA staple is now pretty much known as the 'seat of death' in my household; hyperbole since Eddie snapped back quickly with no permanent damage. Though they have been known to hold people of considerable girth, the Forby is now restricted to use as a small table etc. I have one in my office at work - it's good for holding extra papers and I have also used it for a small Christmas tree. But, no, I'll never ask anyone to have a seat.

I do endorse the use of extraneous picture frames for addressing any simple drywall breach.

Basking...
long after the clean-up, the happy memories linger.

[Dad was given a pass on the plaid jacket since I allowed his favorite sweater to be fouled and had failed to wash it in time.  And he was cooperating with the whole "Please don't bring your ugly red cup to the table" thing.]

The Proust questionnaire - complete with James Lipton style blue note cards - was a smash.  It kept the conversation lively and more or less civil.  Remember guys, no card says, "What fault do you most despise in the person next to you?" And "How would you like to die?" does not presuppose an assassination attempt or paid hit.

The cards worked so well that the girls pulled them back out when their friends dropped by later in the evening.  And it has been suggested that the questions be expanded for next time.

Buy Nothing Day

I hope the zombies don't get me, but I think I am going to have to buy some gas just to get around.  But no, you won't find me out shopping today.  You couldn't pay me to go shopping today and the discouragement of a social movement is not necessary. The day after Thanksgiving was a fun shopping day for me... like back in college.  When it might have been my only chance to do well thought-out Christmas shopping. Not now.  No way. 

"Carsons at 4:00am? Sounds good to me..."*

*This was before dinner. Very, very little champagne had been consumed.
They may hate me for posting this, but I think it is charming.
And it proves if you keep taking pics even the most photogenic people will show up in a clinker.
If only the inverse were true...

Happy Thanksgiving!

Who Let the Dogs Out?
Really.

I realized yesterday afternoon, while polishing silver and poking the frozen turkey, that this will be the last Thanksgiving for a long time that we won’t have a little person skittering about during our preparations. And how did I manage to commemorate/savor the ease of unmindfulness? By offering to babysit for a neighbor’s toddler.

I am not now nor have I ever been a natural babysitter. Just ask those who did time with me during conscripted service in our church’s ‘Kiddie Keep.’ They would probably be the first to express amazement that I had six children. Perhaps that I had any children. But this mom was desperately in need of a sitter. And when she asked me on Tuesday evening, I was running about the house in caffeinated overdrive and felt more than up to the task.

Last night I was feeling more tired and time-constrained, but we keep our promises.

[Wait. I’ll be back in a minute. The Rockettes are on.]

[Thanks. I do so enjoy my yearly Rockettes fix.]

Once my young charge had been picked up things should have been easy. After two hours of playing, reading, coloring, discouraging coloring on the carpet, various art books and a copy of the Catechism, ending with an exhausted toddler asleep on my shoulder. I must remember to warn Rick that I had borrowed his blue Mr. Rogers sweater off the back of the recliner. He may be interested in avoiding that odd mucousy patch on the left shoulder. Where did I put that sweater?


I’m out of practice with all the kid stuff. Yes, it does come back like riding a bicycle, but I found it just as exhausting as a long distance bike ride. The bending, the flexing, the vigilance. I deferred pulling the water goblets and sorbet dishes off of the upper shelves to the morning, when I would be limber and less butter-fingered. The busy day was capped off with watching Oprah’s thrifty Christmas special - ? - and just as I was dozing off Bridget knocked on my door to ask if I had the dogs with me. Uh, no. The big dogs don’t sleep in my room. Scrappy is discouraged (as in let’s close the door) from bunking in my bed. For a variety of good reasons.

Scrappy was found in the boys’ room. Scrap does not like low temperatures; if it’s below 85 he is to be found under any available cover. But the big dogs? Where were they. And how did they give us the slip? There was a lot of traffic through our house last night...but still. The worry. The humiliation. To paraphrase Oscar Wilde, to lose one dog may be regarded as a misfortune; to lose both looks like carelessness. Oh, hell, it is carelessness!

I heard the troops being gathered. And the sound of “Clyyyyde, Coooody,” in the distance. Rather than offer my limited help - bad night vision, a tendency to find any lurking black ice - I burrowed deeper into my bed and tried to shiver and pray myself to sleep. Invoking the intercession of any interested parties. Not especially for the dogs’ sake. But for the dogs’ pals. Help them St. Francis, St. Jude, St. Anthony, all the other St. Francises and Franceses, St. Hubert. St. Jude again.

[Hey, Rick, where did you find that sweater? You may not wish to wear it.]

Those who know me well know the rocky history the Fran and I have. Now we are the closest of mother/daughter pals. I call her my “right hand Fran.” Oh, but there was a time. A time when I thought she would be the death of me. Death by worry, frustration, aggravation, despair. Innumerable nights when I would wake up at 3:00am wondering where and how she was. During these nights I would go from prayer to wishing that one day she could feel just a fraction of my sleepless worry.

My wish came true last night. And there was no pleasure in it. Worrying about an epileptic dog and friend running about in the freezing night near a major highway is a nicely fractionated dose of what I have gone through. And today Fran will be trying to muster the energy to do her part of the cooking after a pretty much sleepless night.

There is no pleasure at all in seeing Fran get a dose of her old medicine. There is only more worry and sadness. Does this mother stuff ever end? I think I know.

This will go down in the family books as another memorable Thanksgiving. Put it with the year the turkey fell on the floor, the year Emily climbed on the roof, the year of the smoldering cheesecloth ...
The year of unbidden payback.

Payback is a bitch. And her Husky companion.

[They’re baaack. At 5:30am and I didn’t hear them come in. Cold, tired. But OK. Now they’re sleeping soundly while the dinner prep chaos surrounds them. Fran and I can kick back and watch the National Dog Show on the telly. TV dogs are so undemanding.]

Actually, I am Working on a Round the Table Proust Questionnaire.
To be brought out when going around the table and naming something for which we are thankful starts to deteriorate.

The fine minds at First Things have taken a page from my childhood book of tricks.*
“Dreading the Thanksgiving-dinner arguments on religion and politics? Resistance is futile. Just accept the inevitable and start them yourself.”

*I was an irritating child.

Random Thanksgiving Thoughts
Presupposing the surfeit of happiness, blessings, and, of course, Food Network inspired cooking…

If you have studied at the School of the Art Institute of Chicago, must your wife really have to ask you not to bring that big red plastic cup of yours to the Thanksgiving dinner table? The crystal is shining, the antique silver has been polished, Martha’s hope chest has given up its antique china for a day. So what’s with the fifty cent WalMart cup, man?

Remember that old table that I just couldn’t stand anymore and put in the rummage sale and now I think it’s in storage for Embot? That might have been the table that we use to add a few more people at Thanksgiving. Start tucking in your elbows now, folks.

I really should post (i.e. find) my recipe for Cranberry Ice. ASAP.

Those helping clean this afternoon should know that the longstanding family clean up song, Donald Fagen’s New Frontier*, has been supplanted by Helter Skelter. Loud.

There is nothing like a holiday to give you the feeling that time is hurtling absolutely out of control. It is out of control. We just don’t like to be reminded of it.
For example, Embot is on semi-bedrest due to a spike in her blood pressure. Wasn’t it only yesterday – fifteen years ago – that I was chillin’ and gestatin’ in my nightgown while the family took care of Thanksgiving dinner details? And only yesterday when I could through in cassette tape, crank up New Frontier and Em, Fran and Bridget would scurry through the house putting away toys? Only yesterday that I bought The White Album on vinyl? Only yesterday… This is starting to hurt. Time to think about today.

*Pavlovian Update - I'm at work and New Frontier comes up on iTunes. I am overcome by the urge to move about and tidy up.

Today!
- New record for receiving Lenten promotional materials! 10:30am on 11/24
- This might be a good time to reiterate this is just not a good time of year to call a church looking for sacramental records for long dead ancestors. If you are interested in your great-grandma who may have been baptized here in 1859...well, could it wait until the week after Christmas?

A Night at the Roxbury...
Vermont public library could be an ordeal.
Em took a moment from her Napa tour to email this story of a public library finally installing the most basic of accommodations.

God bless the Roxbury Union Congregational Church for years of providing a basic corporal work of mercy.

Pay No Attention to the Second Collection
My sister and I have a long standing joke about our 'fear' of attending a musical theater performance and being overcome with a compulsion to stand up and start singing along. That fear also extends to any opportunities that could present an urge to extemporaneity. (Karen must have had that well under control to survive twenty plus years as a trial lawyer...) But there are some situations in which I do not want a door left open to improvise; not even the slightest. Which leads me to this morning.

This morning began yesterday afternoon. Fran and I were scoping out a neighbors frigid yet promising garage sale. She called her father to find out if he would be interested in more/cheap shelves for the St. Is office. Which is how he was able to catch my ear and "ask" if I could sub as a lector at Noon today for a friend of ours. The word ask is disputable, as Rick wouldn't take no for an answer. He meant well, but I was at the point of shouting "If you think being helpful is so @#%&# important, take the lector's training and start helping." This is a good example of why I prefer not to have a cell phone. For my benefit and that of the rest of the world.

Which is why I am sitting here now. Offering up my vexation. Goofing around. Waiting until the last possible minute to put on my lector-worthy outfit lest it become cluttered with dog hair. It's almost ten-thirty. I should have been home from Mass two hours ago. And I would be about my happy Sabbath pleasures, not stuck in a holding pattern.

This holding pattern is giving me time to think. It wasn't easy to make the rounds of the church entrance's distributing the CCHD envelopes while holding my nose. Whoddya think I am, David Blaine? I've always found the CCHD suspect; what with their brochures touting their nebulous programs. This year it has truly come to the fore... articulated by better minds
here and here.

What gifts to bring as a lector? I can enunciate and project my voice. And I have a strict, strict, strict policy of permitting as little as possible of "ME" into my duties. No flourishes, no extra words, no riffs on the announcements*. It's not right. And if I cross that line, who knows where I would go? But omissions? Lectors quite often fail to read the line about the second offerings. (Since I'm also the person who types this stuff, I notice when it is ignored.) So, what if I fail to announce the CCHD?
But then... people should know just what that second collection is. In an extemporaneous dream world, I might just tell them.

*Perhaps I could 'fix' my lector career with some improv announcements. Like, "Hey, you guys all appear to be extremely literate. So why don't you just read the bulletin!" In my dreams.

UPDATE:
I'm so happy that the 'success' of Mass is not dependent upon me. Jesus was present. All is good.
Which is good, because if it were all about 'me,' we'd have to grade this a very low C-.
I had decided to wear the all forgiving/all seasons/all occasion shapeless red dress. (I bought it for $5 in 2000. The cost per wear has now dropped into fractions of a cent.) The neck felt funny but it wasn't until I was at church and adjusting my necklace for the 100th time that I felt the tag - IN FRONT! There was enough time to run to the washroom and turn it around.
That left me a bit off kilter. It could have been worse. It could have been inside out. Then I would have had to feign faintness and let the ushers dial 911 so I could be removed from the whole situation.

After all my ruminations, I forgot to announce the second collection. It wasn't intentional. Honest. At that point I was reeling from forgetting it wasn't 7:30 and almost bungling the particular intentions for the Mass. (God might understand. Parishioners are not so forgiving.)

Everything else was by the book. And I didn't step out of my shoes (which are way too big or just right, depending on forces which I cannot adequately predict) or crash into an altar server.

Not so fast. I couldn't get away without being accosted by a parishioner who claimed I misread the name of her recently deceased sister. Followed complaints about the general low performance of all the lectors. And so on. And on. Her rant stopped long enough for her to grab an usher by the arm and complain about the fact that she saw a "retarded child in a wheelchair receive communion." And she knew, most definitely, that the witless cannot receive. We tried to gently disabuse her of this notion - neither of us wanting to do the right thing and tell her to check with Father. (Father didn't deserve all this venom. But I'm afraid she found him anyway.) My usher friend, tried so kindly to ask her look into it further and temper her judgment, especially in light of today's Gospel. My kindness was not as much Christian charity as restraint; the restraint of someone who is not just a parishioner, but also an employee. An employee without a lot of other salable skills.

Led into Temptation...
Everyone appears to understand my need to jump up from my desk and 'run' around for a moment to prevent bodily ossification. Then there is the finger flexing, neck stretching and arm flapping. So, what if my brain needs to stretch from time to time? Hmmm. Well, it's not like I spend my work day reading internet gossip sites. In fact, I could probably rationalize a lot of little 'mind breaks' as some sort of continuing education. Really. A good church secretary should know more than who is the Pope, where does he live and how to get the best price on paper and toner cartridges. Really. So if my mind wonders off for a minute or two here or there, it's all for the better.

On that note, I must share my latest temptation. Does for the brain what flapping and flexing does for the bod!

Today's Brush with Fame
She had been in some high school classes with Martha. All I have in common with her is a "runway walk described as a "Lurch thing."

He was recently seen down the street, cleaning leaves out of his gutters.

Artist Formally Known for Prints
or
Thomas Kinkade's 16 Guidelines for Making Stuff Suck
This article was really, really funny.
Now I feel mean and snobbish. But not so remorseful that the article didn't make me laugh on a second reading.
Though I would disagree with the author's description of "domineering religious worldview." I mean, come on, you could say that about Caravaggio, too. And that doesn't make them equal. ( Of course, some people feel any kind of religiosity is intrusive, domineering and out of place. And at that juncture is where Kinkade's major damage is done. Sappy saccharine Christianity may bring comfort to some, but I doubt that it is an effective tool of evangelization. It may be doing a good amount of de-evangelizing.)

“Putting Thomas Kinkade in an art-historical context is like trying to put Jack Chick in the context of the illustrated comic strip.”
Indeed.

If I Look Tired and Crazy You Can Understand Why!
"Offend mommy bloggers at your own peril. They can chew you up and spit you out in a day."
Yeah, I'm pro-sling. But also very pro-ibuprofen.
I do remember one thing I learned along with all the sling stuff. "Pick your battles."
Those moms should pace themselves.

The Summa Mamas Monday Day Book
Outside My Window... Dump trucks, back hoes and other equipment involved in a water/sewer project of epic proportion. This has to go down in the books as the least restful sick day I could have possibly taken.
I am thinking... ahead!
I am thankful for... the fun of Emily’s shower. And for my sister and niece being able to attend.
From the kitchen... not much at this moment.
I am wearing... Lanz nightgown topped plus a heavy cable knit sweater, slipper socks and my favorite Maine Isle Flip-flops. Not exactly what I see in Vanity Fair. Let’s call them ‘comfort clothes.’
I am creating... in my mind. I finished the nesting boxes that my sister commissioned for Emily and I’m having one of those decoupage overdose days.
I am going... slowly.
I am reading... Infinite Jest, The Habit of Being, the usual backlog of magazines and catalogs. And the December Vanity Fair - so I can feel both dowdy and morally superior.
I am hoping... for the best. Prepared for the worst.
I am hearing... Dump trucks, back hoes, etc. It looks like they are just going to work ‘round the clock until the ordeal is done.
Around the house... a moment of blessed tidiness in the wake of my sister’s visit. It won’t last.
One of my favorite things... Young pot-bellied pigs.
A Few Plans For The Rest Of The Week: The usual. Plus some plotting for Thanksgiving.
Here is picture thought I am sharing...

Overheard at the shower...
The mother-to-be relates that she has been told that one shouldn't take much advice from any mother whose youngest child is more than 15 years old. And I just had to remind her that baby Eddie is still 14!

Well, you know how it goes, Em; "Nobody ever said that life was fair. I'm bigger and I'm faster. I will always beat you."

I think this Granny Dearest biz suits me...

This is the week-end that was... au Pied de Cochon
It wasn't just to show off the new 'babies' that my sister came to town.
There was also the baby shower that the girls threw for their sister.
I'm new to this Grandma stuff, but I'm catching on.
I'm going in to work late tomorrow. Karen, Anne and the piglets are staying with friends in Buffalo Grove tonight and heading home in the morning. They are going to stop by on their way out of town and it will be nice to see them one more time. And, as much as I would love my work friends to meet my family, I think bidding the pigs farewell is better done at home.

Glory be to God for dappled things—
Dappled, adorable...just visiting.

Sick of Toyota's 'Saved by Zero' ad? You're not alone*
And I thought I was just becoming exceedingly crabby.
Not exactly 'front-page worthy' news. But it's reassuring to know I'm not alone.

*I couldn't stand that song back when it was just a song.

Google Flu Trends
Interesting concept.
Which leads me to my next project. Encouraging all local family and friends to google "bubo."

Just Wait 'til I Start My Prison Ministry...

You Are Boggle

You are an incredibly creative and resourceful person. You're able to dig deep and think outside the box to get things done. You are a non linear thinker. You don't like following directions You draw your inspiration from the strangest places sometimes. You're constantly inspired.

What Board Game Are You?

This diversion via Fr. Daren.

He's Back
Just when I thought it was safe to watch the news...
Fr. Michael Pfleger preaching up a storm.
No mention of the Lateran Basilica.
And a wild brown chasuble. I don't think any white could be that dingy.
'Course maybe my TV just needs adjustment.

Some Pig(s)
My sister has brought Cletus home. And, as a free bonus, he brought along his sister - LuLu. (LuLu being inconsolable at separation)

I will suppose this takes LuLu off of Emily and Ed's short list of baby names. My sister will be coming to town next week-end for Emily's baby shower. I must remember to give her one of my faux chickens as a housewarming gift. It's a little crowded here - and I think she needs a chicken to complete the tableaux.

More. So Much More.
There really is more to YouTube than Spiders on Drugs, Bono for Lucky Clovers and Kramp TV Kitchen. (Though I'm not particularly proud of my list of favorites, there is nothing wrong with them, when viewed in moderation.) For instance, the comments rage on over Fr. Robert Barron's commentary on Bill Maher's Religulous. With no signs of stopping.

Christmas shopping season opens; Macy's Unveils Tree
Today's sign of the end times.
I have now packed away the Halloween decorations and arrayed the living room in gourds and turkeys.
When I was little, my mother had a couple of little turkeys and some turkey salt and pepper shakers that she brought out when setting the table for Thanksgiving. I think I have gone in for a broader collection of turkeys (displayed for most of November) as my way of pushing back against the premature Christmas onslaught.

Yes, I have been socking away various gifts all year. But the Christmas shopping season? That hasn't started yet.

Local Woman Devotes Life To Doing God's Busy Work
Go ahead. Laugh.
(Gotta love those days when real life is indistinguishable from The Onion.)

"Phew! Lord, give me the strength to do thy tedious errands!"

The sun rose this morning...
Things are the same. Different, but the same.
God is in his heaven.

After a poor night's sleep [Yes, I finally lost my composure and screamed back at the "Yes, We Can" voices on the tube; "You can what?] it is time to carry on.

I am heartened when I hear the pundits talk about young people snapping out of their apathy, knowing that the several young people in my home did snap out. And it wasn't to drink the Obamalicious Kool-Aid.

I don't want to begrudge my black friends their moment of pride in this accomplishment. But they could have done better. Much better. [Any of my family readers remembering the chunk that the tape from the Alan Keyes sign took out of the paint near the living room window?]

So...
Yes we can.

Just remember this word: Pith.

Disappointed...but not devastated
We'll see how long it takes for the "aura" to wear off.
(Am I the only one who is astounded by the naivete of the whole thing?)

God's still in his heaven.

....And now some yokels are putting off fireworks in the cul-de-sac.

Miracle Children, Oprah and the Ice in my Blood

Those nights when I find myself watching the 11:00pm rerun of the day’s Oprah are often short of quality sleep. Chances are good that something annoying and/or disturbing will be shown. There was one of those nights last week.

Having fallen asleep with the TV on (bad policy, I know) I woke up mid-Oprah. She was showing a touching YouTube tribute made by the parents of a baby who lived for 99 well appreciated and celebrated days. Unlike Oprah and her guest, Celine Dion, I did not end up in tears. It was a moment that I did wonder if there was ice in my blood.

But my second thought, the one that nagged at me as I tried to go back to sleep, was the torrent of tears coming from a woman who has brought her considerable celebrity to bear in the presidential campaign of a man who has, in fact, denied the human rights of the smallest and most vulnerable people.

We live in a society which is comfortable with the discomfort some have with pithing frogs in biology class. Yet so many are enthralled, including lachrymose media icon Oprah, with a man who has no qualms about pithing humans.

One of us has a problem, a disconnect, an imbalance. And it might not be me.

November 3
A day to appreciate the way Catholicism knits together these disparate images.

It is the hunter’s honour that he
Protects and preserves his game,
Hunts sportsmanlike, honours the
Creator in His creatures.

A Bad e.g.
A Campaign spokesman said the ban might stop people confusing the Latin abbreviation e.g. with the word egg.
I honestly had no idea this was a problem.
But I found out by way of First Things blog.. (By way of - not via.)

So, kids...what do we say if someone implies that we are idiots?

"Tu quoque."

Our Arts and Letters Week End
a random sampling...










Margaret, are you grieving
Over Goldengrove unleaving?
Leaves, like the things of man, you
With your fresh thoughts care for, can you?
Ah! as the heart grows older
It will come to such sights colder
By and by, nor spare a sigh
Though worlds of wanwood leafmeal lie;
And yet you will weep and know why.
Now no matter, child, the name:
Sorrow's springs are the same.
Nor mouth had, no nor mind, expressed
What héart héard of, ghóst guéssed:
It is the blight man was born for,
It is Margaret you mourn for.

Gerard Manley Hopkins

Sir John Everett Millais

And, of course, Four Last Things.