My Baby Blue

No real spoilers to alert you to.  I'll just say that Vince Gilligan said that some people wouldn't like the way Breaking Bad ends.  (so true....could any author, auteur, or writer of musical comedy not say that?)  I liked the ending.  Except for the part that it was the end and endings of books, TV series, and the like always leave me with a bit of empty and lost feeling.

Our life has not been like the Whites'.  Except that I have felt a certain empathy with the family's laboring under the consequences of the father's business decisions.  Our problems are not nearly as exciting nor sinister.  And I'll admit that I there have been times I was watching the show and thought having to work with a 50 gallon barrel of cash wouldn't be the worst of burdens....I would make it work. What the heck, I could leave a quarter of the barrel at the dentist's office.  So far I have not had to deal with such temptations to corruption.

Here is where I found some catharsis.  Walter White's constant assertion that what he did was for the good of the family was something that I bought at the beginning.  Not that what he did was right but he was desperate. At the beginning he was desperate and latching on to a stupid idea.  But things spun way out of control and still he went on claiming it was for the family.  Walt sees Skyler for a last time and says, "I did it for me. I liked it. I was good at it. And I was really -- I was alive."   That pushed me close to tears.  Having heard for years that everything my husband did was motivated by concern for the family, that is a line I would like to hear.  For clarification, my husband is not a criminal mastermind - no sort of criminal - and all he cooks is dinner and all I launder is clothing.  But things may have been better if he had made some choices that were less creative, less self-fulfilling.

We soldier on.  Faithful.  Sometimes bitter.  Sometimes happy.  No barrels of money, but treasure in heaven.  And I face the day a little lighter having had a bit of video catharsis...feeling just a little baby blue. 

The Wild, The Innocent, and the Smith Avenue Shuffle

A sampling of last Saturday's surprise....

 "Location, location, location".  It's been a long (though it passed in a flash) crazy summer on our location, Smith Avenue.

Fran studied like crazy for the NCLEX (and passed!) My father-in-law was extremely ill for several weeks.  Not long after he was home and getting back to normal, Martha came down with strep which led to extreme asthma problems.  While Rick was running to the pharmacy to pick up her antibiotics, Martha had such a bad asthma attack that Bridget rushed her to the emergency room.  That ended up with three days in the ICU - just two doors down from where her grandfather had been on a ventilator for almost two weeks - and one more day in a 'regular' bed. 

I don't think we've totally recovered from that excitement yet.  The little things...like realizing that for several hours in the ER the oxygen mask hadn't been connected to the....oxygen.  Going home to sleep and getting a text early in the morning that Martha was NPO because they might need to "inhabit her."  Thanks autocorrect.  When it clicked that "intubate" was the word she was trying to text, I was out the door in a minute.  We were so relieved that it never came to that.  (Especially in light of the fact that it took a lot of wrangling to convince the hospital to take my father-in-law off of the ventilator, even when the doctor had OK'd it.  That, the unconnected oxygen, the list of gaffs, mistakes and miscommunications with that hospital make me glad that my doctor does not have an affiliation there.  Fran and Bridget were born there.  I'll treasure those memories, but do my best to avoid the place in the future.)  And while making small talk over the week-end, as Martha alternated between boredom and panic attacks, I fought the temptation to tell her that it dawned on me why her room number seemed so familiar.  Yeah, the day before she was admitted I had sent a priest to that room to anoint a dying patient.

Danielle, Bridget, and Fran were very helpful.  Danielle was an angel; picking up meals from Panera and Jimmy Johns for Martha, as the hospital no longer has the appealing menu that made mothers of my generation look forward to their 'confinement'.  Bridget helped keep Martha's spirits up - humoring her when she felt like she was being held against her will and was about ready to contact Amnesty International.  I managed to stay in perfect balance with the pull of maternal anxiety held in equilibrium by the push of spousal anger at my husband's extreme hospital phobia that kept him from visiting.

My in-laws decided to move into an assisted living complex.  I had no idea how quickly they would be moving.  And then I really walked into a typical von Huben $#!+ $+0rM.  Smiths are reserved; von Hubens just don't say anything (unless they are blurting out comments in a way that makes me think that there may be more Aspergerians on the family tree than the ones I birthed).  My mother-in-law was going to give her piano to Emily.  When Emily told me that they would probably put it in storage until they had a larger home, I asked her to store it with us.  This was a good idea.  Eddie is a very talented, self-taught, musician.  He plays guitar, drums, is learning the mandolin, and does quite a good job playing his electric keyboard.  What point is there in having a piano in storage when her brother goes to Guitar Center to play on the pianos in the showroom?  Right?  And I was nervy enough to mention it again a few days later.  I came home from work one day and told Rick that I had worked out the piano deal with Emily.  And Rick said he just couldn't deal with the hassle of the piano moving.  Piano moving?  Down on step out of Grandma's house and up one step when it gets to our house.  But NO!  Rick said, you know, moving the piano when we have to move.  That.  That is how the news that we may have to move was broken to me.

I spent a little time re-licking the wounds left from the time Rick lost a job and didn't tell me. He was hoping to find a new job right away so I "wouldn't be upset".  Of course I was upset.  And it wasn't the lost job that had me upset.  Two weeks ago I spent a weekend obsessing about the specter of moving looming over us.  It's fall, Fran hasn't found a job yet, Martha just got out of the hospital and was recuperating before beginning a new job at the end of September.  It wasn't just the "what if" that had me obsessing.  There was a second appraisal of our duplex (my in-laws are our landlords and some family members felt that a divestment of this property would be a good move) the coming Monday.  Between tidying up so the appraiser wouldn't call DCFS, ASPCA or Martha Stewart and mopping up my daughters' tears when they returned from unpleasant exchanges with relatives helping prep for an estate sale, I found myself battling hyperventilation and acute panic attacks.

Things are calmer now.  I don't need to breathe into a paper bag and I no longer feel like the room is spinning. I think my best hopes were borne out by the second appraisal.  Our house is not worth what is still owed.  And it's not because we fixed the hole in the powder room ceiling with foam core board and I have Michelangelo's Delphic Sibyl decoupaged on the wall of the upstairs hall.  The Sibyl is an improvement!

It's the neighborhood.  It has been a longstanding homeowners association rule that For Sale signs were not to be put on lawns.  With the number of houses that aren't selling, that rule has been tossed.
It's not the Sibyl.  Or the Medical Examiner's van that is parked in one neighbor's driveway four or five nights a week.  (now that's a memento mori!)  I think it's the large apartment complex which has now become 100% Section 8 housing.  Seriously, folks, I am not one of those NIMBY types.  I am sure there are quite a few lovely, well behaved people living in those apartments.  (For awhile there it looked like that is where our genteel poverty was taking us.) The problem is that we don't notice the lovely people.  It's the screamers, the thievers, the dealers, the lunatics, and the Medical Examiner's clients. 

Much of it has become like performance art to us.  We don't need to watch "COPS". There are the Sheriff's cars and firetrucks. There was that midnight car bombing.  We don't need reality TV when I can hear a party girl arriving home at 10:00am on a Sunday and saying goodbye to her ride with a screamed string of creative obscenities. 

On Saturday, Bridget and I had a fun morning getting our hair cut and then spending some quality shopping time at Target.  It took the fun out of the day to return home to see five Sheriff's cars parked in front of our house.  My fears of family disaster were assuaged when we pulled in to the driveway and saw most of the family chattering and recording the activities with cell phones deployed.  I have no idea exactly what happened.  But this time it was blatantly racial.  Some kids from the apartments had some words with some privileged Lake Forest types hanging out two doors down.  Words were said.  Guns were shown. (Don't jump to conclusions - it was not the apartment dwellers who flashed the guns) and then the privileged contingent drove through the apartment complex and threw a box with lit Roman candles out the window before taking off down Smith at high speed.  No one was hurt.  The perps haven't been caught.  We found, sad as it may be, diversion from our own woes.  And I think the resale value of our duplex is safely too low.

Like the old real estate line...."location, location, location".

All Things Grow

Just... pretend to be normal  That's SOP!

I Made a Lot of Mistakes

Just chillin' on a five day vacation of convenience.  End of the fiscal year - have vacation days left and my boss is away from much (if any) phone and internet contact.  So, I could have used this week to get caught up on a lot of other office details - but when would I have a chance again for a full week off?  Use it or loose it, so to speak.  A couple years ago I did use up some vacation time by taking one or two days off per week for about 6-8 weeks.  That was nice, but kind of put me behind the flow of work.  At that time I was not the boss's 'right hand man', i.e. administrative assistant.  So my time now is no longer really my own.

That is not to imply that I don't appreciate 9 straight days away from work (let's not count the few hours I ran in yesterday to assist with cabinet moving - that was fun!  And it felt 'normal'.  Which is sort of sad.)  It's just that I am not sure what to do with myself.  I did take 6 days off in April 2012 when I attended the Eucharistic Convention in Auckland, New Zealand.  But those days were structured and goal-oriented; including that unanticipated 6th day I needed to sleep and get back in sync with U.S. Central Daylight Savings Time.  And I did take two and a half weeks off about 7 years ago to get my hip replaced.  That was structured and goal-oriented, too.  [goal 1: live through surgery;  goal 2: start using new hip while in narcotic stupor;   goal 3: discharge from hospital asap;  goal 4: get back to work before I make my family crazy]

Making goals at the beginning of this vacation might have been a good idea.  I knew I wanted to do readin', writin', pawning any arithmeticin' of bills on my hubby, and finish the bedroom painting job that Martha and I started on a two day break in February.  (The unfinished room hasn't bothered me much.  The parts I see from chair or bed are painted - so it all looks good to me.  I just don't spend that much time staring into my bedroom that the white unfinished walls bother me.)

 Rather than structure, it's all been willy-nilly.  Sleep, read blogs on iPhone, finish reading Palahniuk's "Invisible Monsters", read "The House of Percy" until it feeds into my general feelings of depression, consider finally finishing Stephen King's "11/22/63", sleep more in hopes of rectifying last week's days of showing up to work with a Stanley Cup hangover caused by getting a second burst of energy after game and becoming overall sleep-deprived, watch Stanley Cup final with family on Monday night, sleep late on Monday to celebrate the Cup, read some back issues of magazines, nap a little, etc. etc.  Pretty sad.  No great accomplishmnents - in fact the wallpaper roses that I need to remove before we can proceed with painting are mostly still on the wall.

Last night I had been mentioning funny movies to Bridget.  Little Miss Sunshine was one of them.  We didn't chose it but it was still on my mind.  Especially when Sufjan Stevens' "Chicago" from the soundtrack came up on Spotify while I was checking email.

I made a lot of mistakes 

In my mind, in my mind
You came to take us 

All things go, all things go  

To recreate us 

All things grow, all things grow

I've made a lot of mistakes.  Just pretending to be normal is one of them!  That's been a family motto since we saw Little Miss Sunshine (Actually, they stole it from us!)  Pretending to be normal is exhausting.  I can't help it if I am always pleasant and cheerful at work.  I'll take it as a gift.  There are times I wish I could be as unconcerned and flat of affect as some people I run into in various offices, businesses and the like.  But I just can't.  I guess if I'm compulsively pleasant and optimistic, I am working in the right place.  The last thing people need when they contact their parish is a paragon of bad customer service.  'Cuz what I do is a lot of customer service . . . .and if the first responder of the parish is bad in her job there can be more at stake than the customer changing his cable or cell service.

Somedays...not really, but there's a little Dwayne deep inside me.

But  - especially as a hard-core introvert - being bright and sunshiny is exhausting.  I spend many Friday nights just sitting there.  Staring into space. Decompressing.  (And I should keep a list of all thr 'trigger' words in a simple Rosary that cause me to think about work.  So strange...The Presentation makes me think of baptism which makes me think of candles, which I no longer order, which makes me think of the person who does the ordering now and did I send her an email confirming the time of a baptism taking place on a particular Saturday?  That sort of thing...)

So, my first mistake has not been taking a mental rest from work at prudent intervals.  (My family jokes about the fact that the Pope can get away for a few days, why can't I? And really, do I think I am more integral to the working of the Church Universal than the Holy Father.  Of course, he doesn't know off the top of his head where the #5161 labels are stored.  I do.)  And then I really need to work harder at reconnecting with my family as they go about their average days.  I feel like a bit of a stranger here.  And the lack of phones and bells ringing and having to only answer to "Mom" is a bit disturbing.

Everyone, just... pretend to be normal. 

Christmas Dinner at Grandma and Grandpa's . . . Everyone, just... pretend to be normal.

The Cardinal will celebrate Mass at our parish. . . Everyone, just... pretend to be normal.

Time to leave for Fran's Graduation. . . Everyone, just... pretend to be normal.

Maddie's birthday party. . . Everyone, just... pretend to be normal.

You're dropping by the office? . . . Everyone, just... pretend to be normal. 

Three Sheriff's Deputies cars in front of our house?. . . Everyone, just... pretend to be normal.

Visiting Grandpa in the ICU. . . Everyone, just... pretend to be normal. 

A friend of mine is stopping by to pick up a laptop. . . Everyone, just... pretend to be normal.

I haven't been much of a cook lately.  Have lost the ambition.  And some nights I get home so late and tired that if I lived alone it would be a bowl of Cheerios for me while watching "Chicago Tonight".  I am blessed that Rick likes to cook and Fran is interested in trying new things she finds on Pinterest - contingent upon $ and time available from her constant studying.  (little prayer request - she got the date for her NCLEX exam.  End of July at a convenient location!  Woot! Woot! and all due rejoicing.  If you could offer a little prayer for her I would appreciate it)  Rick's trying harder to stick to his proper dietary regimen, which is good for all of us.  Except for those who take umbrage with the frequent chicken.  Charles has dispensation to quote the Grandfather from Little Miss Sunshine when chicken is served.  It helps dispel his gloom,  "Every night it's the f***ing chicken! Holy G*d Almighty! Is it possible just once we could get something to eat for dinner around here that's not the g**damned f***ing chicken? "

It's good to decompress.  Putting it off is one big mistake I've made.  I've made a lot of mistakes.  There are the errors, like spraying Sparkle glass cleaner in my dry mouth instead of the Biotene Spray.  Twice.  And then those mistakes that are no accidents.  The mistakes that I now have the energy and impetus to take to Confession.  Soon.  

      I made a lot of mistakes     You came to take us     To recreate us 

 

No one gets left behind! No one gets left behind! Outstanding soldier!  Outstanding!

Misophonia

Misophonia  Don't Laugh - It's a Real Thing

And we all felt a lot better when that article came out in the NY Times a few years ago.  Because, for all the neurological and psychological things my family has been through, no one ever thought of telling a physician that the sounds people make at the dinner table cause feelings of absolute rage.*  (Not just the dinner table - anywhere.  And don't get some of us started on how awful radio and television ads are when they pop open a can of any carbonated beverage and make those hideous pouring and, OMG NO!, slurping and swallowing sounds.  There are some Kit-Kat bar television spots that we consider to be crimes against humanity!)  I was once at my doctor's office and the sounds made by a woman who spent what felt like an eternity digging in her purse made me want to run screaming out of the waiting room.  There was no way I could articulate to the doctor why my blood pressure might have been "up a little".

So, over time, I've become very liberal with any blocking sounds that help to maintain peace for the 'misophonics'.  TV, radio....whatever works.  On the one hand, I do view television at dinner to be intrusive and against most tenets of good parenting.  But if it keeps people from jumping up, screaming, and leaving the table it can't be all bad.  It then became a matter of controlling what sort of stuff we would watch on the telly.  And music helps....though there isn't always a consensus about what is the best music.  Mozart and Vivaldi can get people a little hypered up.  Edith Piaf for a Bastille Day dinner only set many nerves on edge.  The "Best of Chopin" CD has always been good - right up until it gets to the Funeral March.  (The first time that happened was during a beautiful Mother's Day lunch the girls had prepared for me.  We were having a lovely time, with lovely background music, lovely conversation, and eventually there was this buzz killing lull when the Marche Funèbre: Lento in B-flat minor cast its pall over the event.)

Thanksgiving, with everyone at the table, has always been a concern. To keep the conversation going in a pleasant way I decided to make my own Proust Questionnaire cards to pass around the table.  Going around the table once to find out what everyone is thankful for doesn't sustain the

Thanksgiving - Misophonia's Stomping Ground

conversation.  We needed more.  The cards have become a tradition that NO ONE likes.  Some people don't like being put on the spot.  Some people think the questions are dumb.  Some of the questions tended to be incendiary - giving a chance to put in the personal jabs that I had hoped a structured conversation would avoid.  I know that many families lament the loose tongues that come with the over-consumption of alcohol.  Alcohol has never been much of a problem at our family events - unfortunately, no one here needs to be drunk to be "honest" and share the "truth."  Any cards beyond "What is your favorite color?" are an invitation to point out the failings of others.  "How would you like to die?" - the Old Maid of the Proust Questionnaire cards - usually is answered with "Anywhere but here", or "Right before Thanksgiving Dinner".

Forgetting "Medications in a Box" on the front porch is not a wise move in our slightly sketchy neighborhood.

So, we tried it without the cards last Thanksgiving.  I sort of missed my goofy tradition.  But everyone else was happy.  There was enough background music and background noise from Lily, Maddie and Nate, that no chewing, smacking, or grinding sounds resulted in murderous rage.

But now I have had another brilliant (though doomed) idea.  Fran needed a set of cards to help her as she studies for the NCLEX exam this summer.  I offered to pay for them, and in a sad attempt to get more of my money's worth, I wondered if we could make them into a dinner table game.  We could take these flashcards of 300 of the medications most commonly found on the NCLEX exam and pass out one to each guest.  We could go around the table and you could keep your card if you thought the medication could help you, trade it in for a card in the pile (Go Fish style) or give your card to someone at the table who could benefit from the drug on the card.  Then you would have to take his/her card and work with it in the next round.  I don't think you need a great knowledge of pharmaceuticals to see how this game could turn really nasty.  Really nasty.  The winner would be anyone left when dessert is served.

Well, it was an idea.  Fran can just use them to study.  I guess, maybe, we could keep them for a boring, rainy day.  No chips, raw fruit, or pouring of beverages allowed.  Ad hominem, passive-aggressive card games certainly don't need any misophonia exacerbating factors!

*I don't know if most of my family members would have survived the moment when I was flying back from Auckland and the flight crew passed out beautiful, juicy apples as one of the intermittent, break-up-the-boredom snacks.  Three hundred or so people in a confined space all biting into crunchy apples was a sound I don't want to hear again.  I put my earphones on and cranked up the sound of the first thing that came on the entertainment system.  Death Metal, old school Country, Philip Glass - any of it would have been better than the sound of people chewing apples....I just had to get my head away from it!  I chewed my own apple as vigorously as possible - yes, I know, adding to the cumulative noise - not just for sustenance but to help drown out whatever wasn't being blocked by the headphones.  Speaking just for myself, the sound of my own eating doesn't bother me.  GrapeNuts at four in the morning was the only time I managed to get on my own nerves while eating alone.  Never did that again.

Not a Bubo!

It's not a bubo!

It was for education.  Or it started out as something for education.  

When I told Fran I would do anything to help with her education, I meant anything. She was lamenting in March that there were some simple procedures that she had only done on simulation mannequins because hospital liability issues prevented students from doing them on patients.  I was happy to offer my myself for practice...starting an IV, drawing blood, whatever.  (I hoped to add this as a Lenten penance; offering myself for practice, cheerfully and without wincing.)  

It didn't really take too much discipline to keep from complaining while she practiced.  Not much pain - very well done.  And there was so little bruising that the picture I took in hopes of putting on Facebook to brag (about Fran's technique - not my acquiescence) showed...almost nothing.  

But then...there was my opportunity to pull a little prank.  I opened a jar of rubber cement to find it almost dried up, but with enough of a blob of cement worth keeping for cleaning up excess cement on future projects.  As I played with the blob I noticed the resemblance to some sort of horrible, pus filled things I've seen (on the internet and in books, not on myself).  

Those little LOLs that people add on texts and emails are so often annoyingly redundant.  It was a good thing that I added an LOL when I texted this picture to Fran, though.  Because up until she saw that, her response to my, "Look what popped up on the back of my hand!" was going to be a command to leave work right away and go to the ER.  LOL.  I'm really not the practical joke type, but this seemed like such a funny one.  LOL.  Gave her some momentary palpitations.  It's funny....now.

It was for education.  I learned my lesson, too. 

Fudg -SICLE.  Is that so difficult?

Irritations....
While keeping the meaning of Memorial Day in mind, I am also so enthused just to have a three day week-end.  I had the chance to travel to the north woods to see my sister, but I am just too far behind in daily life to take three days for fun.  Three days for sleep sounds more like it. The happy graduation events of last week-end, which I haven't even had time to distill here yet, took way too much out of me.

 And, of course,  the "Arrested Development - 4" release - that is something I've been looking forward to. Time with the Bluth family will make my family.....look a little more normal

Maybe I can come back to everything more refreshed. Less irritable.

For example, I ran to Dominick's last night to find something for dinner. (if I lived alone I would gladly dine on Cheerios or popcorn)  At the end of a long day I was ready to serve a big bowl of "I Really Don't Care".  While chasing down some easy dinner stuff, I overheard someone in the frozen food aisle say, "Fudgicle."  Like nails on a blackboard.  Oh, how I wanted to scream, "It's Fudgsicle....Fudg-sicle!  What is wrong with you people???"  I don't even like Fudgsicles, so I don't know why it bothers me so much.

I tried to read a "new" book at bed time....M: The Man Who Became Caravaggio but my eyes were so tired I couldn't read more than a line or two without drifting off into some sort of dream state - not awake/not asleep.  And in the back of my mind was that damned word:  Fudgicle.

That is why I need an unstructured three day week-end.  (And I'm staying away from the frozen food aisle just to be safe.)

Take Someone to Work Day

Take your Daughter to Work Day (or whatever it is now called) has come and gone.  Our little Lily, complete in her own custom-fit pink scrubs, had quite the day helping at her daddy's office.  I suppose the next time I see her she'll ask if I'm remembering to floss daily!

Alas, no one went to work with me.  Although a few of my work friends and I came to the conclusion that if we could bring our spouses and make them sit bound and gagged in the corners of our offices for a day they might have an idea of why we come home exhausted, head-achy, and unable to totally articulate the stresses of the day.  Maybe next year...

I used to take my daughters to work; more as my own statement to society about the importance of "mothers' work".  The girls were, of course, delighted to have any excuse to skip school, even if mother's work was not particularly exciting. If I were more savvy, I would have put them in charge for the day, letting them run everything except for the endless driving for drop-offs and pick-ups. (if the school system found us suspect for pulling some of the children out to homeschool, stunts like this probably sealed the deal) 

Eddie did once go to work with me for half a day, just because his father was out of town.  He sat at my desk with coloring books etc. (pushing paper just like mom) So far he hasn't expressed any interest in becoming a church secretary.  :-( 

It was the Seventies...What can I say?

It was the Seventies...What can I say?

First, I faced the mammographer taking my medical history.  Ever used hormonal contraceptives?  "Yeah, a couple years back in the Seventies.  It was the Seventies...What can I say?"  An hour later I'm talking with bubbly young girl who is cutting hair and discussing bad hair decisions.  Here I confess a series of bad salon perms.  "It was the Seventies...What can I say?"  How many more bad I ideas can I blame on a decade?  My whole life?  OK, they weren't all bad decisions.  But, I can draw a direct line for most of my joys and woes back to the Seventies.

The Seventies weren't all that great. Not epic in the way people speak of the Sixties.  (I could hardly stand to watch "That Seventies Show".  It was funny for a a limited number of episodes and then dwindled off.  Perhaps the first good episodes were a little too reminiscent of real teenage years in Wisconsin in the Seventies.)  There was a lot of polyester.  I wore polyester!!! ("It was the Seventies...What can I say?") Hair styles were goofy.  The music was good; even disco at least managed to get people up off their derrieres.  That was when I grew up.  In 1971 I was a clueless, geeky sixteen year old.  By 1980, I was a married woman with one and a half children.  In ten years I had managed to get out of high school with minimal effort, went to college, dropped out of college, dropped back in to college, found some bad romances, got a degree in art history and religious studies, found a husband, planned a wedding, got married, decorated my first apartment, had my first baby, conceived another....and I can't forget seeing Springsteen at the Uptown Theater in 1976. 

That was the decade that laid the foundation for the rest of my life.  I'm going to accept it for what it was. (yes, there is some disco on my Spotify playlist; I didn't understand the motivation for Fifties nostalgia back in the Seventies - now I do)  But quit using it as an excuse. 

Bad perms.

The Answers are out there...

I'll put my unpleasant session at the doctor behind me....(it involved insurance technicalities in the most unpleasant and inconvenient way - I can go into that when I've calmed down) and dwell on the blessings of the day.  I snuck out of work to go to confession, which is not that difficult when you work at a church.  This involved not only absolution, but solid spiritual direction plus a bit of verbal kick in the derriere which was desperately needed.  A rough summary of Father's advice was quit the pity-partying, time wasting, and all around lack of discipline and write more.  Don't waste what is a gift.  (I still have a bit of a problem considering myself as having any sort of gift but if someone I really, really, really respect says so, I'll go with it)  I left the confessional not only shriven but inspired.  Yeah, I lost a bit of that glorious feeling while going over the insurance crap with the doctor.  I could have handled a bad prognosis with more inner calm.  But driving home I felt redirected through the miracle of radio.

Most of my radio time is in the car about the total of 16 minutes of daily commuting time plus on errands and such.  I could plug in my iPod, but my brush with radio is the only chance I have of finding any new tunes of interest.  (Pandora just hasn't clicked for me.  It either gives my lots of stuff I don't want to hear and then balks at all my clicks to proceed to the next selection.  Or, before I found Spotify, it was revealing tunes I would proceed to buy on iTunes.  Which, given the rising price of gas, the phone bill, the water bill, the food bill and such, I can't afford.  I'm not in high school.  I have....expenses)  So WXRT it is.  I like XRT - as much as the younger family members whine about it being an old people's station.  It remains the cutting edge FM station of my college days.  Unlike many cutting edges, this one has not become dull for me.

Another thing about WXRT that I enjoy is DJ Lin Brehmer and his Lin's Bin commentaries.  He has amusing and/or poignant commentaries about many topics.  I happened to be driving home tonight just as Lin's Bin was on.  The subject was art as vocation - mostly visual art, but also with a mention of writing.  Applicable to any art.  You can go here to listen to it. It was the perfect follow up to what Father had said to me this afternoon.  The follow-up that I needed.  Brought me back from my insurance cussing, teeth grinding funk.  And then they segued into Iggy Pop's Lust for Life.  Cranked it all the way up to 11.

A Truce in the Year of Faith

October 11, 2012 marked the 50th anniversary of the opening of the Second Vatican Council.  Our Holy Father, Pope Benedict XVI has declared that date as the beginning of a “Year of Faith” - an opportunity to refresh and build up our faith.  In the words of Pope Benedict it is a “summons to an authentic and renewed conversion to the Lord, the One Savior of the world” (Porta Fidei 6).

Perhaps it also a time to declare a truce in the war of “the spirit of Vatican II.”  In my twenty plus years as a Catholic, I have heard no phrase that is comparable in its overuse and outright abuse.  As we celebrate the half-century mark of this pivotal moment in the history of the universal Church, it is time for us to back away from the division caused by misinterpretation of the legacy of the Second Vatican Council.  For so many Catholics it is time to actually find out what the Council meant for the Church, rather than cling to the vague delusion that “the spirit of Vatican II” means “all bets are off”.

Somewhere in my disheveled home library is a dense, complete copy of the documents of Vatican II, a souvenir of my religious studies classes back in the 1970s.  (I can’t say that I’ve read the whole thing - this is an intense book and my attention wanders.) Unfortunately, much of my collegiate use of the book was in classes where it was used injudiciously for proof-texting demonstrations of the ways the Church had been so ‘wrong’ and ‘out of it’. 

But that was the ‘70s, everyone was crazy, right?  I was a little crazy.  I had, in my interest in the Roman Catholic Church, landed in a small Catholic women’s college which was, in some ways, a hotbed of crazy.  My faculty advisor for two years was Fr. Matthew Fox, now an Episcopalian priest best known for his Creation Spirituality and Cosmic Mass.  We were privileged to have contact with other big names of the day.  There was the late Mary Daly (of “Beyond God the Father” fame), who, in those days, was still tangentially related to Christianity.  I look back and say, why? Why was she there? Just why?  And Rosemary Radford-Ruether; she was nice, she gave me an A.  But now I see the holes in her thinking, and wonder what I was writing that she found so promising.  There was so much talk about Church - so little talk about Jesus Christ.

But that was the ‘70s and the crazy trend should be winding down by now.  It still bubbles up from time to time, whether in bizarre puppet liturgies or pitiably tiny groups of old women who stand on the steps of our cathedral and demand ordination.  The ‘spirit of Vatican II’ is still with us as a divisive tool, a re-active response to what is still perceived as an oppressive Church.

For many orthodox Catholics the term “spirit of Vatican II” conjures visions of felt banners, liturgical dance, enneagrams, labyrinths, guitars, mimes, and ‘relevance’ supplanting the traditional beauty and wisdom of the Church.  Frankly, there is a legitimate bitterness that stays with those who saw their parish churches stripped of their familiar beauty and piety in the name of this ‘spirit’ sweeping through the Church.

The marking of the fiftieth anniversary of the Council could be a good time for everyone to get a grip.  There has been time for everyone to catch their breath and there should have been time for people to learn the solid teaching of Vatican II and prepare to convey these truths to the next generation.

There are still those with a certain Vatican II prejudice who wish to give their agita to our children.  I recently read an article from Creative Catechist magazine on how catechists can give their students background on Vatican II. The author’s primary thrust is the shift in language in pre- and post-conciliar documents. Mean language versus nice language.  A suggested exercise is for student to read quotes from Church documents before and after the Council and list the terms documents used to refer to the laity.  Make sure the students understand that before 1962 the Church was mean and out of touch, right?  Talk about proof-texting! To jump straight to making before and after lists, discussing what is a very deep and nuanced moment in Church history with such a dubious and simplistic exercise can’t be the way to bring the true “spirit of Vatican II” to young minds. Can there be any better way of perpetuating a hermeneutics of discontinuity than to teach children about how bad the Church was before 1962 and how Vatican II ‘changed all that’? 

This Year of Faith should be our time to delve into the fruits of the Second Vatican Council.  A moratorium on the use of “spirit of Vatican II” might be in order. As Avery Cardinal Dulles wrote  almost a decade ago, "There is no reason today why Vatican II should be a bone of contention among Catholics.”   Whether used by those who have a grievance with Father repainting the sanctuary beige or those who are miffed by Father pulling the plug on the gray haired,well meaning, amateur Electric-Tambourine-Soft Rock-Good Time Praise band at Mass: try to phrase your concerns without the “spirit of Vatican II.” If we say it less - and pray for it more - the true spirit of Vatican II may truly come to abide with us.

Trapped....
Came home and went upstairs to shed the slightly pinchy ballet flats after spending a lot of time on my feet at the copier today.  I still am seeing a bright green spot in front of my eyes....there was that warning on the copier, but that doesn't apply to me, right? 

Then a building project appears outside my door.  I can hope that someone will at least be able to pass me some dinner over the barricades.  And I am a bit peckish tonight  - that's what I get for running out the door without my lunch and surviving on the slightly over-ripe banana that's been on my desk for three days and the occasional pass by the candy bowl at the front desk.  Mushy banana and five Hershey kisses is not really too filling.

Maybe I'll just stay here and read and write and watch my Thursday night stories.  Although it would be fun to slump in Eddie's favorite chair in the family room - which he graciously cedes to me - and watch stuff on the big screen TV with whoever is hanging out. 

I'm trying to be a little more social with the family, rather than always 'hiding' in my room.  And we now have some sort of thing for the TV in the family room.  Not Apple TV, but something similar, that allows us to also watch Netflix, Hulu+ and a  bunch of other stuff.  Including YouTube right on the big TV. 

I haven't finished the story of my New Zealand adventure - I keep forgetting to put it on the blog - but I'll share the one thing I don't want playing on the big TV in my presence (and not because of great humility, but great distorted pride):

I like watching the beginning of my talks at the Eucharistic Convention* in Auckland - introduced by the fabulous Philip Sherry, the Walter Cronkite of New Zealand.  He was so charming, holy and also a lot of fun.  To be introduced by such an esteemed celebrity was quite an experience.   I'm tickled that my family was able to watch my talks just by clicking on YouTube. 

But I just don't want to see it on the Big Screen.  I guess Gaga and I are seeing eye to eye again, this time on the body issue stuff.  The talks went really well - even when I veered into over-share mode (e.g., telling the "I licked a hot frying pan" story) - but...

• Aaaargh - my arms really need work. 
• My hair has no body - but at least I took it out of the perpetual pony-tail while I was speaking.
• And I should have gone for  more vivid make-up. 
• That kid in first grade who called me the sleepy-eyed girl was right.
• And even though people say I have a nice voice - and my church secretary patter is pretty smooth - hearing my own voice makes me crazy.  

Well...I think there is a gap in the construction and I can make a break to visit Mrs. Murphy and grab some dinner.  But...being trapped in here has been productive.  They should barricade me in my room more often...

*the Eucharistic Convention in Auckland NZ for 2013 sounds fabulous.  Heather King will be there!!  And other great speakers.  I hate to use the overused word "amazing" - but it is a pretty amazing experience.  Going back to visit is pretty high on my wish list!  

I Can’t.  I Just Cannot.  Can Not.
There seems to be a bit much bitter bile flowing here lately.  It’s been a bit pent up.  So I’ll just dangle a hint about a future post... Do you have any idea how difficult it is to express one’s dissatisfaction (or better yet, rage) in an online survey in 250 characters or less?  I had a shopping experience that was worse than the usual WalMart chaos.  I am so happy I managed to work my way to the pharmacy counter to present my bona fides so I could buy my 24 generic pseudoephedrine tablets (thanks, meth heads!)  The pharmacy receipt had a survey invitation.  The receipt from the 50 minute main checkout ‘experience’ had no such thing. 

• Yes, I know I shouldn’t be doing these jaunts on the Sabbath.
• Yes, I am aware of all of the evils of WalMart. (I was with my sister when she had to cut  WalMart tags off of sweats for my dying father, when he was too weak to get dressed.  Smiths may become weak, but some of us don’t yield our principles as easily as I do.)
• Yes, I think it is worthwhile to call the manager on my lunch hours tomorrow.  And I won’t forget to mention Ebony, the clerk who was the ultimate example of grace under pressure.  The bright light in the whole experience. She should get a medal.

And no - I'm not endorsing everything she does.

My Mind is Always Elsewhere
It’s a rare event for me to ask my husband to watch a short clip of a favorite TV show that he can’t stand to try to explain the way I feel about things.  It was an experiment for me to ask him to watch the beginning of the “Far Away Places” episode of Mad Men just to give him some insight into the frustration I feel about coming home tired and preoccupied at the end of the day.  I am tired; mental exhaustion that has, of late, translated into physical exhaustion and its concomittant irritability. 

When I saw the beginning of “Far Away Places,” there was a moment of realization of my life played out in the short exchange between Peggy and her paramour Abe.  (BTW - what’s happened to Abe?  Didn’t see much of him in the episodes after the awful dinner with Peggy’s mother to announce that they were shacking up.  Is he just Peggy’s house-not quite-husband, freelancing plus cooking, cleaning etc. while Peggy so gloriously advances her career?  Or did Peggy’s mother kill him?  Just wondering. I am quite fond of Abe.)

Peggy is preoccupied.  Abe doesn’t understand.  Peggy tries to placate him by finally giving in to his request for an evening at the movies, but adds that she can’t promise her mind won’t be elsewhere.  And Abe says, “Your mind is always elsewhere!”  As you might imagine, this exchange didn’t end well.  Abe didn’t understand Peggy.  Peggy didn’t understand Abe.

So it goes. (is it plagiarism if you habitually use phrases from favorite authors?)  Some people think I just sit at a desk and pick up a phone for a career. Actually, that is how I started out; but that was eleven years ago.  I do a lot of ”stuff.”  Some of the stuff is just too tiring to explain when I’m already worn out.  Some of the stuff I just am not at liberty to discuss.  That is another reason why I liked chilling out watching Rev. with my significant other.  We both laugh - and I think he gets more of a picture into church-work life than I could ever describe.

I come home in the evening and my mind is elsewhere.  Which is why I am parking it all here.  There was a time I was much more obsessive about blogging every little thing that floated through my mind.  And I think it was good for me.  It helped me reel in my mind.  Freeing up space for God and prayer, conversation, fun.

The other option is more time spent lazing around, with my mind elsewhere and my body here, becoming more and more Fat Betty than pro-active Peggy.  I don’t want to go down the path of real despair.  (Although I could go for some Bugles about now.  I had forgotten about Bugles until I saw Betty sitting on the couch with them.)

Occupy Smith Avenue
or
Does my eye twitch bother you?

Hey, it's not easy to type while using one hand to press on my twitching eye lid.  These are times that try our souls.  And set some small facial muscles to twitchin'.  I can beg for the grace of grace under pressure, hoping to take each day as it comes.

I remind myself that what I call pressure is not what much of the world would consider pressure.  I don't risk my life going to work or the store.  There are no lands mines or snipers; no dangerous criminal types (not lately).  Here I am, mewling about what basically feels like death by a thousand pinches. Oh, those pinches.

Envy creeps in here.  I think all the little conflicts at home would be minimized if we lived in one of those MacMansions with a room for everybody and a few rooms to spare.  We do what we have to do.  A close family is a blessing - but at times the apples of my eye start to seem a bit rotten.  Oh, when these apples are packed so closely in the barrel.


I actually started writing this a few weeks ago and my eye was twitching and my head was pulsating too much to continue.  The change of having Martha move home in the wake of her sudden job shake up is pretty much resolved.  Most of my twitching has come from the logistics involved....Martha moved out, Fran moved into Martha's bedroom, Fran's bedroom was made into a library/lounge.  This could not in any reasonable way be undone.  But the negotiations over what to do led to a lot of bickering.  (one desperate conversation ended with me offering Martha my bedroom and I would live....in the garage? the laundry room?  the library?  I just wanted it all to stop.)  And my husband quotes Robert Frost and reminds me that home is where they have to take you in - and as someone who had once been taken in I appreciate the sentiment.  Rick and Frost both offered no insights on the logistics.  I don't think Nate Berkus has done any shows about this dilemma.  We're playing this by ear.

But home is where our hearts are.  And the turkey is already thawing in the fridge.  The eye twitch is in remission and Thanksgiving will find us thankful.

Seriously Folks...
I'm not turning this blog into some sort of extension of the anti-Comic Sans movement.  But there was one serious point I wanted to include in my discussion of typefaces etc. below.   It escaped me at the time, but I as I was thinking about what awaits me at work tomorrow (Monday is a holiday, so Tuesday is the real Monday and I'll be confused the rest of the week) I remembered the list of end of the year ordering.  In our 'business', the year  (the liturgical year, that is) ends on November 20...so the time for ordering calendars, ordos etc. is now.  Various vendors bombard me with their offers....free shipping if we order x number of books etc.  The workbooks for the lectors is the item demanding the most comparison shopping as that is ordered in large numbers.  (My small suggestion each year is to scrap it altogether.  Fortunately, the commentary for each Sunday is no longer quite so...goofy.  But it is not particularly edifying either, so I don't really think the books are worth the money.  There are good online resources for previewing the readings of the day.)  But the general consensus is that the lectors like to be given something.  I'd gladly accept a box of chocolates.  Or credit that I could apply to a book of my choice.  

Here is my typographical dilemma.  I have a great deal of loyalty to my usual vendor; for a variety of reasons both practical and sentimental.  But a persistent local competitor wore me down last year and convinced me to order our workbooks through them at a tiny savings compared to our usual vendor.  Now I've sustained a year of persistent email and print advertising.  They don't offer anything out of the ordinary. And every communication comes in Comic Sans.  Comic Sans???  Trying to sell me (us) Bibles, workbooks, prayerbooks, sacramentaries, lectionaries...words for bringing the Word of God to the people.  And the promotional material is in Comic Sans?    The disconnect here is absolutely jarring.  Comic Sans may be fine for printing the list of 2nd Grade Lunch Room Rules.  But for sales of liturgical materials?  I just can't deal with it.

Huge. Customer. Base.
Compared to a lot of my acquaintances, I am an 'early adopter.' Next to the world in general - not so much. That means I will not be getting an iPad in the near future. That's OK. I'm still figuring out the iTouch that I received at Christmas. It is a marvelous tool. And no one can call me. Marvelous...

How's That Workin' Out for You?
Last year, in the interest of family warmth and lively conversation, I made up a homemade deck of Proust questionnaire cards. Some people were crazy about it. Others...not so much.

This year I pulled out the box of Family Dinner Conversation Starters that Danielle gave me last Christmas. I thought the professionally vetted family dinner cards might go over better than the traditional Proust questions: Your idea of misery? Large family gatherings. What is your present state of mind? Morose. How I wish to die? Quietly; fifteen minutes before Mom pulls out the #*%&$ Proust cards.

The conversation was lively, even if it turned occasionally to a discussion of "why must we do those cards." Dr. Big Ed is a good team player. Without his participation I would have to say that the response is definitely split along gender lines. ( as illustrated by the above photo of Bridget and her brother [not-Dr. Little] Eddie)

Without incendiary fodder such as, "What is one negative personality trait of the person directly to your right?," we still had some touchy moments. "Who is the teacher who has had the greatest impact on your life?" That was easy for me. Mrs. Cramer, my adored fifth grade teacher. Emily's response was just as quick as mine, but very negative. Mrs. XXX, the fourth grade teacher who pronounced Emily as being doomed to a lifetime of illiteracy. It's funny how a Masters of Library Science, brilliant marriage and adorable daughter are momentarily forgotten. And then there is Eddie - same teacher all his life. I've moved past wondering why he didn't pipe up and mention my name. He probably thought it was just so freakin' obvious...

Moving right along...
"Favorite smell?"
I agreed with the folks who said Magic Marker. Not Sharpies or any other gross smelling marker. Magic Marker. Evocative of first grade and happy school days. I can't handle a Magic Marker without taking one short whiff. (Which, despite what your high school substance abuse counselors told you kids, is not the same as huffing. Really.) A few people said gasoline. Understandable, but I guess I should worry about my family's propensity to appreciate highly volatile toxic substances. But my answer has to be the smell that lingers for just a short time after the Christmas is brought in. The fleeting nature of the pleasure only increases its value. And no Crabtree and Evelyn Pine Room Spray or limited edition Febreze Christmas air freshener can capture it.

"Which TV family does yours most resemble?"
Malcolm in the Middle - definitely. To those who said the Kardashians, I could only tsk. Tsk, tsk, tsk.

"Do you have a family rule that is unfair?"
No. Of course not. Except for the people who do not like my 'directed dinner table repartee.'

We should take these cards to Grandma's house for Christmas. Why not spread the fun around!