Room for One More

If you only have room for one more book - this is the one.

I'm not quite sure how to update our moving saga.  We're moving.  We might not be moving.  We might buy our place and stay put. (My preference - I'm busy, distracted, mentally tired and the idea of having the contents of the attic, basement, bookshelves and bureau drawers be the problem of my heirs at some future date is quite appealing.) Now the move is back on.  And my plans for this week-end consist mainly of boxing books.

Book temptations have been held at bay.  I usually buy few, if any, books for myself from the September Library Friends' book sale until my Christmas shopping is completed.  The pleasure of buying books as gifts is enough to satisfy my book buying urges.  This year I even passed on the used book sale, with the knowledge that this is not a good time to bring more bags of books into the house.

But... (as said in "Pee Wee's Big Adventure", and a deeper thought than one might find in a film that Gene Siskel gave 0 stars, "But what? Everyone I know has a big "But...? ... let's talk about your big "But".) I made one exception to the book buying ban.  And it was a good choice.

George Weigel came to speak at our parish last night. Marvelous.  Absolutely marvelous.  And I didn't do anything to disgrace myself or my employer.  I told a friend on the event committee that I hoped I wouldn't say something really stupid.  Something along the lines of, "Mr Weigel, the last time you shook my hand I didn't wash it for two weeks!"  No, I did not.

But... I don't really like going through the ordeal of spelling out my name for people.  I should have just had him sign the book to Chuck & Eddie.  Or maybe my sister; if he could add a line like, "Join us - resistance is futile."  But conversion is best not done through implied threats by famous authors.  And rather than go through the whole, "It's Ellyn - with a y" business, I reached in my purse for something with my name on it.  Not going to use my work business card.  Just didn't feel right about that.  Couldn't grasp my personal biz card.  And that would have really felt self-promotional.  So I handed him my drivers license.  He was so gracious.  Not just getting my first name right, but writing my whole name.

For the most part, I've given up on getting my name spelled correctly.  Unless it's a legal document, I don't care.  Ellyn, Ellen, L-N, I don't care.  Fifty some years of making sure people get it right has left me less, rather than more, concerned with the spelling.  Though I am still a bit miffed about the Kindergarten teacher who asked us to stand when she held up a card with a name.  But left me and a girl named Evelyn for the end and said we most likely couldn't tell them apart.  Don't know how Evelyn felt, but I am still annoyed about that incident.

Last night was splendid.  Many people heard a great talk.  A good number of us supported our local independent bookseller which had a table at the reception.  I expedited Mr. Weigel's signing my book. (although it's not like I wanted it made out to "Romancea Lady Tasty Maxibillion")  I didn't mention not washing my hand or exhibit any other kind of tween fan girl behavior.  And I came home with a great book.  If I'm not packing books, this is the one I'll be with!

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!

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.  :-( 

The Bubble

Oh, the bubble.
You don't need a degree in art history to see the symbolism in the bubble.   The delicacy and impermanence of the bubble, in its simplicity, shows how delicate and easily lost the beauty in our life can be.  The time of our earthy life itself can resemble the fleeting, glimmering, bouncing bubble.

Glass is much like a long-lived bubble.  I'm thinking about that a lot as I sit in my room listening to Bridget cleaning up the shattered pieces of glass in her room after two shelves suddenly came out of her wall and came crashing down.

We - including the Chin-Irish contingent of the family - were sitting in the living room when the most cataclysmic crash that I have ever heard happened.  It sounded like the proverbial bull in the china shop scenario.  My shock was tempered by relief that Bridget was not in her room when it happened.  That was a lot of relief!  It seems that the shelves had not been properly anchored into studs in the wall, and in Bridget's room rearranging project the shelves had become overloaded with vases, antique knick knacks (including a Spy's Demise glass from the Safe House in Milwaukee - an 'antique' from my wilder, younger days).  And something landed on her jar of nail polishes - I can smell it.

My relief is tempered with sadness.  Bridget's hands have been bothering her so much - waiting on a possible diagnosis of lupus or scleroderma - and she has been trying hard to pull things together in her room. It's not just the glass bubbles and baubles that have been shattered.  But the broken bubbles can be swept up. (There may even be another Spy's Demise glass in the back of some cabinet.)  It's the disappointments that sting. 

And as hard as it was when I was the mom who could step in and make everything better, it is harder to be the mom who can only stand by as a 'helper' while her grown children have to work things out for themselves.  This is one of those frustrating moments when I look forward to going back to work in the morning; work is where I can have some sense of control and problem solving.  And then step away from it (more or less) at the end of the day. Work is an illusory bubble unto itself.   But a mother's work is never done.  Whether it is chasing a three year old or praying for a thirty year old.

Habemus Papam

Habemus Papam
We have a pope!!!
I guess if I couldn't be in St. Peter's Square, being with friends at work and watching the events unfold on widescreen TV was the next best thing.  Opening the windows to hear our own bells peal!  A quick toast!  (some people haven't forgotten the old college technique of pushing the cork in the bottle)  And then back to work.  The Holy Father may have wished the people of Rome a good night - but those of us on U.S. Central Daylight Savings time have to get back to work.  His work, so to speak.

But what a day to remember!  I wish I had dressed better as I still  remember what I was wearing the day of our jubilation when Benedict XVI was elected. 

A joyful day. ..... vobis gaudium magnum:  Habemus Papam

No Ordinary Week

We'll be working while the Boss is out of town.

No Ordinary Week

As much as I could use more time off - half- written pieces, half-painted bedroom, half-sorted laundry - this is not the week to be away from work.  The palpable, 'papibile' anticipation at work is not to be missed.  Also, I have come to realize that there is never a good time to take time off.  The Easter mailing is done...not without the usual technical difficulties, artistic differences and USPS problems.  (I can say no more - the selection of resources for the mailing never changes)

If it's your birthday and you need to be hypered up, this is the breakfast that is needed.

My birthday, which began in a most lovely way...with a breakfast surprise from Bridget turned into a day of the "death of a thousand paper cuts" as we hustled to get the mailing to the bulk mail center before their closing time of 2:00pm. Fran and Martha showed up with veggie wraps for the office gang since I couldn't get away for lunch.  That surprise and lovely flowers from my co-workers cheered me so much.  Especially since we didn't make the deadline.  I take these defeats too personally.  Way too personally. And I also allow myself to rant about the division of the post office that has daily hours of 10:00 to 2:00.  That sounds like a tolerable work schedule!  I wouldn't say I let it ruin my birthday.  But it certainly didn't leave me ready to go out on the town that evening.

And maybe I wasn't the most pleasant birthday girl when I arrived home.  Work is hard.  Some things I can't talk about.  Other things are too complicated or tedious to talk about.  So part of me is like the fermenting bag of garbage that I put in the back of my car when I left work Friday night; out of sight, out of mind - until someone notice an odor.  (Couldn't locate the 'missing' dumpster; another long, tedious story)

But - back to the important stuff.  The new pope.  This is exciting stuff.  I remember the joy and jubilation when Benedict XVI was elected and I am anticipating the same.  It's almost like last year when we waiting for the arrival of baby Nate.  1) we knew his gender 2) we had an approximate date 3) we were waiting to actually meet him  4) we were waiting to find out his name.  So it feels sort of the same.

Can't wait.  And there is enough chaos at home to make me eager to dive back into work no matter how under the weather I feel (the changes in weather play havoc with my body).  There are various concerns, conflicts, and worries about the daughter with the autoimmune problems.  A mother's work is never done - be it emotional, spiritual, or what have you.  (As I write this, another daughter is weeping on my bed about some interpersonal conflict and there are some things that I cannot resolve.  This leaves my depleted.)

"Bad boys, bad boys
A whatcha gonna do, whatcha gonna do
When they come for you"

And then there is our neighbor.... he's moving.  He is a story unto itself.  All I can say for now is that while many people at my parish were at the school's lavish gala, I was ready for a quiet evening of reading.  What I got was our own episode of "Cops" outside of my window. 

Life is...sometimes a headache.  It never is a bore.
And a BIG chapter unfolds this week. 

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.)

As of now, I am in control here...
The other day I had the honor/thrill/terror of running my first "Alexander Haig-I-am-in-control-here" style meeting.  Well, that's what it felt like.  Put in a position of having to call people together and make some announcements (none of which were cataclysmic) all I could keep thinking of was poor General Haig, his attention to duty and the way he's been remembered for seeming over eager to step up.  Hey, I was just doing as directed.  And now people are turning to me as if I actually know what I'm doing, when in reality I think I would be happier folding song sheets and sealing envelopes. 

To amp up the twitchiness, there were also phone problems that made me feel like I had been sucked into The President's Analyst.  [Dr. Schaefer:  You know, one thing I learned from my patients... they all hate the phone company. It's interesting; even the stock holders of the phone company hate the phone company!
Kropotkin:  I know. Bedouins hate the phone company. Matter of fact, I've never been in a country where everybody didn't hate the phone company.]  The phone company does not want to speak with you.  When you finally find a number on their website, there are intense machinations involved in speaking with a human being.  Ask me about calling 411.  I dare you.

I spent much of the day texting on my old phone and found that under pressure I have more than a little trouble with the technique of pressing buttons 1, 2 or 3 times.  This is not working well and I've decided to jump to an iPhone.  The iPod touch has been all I really needed - along with the old phone for minimal calls and texts. But if I'm ever stuck 'doing the Haig' again, I cannot do it on a numeric keyboard.  Talk about stresses that translate into eye twitches.  [That and today's trip to Wal-Mart.  I will say nothing about the children walking all over the store squeaking those Angry Birds dog toys.  They have rendered me nearly catatonic.]

Time to pull it together for tomorrow.  Three day week; that is five days of stuff crammed into three days.  I am lucky to have the girls at home pulling Thanksgiving dinner together.  Very lucky.  They know the drill - better than I do.  With all the tensions in our house of late, perhaps this would be a good year to skip the Proust questionnaire cards.  If not skip, at least cull the most incendiary...you know, like "what annoys you the most about the person across the table from you?"  There is one place I can be in control.

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.

It's Show Time, Folks!

It's that time again.  Conflicted feelings.  Advent anticipation; flop sweat dread.  If that explains my flat affect when given the run down on the family white elephant gift exchange.  At this point, facing the first Sunday in Advent, it's all too much a problem to be solved rather than a mystery to be lived.

Although...the day to day work logistics do take my mind off of family dynamics.  We are split about 2 to 1 in favor of the introverted and Aspergian.  There are those of us for whom facing the extended family for Christmas revelry is more painful than a root canal; the other third of the family thinks...well, they think badly of the rest of us.  We're antisocial, mean, slacker sociopaths.  Yeah, but they want our company anyway.

I need a full four weeks of prayerful preparation to approach my role as mediator, facilitator, apologist and liason.  Smoothing over, explaining, encouraging.  This is exhausting, since I am part of the introverted majority and no longer have a mother to explain why Ellyn just wants to sit alone in her bedroom for a while.

So, the mentally exhausting work of my day job is a nice distraction.  (Though it calls upon me to be "Social Ellyn" - leaving little of that left for my family)  In some ways, I have my dream job.  But, as I have kvetched in other years, it gets to be a little bit too much like show business rather than religion.  And it is hard to walk into church on Christmas Eve (one of 12 Christmas Masses at our parish) and have that catch in my breath - a moment overwhelmed by the beauty and the mystery.  It's harder when you already know what the hymns will be, the diameter of candles, the purveyor of the incense.  The childlike giddiness is supplanted by the adrenaline fear-rush of having a job that will only be noticeable if I screw it up.

It's show time, folks.  Time to pull it together. Gird my loins.  Pack away my ceramic pumpkins and glass turkeys and get my house in order.

"Can You Pick Up a Bag of Ice?"
Those forlorn words...muttered by my husband about once every thirty-six hours...so iconic of the zeitgeist of household disrepair that someone once made it Dad's cellphone ringtone...

Now the ice issue has become part of the 'continental undrift' of my work and home lives. The identical French working glasses that I and a few other people in both locations think are absolutely swell, the identical dirty/clean sign on the dishwashers [yes - I made both of them], my boss and my husband having the same birth date... the list goes on. And now the icemaker. At work it's not for want of contacting a repair man. He's been here enough that we're becoming old friends; though not so friendly that I could ask him to hook me up with free repair service at home.

There are no dogs at work so there is some semblance of sanity. And a nice lady vacuums my office and dusts all the surfaces in the rectory on a regular basis. Except for my desk...I told her not to worry about my desk. My desk is a little too cluttered to ask anyone else to dust it. And there's that three-year old petrified potato on the shelf. Perhaps some people are put off by that. Honestly, though, the thorough ministrations of the cleaning lady leave me a little blue. I want to be the 'nice lady.' But when I get home and it is my turn, I'm not particularly nice.

I'm praying for patience. And offering up the glasses of tepid water...here and there. Accepting the way it all weaves together. [Well, just as long as I don't get a call from Fr. asking, "Can you pick up a bag of ice?" ]

UPDATE: Eureka - we have ice at work today. But that machine has lulled me into a false sense of security before, so I'm not counting on finding ice tomorrow.

Lack of Enthusiasm? Ya think?
It's not just the single digit temperature that is getting me down. Though it is expediting my rise and shine routine...sleeping under my summer quilt after forgetting to get my comforter out of the dryer last night. [Nothing says "welcome home, Mom" like finding dog vomit on the bed. I'll give the dogs credit - I've become very disciplined about bed making since I realized that the covers are my last line of defense against canine bile. In a bigger, better world I'd just move the bed away from the window and decrease its appeal as a place for the dogs to operate their neighborhood watch, but I'm trapped so I deal with it.]

Work is in a bit of a lull. Task oriented without the adrenaline buzz that fear of a major screw-up adds. There is the pre-Lent prep. Extra ashes have arrived. We don't want a repeat of last year, when the ashes weren't shipped and then our supplier over-nighted them at a price that must have made our transaction a total loss. (Yes, we burn palms...but we need back-up. Back up with a black colorant because the natural palm ash doesn't leave much of a mark.) I hope I haven't divulged any 'trade secrets' but I think I've spilled those beans before. 'Trade secrets?' I'll tell you a secret. I've reached the point of frustration wherein I casually used the word "fugly" in a discussion of Easter paper products. Nothing has changed from last year. Fugly, fugly, pastel, horns lunging out of floral arrangements. My guess is that we will go with the same motif that we have used for the past four years. A choice that I liked the first time we used it. Now I just see it as being backed into an art corner.

Ellyn Loves You All!
A high school classmate of my husband submitted a sketch rather than the standard senior portrait. A sunset with the caption "Ralph Loves You All." (This was in 1971 - makes sense, right?) My years as a yearbook photographer and Rick's appearance on many athletic teams pale in the family's eyes when compared to Ralph's bit of acting out. Though the kids and I (and probably Rick, too, after nearly forty years) wouldn't know Ralph if we passed him on the street, we know of him.

I've been thinking about this fellow I don't know. I am tempted, in regards to our parish pictorial directory, to commit a "ralph." As happens so often, I meant well. I've known about the pictorial directory since...since before it was public knowledge. I also stood at a recruitment table after Mass on four Sundays in July. But the time to register for the portrait itself got away from me.

Quite honestly, we're not a family portrait type of family. And the bigger the family has become, the more odious the task of assembling the troops. Just because I stood at the recruitment table (next to the poster that I had made) doesn't mean that I initially had any intention of participating. We're not really a participating type of family. And when the subject came up around the dinner table, I announced that either we all sit for the portrait or none of us appear.

So it became a matter of scheduling the portrait when everyone was available. Not easy but doable. Or it would have been doable if I hadn't waited until the last waive of the conductor's hand on the last train out of town. We received a notice at work about the last dates available and I tried - I really tried - to schedule our portrait. Didn't make it. Ooops. But that's OK - I do have this lovely sketch I could submit...


Which leads my to my next pickle. When we were given the final dates I also received a special card that I was supposed to give to the photographer so that I could have an individual photo of myself for the 'staff' section. Double oops on that, folks.

It doesn't matter to me. Some people are quite eager to have their pictures taken to commemorate various events - I am not one of those people. If they really want me in the directory, could I just submit a sketch? A doodle? A happy face? (Or maybe my MadMen avatar, which bears a striking resemblance, down to my June Cleaver pearls and ubiquitous $5 WalMart red dress.)

Ellyn Loves You All!

Admonish the sinner.
Instruct the ignorant.
Disperse the skaters.
Somedays it's all the same thing. All in a day's work.

Photo Close Up of a Sad Looking Female*

Not only do I want to be a team player, I am obligated to be a team player. OBLIGATED. So today's ongoing, on-line intelligence insulting time waster is: Human Trafficking and Sex Tourism with Children and Technology. Somebody's doing their due diligence. Because every church secretary should be up to speed on sex tourism and should show competence by passing a one question quiz.

1) What is one of the main factors that has facilitated criminal sexual exploitation?

A)	Government policies
B)	The Human Smuggling and Trafficking Center
C)	The globalization of technology
D)	All of the above

Congratulations!!! You have received credit.
For crying out loud.

*slow to load page showed this in lieu of photo for quite some time.

We Pray.
We don't announce.
We pray for the sick and the dead at Mass. We do not announce. Don't call me about so and so's relative who you thought we announced as dead two Sundays ago. Just don't.

To some this is a trifling semantic matter. I think not.

Genuflecting Stick Figures
The most artistic thing I've done this week.

TGI...
I wouldn't say I was counting the moments til I could head off to work. But I could...
Just another weekend...

• Daughter #4 left for a Las Vegas vacation with a bunch of girlfriends. Say no more. (I'm checking up on her via Facebook...She's lost IQ points already. Misspelled Las Vegas.) There's a major prayer focus for the week.

• Fran had a birthday bonfire/cookout for William. I saw the bonfire on Facebook. The lighting of the bonfire was an incendiary event that I am glad I missed. I'm sure the video will be on YouTube shortly. You'll know it when by the screams of "The chairs are going to melt." Say no more. Except the idiot who chose the acellerant for the damp wood was not homeschooled. Not by me.

• Spent a substantial amount of time with another daughter who was worried/enraged over her boyfriend* who disappeared on Tuesday night. Disappeared as in he lives down the block from us and his car was never home and by Friday his mother was calling the sheriff etc. He rambled on home on Saturday morning. I offered to run down to his house and straighten him out. At eight in the morning, while clad only in nightshirt and Crocs. That was more for comic effect...but really, I was tempted. Where do these wastrels come from and how do my daughters keep finding them? (*A Model Idiot)

• Grey Gardens and Wise Blood are "very long wait" on NetFlix. So I watched Frida, which I enjoyed much more than I thought I would. Of course, I had to watch it in interrupted segments, the final coming after the power came back on Sunday morning. An exploding transformer is a nice wake-up for the party guests camping in the backyard. The WoW addicts were bereft, but I was able to crawl into the nearest book the way some might "crawl into a bottle."

• The explosion didn't bother me much, having already come close to losing my mind at the 7:30am Mass. I thought about grabbing the red liturgical binders on Thursday...and then it totally drifted out of my mind. Until the beginning of Mass, when the realization of what had slipped my mind hit me in such a visceral way that I felt light-headed and nauseous. (A sure sign that I have started to take my ancillary job way too seriously!) But there was no way I would sit down until the feeling passed, since I know what the ushers are instructed to do with the faint and/or ill who are not accompanied by an adult able to drive them home or to appropriate medical care. There was no way I was going to exit church on my back while muttering "red binders, red binders, I forgot the red binders."

• Sunday lunch at my in-laws dragged. No one noticed my catatonia. Perhaps I am simply suffering from a malady which my sister has termed "jangle." (Or maybe it's "djangle.") She should know what she's talking about, what with her J.D., her career in medical transcription, a bathroom-less house that must be entered through a window and a wiener dog who locks himself in the family mini-van. She knows jangle. I tried to de-jangle with a nap, but then Em and the baby wanted me to go to the craft store with them. I had no money to spend. The craft store catharsis just doesn't click when you have less than $5 in liquid assets.

• It was not wise to conclude such an arduous week-end with the MTV Movie Awards. It's not that I didn't find some small bits of amusement, but they didn't make up for my irritation at the skanky material versus the intended audience. They were giving awards to High School Musical 3 and Twilight, so I presume they knew that 12 year olds would be interested. And yet...and yet, for example, what about the "Balls Out" and "16 and Pregnant?" Not High School Musical crowd appropriate... The blurring of the line between juvenile and puerile-adult entertainment was too depressing. So I called it a night, crawling into bed with a heart full of thanksgiving that everyone was well and the week-end was over. Make that a heart full of thanks and with a wee bit of envy of Susan Boyle for her ability to sing check into a medically supervised rest facility.

Jangle update: There is a man outside my office window with some sort of chainsaw/drill/grinding device making a noise that makes any higher brain processes almost impossible. But I'm still more relaxed than I was over the week-end. As long as the lawn guys aren't working outside of the school table when I get home, the day should be pretty much of a success!

April is Over
This is a pitfall of living life in constant regard of the calendar. At the begining of the month I take a look at the calendar: Palm Sunday, Easter, retreat week-end, visit to my sister. There. The month was as good as over.

It has been decades since my father chastised me for crossing off each day on the calendar. In his opinion - and I think he was right - it was like wishing my life away, waiting for Christmas, summer vacation, whatever. So I stopped doing that. But I catch myself looking at the calendar and plotting things out with a precision that causes me to see chunks of time as over before they have begun.

Despite all the kvetching I do, I really love working for the Church. It may be a headache and it sometimes is a bore, but I think could be much more miserable. Steel mill, retail. Lots of worse jobs. But the first two week-ends of April were given over (more than I care to admit) to peculiar job concerns. Concerns plus a certain degree of terror that would grab me while in the pew and make me nauseated with fear that I had somehow screwed something up. I have noticed that I often will hold my breath during Mass, until I am sure that the danger of one of my typos or outright errors has passed. This is not possible during the reading of Mark 14:1 through 15:47. Really.

And our Shakespeare study has hit an all time low. Lower than usual student enthusiasm. And decidedly unique content.

Coupled with being gone two week-ends in a row, this all makes me feel like a sub-par mother/teacher. Not that the trips away were without their particular merits. I needed that silent retreat in the worst way. (Yes, I did skip out on a few of the talks...I started to feel a bit brow-beaten by the exhortations against war mongering, unfair labor practices and racism. I practice none of them - except for the occasional use of the term "Chinese Fire Drill" - and was waiting for ill placed caution against patronizing WalMart that would cause me to break my silence in a most unpleasant way. But there was plenty of time for prayer. And I managed to read a book without interruption.) And my sister's birthday is significant. My only sister. And we're orphans by this age.

So there it went. I looked ahead at the calendar one day and before you could say
exapostilarion the whole thing was over.

Time Marches On.
I've pushed the very last of the dregs of Christmas paper work off of my desk. Lenten varia have been bouncing through my mind since...December 26. Now we must get down to business. It's time to order the covers for the Holy Week/Easter schedule that we mail to all parishioners. I'm afraid the offerings that I have to show Fr. are no better than last year. Worse, perhaps. Scary even...

Mmm. Sherbet.

Nothing says salvation like a trumpet popping out of a floral arrangement. Is this for church or for FTD?

They meant well. But the proportions and perspective are off. "How Great Thou Art" has no verse about twenty feet tall. And way too much pink.


Take salvation, roll it in colored sugar, put it in a basket. Don't forget the Peeps.


There is nothing as serious/glorious as the Resurrection. And this misses the mark. A close examination of this pic only shouts "dazed and confused."

I think not. Not even for the juvenile crowd. Children especially deserve better than clumsy faux naif.

This I like! For a modern photo composition it's not too bad. You have the lilies. You have the sunrise. A little bit o' purple. It has those traditional Easter elements without the confectionery aesthetic. And no surprise musical instruments.

If I were a gambler, I'd gladly wager my next paycheck that we will go with the same tolerable cover as the past couple of years. Better safe than really, really sorry.