Saint Eulalia, Pray For Me.

Thu, 7 Feb 2008 11:04:25 -0600

20 inches of snow got dumped on us yesterday. There is a four foot drift the length of my entire yard and another drift blocking the back door. I have to send the dogs out the bathroom window to pee.
Like all major snowstorms that have occurred in our 25 plus years of married life, my husband was out of town and either my children were too small to handle heavy equipment or in this case they, too are gone – my daughter had sense enough to move to California and my son is . . . in college, I hope.
During the storm “Of The Decade,” (as referred to by Storm Team 6, WeatherWatch 12, and Storm Central 4) I was all snuggled inside with my hot cider and my warm dogs and Rob Petrie.
The icy crystals hit the windows. Every once in awhile I’d look outside to see . . . nothing. I couldn’t see across the street. My 120 year old house, that I’m sure has seen its share of blizzards, creaked and groaned but never gave way.
The one thing I love about snow storms is: The absolute quiet. No one is out. No traffic. No buses. No car alarms. No drunks yelling about being wronged – if they are out, they are in a snow drift somewhere and their ravings are muffled.
The shoveling, the blowing, the salt-spreading were all up to me. You know what I hated the most about snow removal? I hated the fact that I have no upper body strength. Pulling that starting chord on the ol’ Toro just about dislocated my shoulder.
I started at 6:30 a.m. and decided, along with the neighbors, that today was not a good day to have a heart attack, and took a break at noon.
By 4 p.m., when what sunlight that had been filtering through the clouds that looked as if they still had some snow left to get rid of, had dimmed and when the 8 inches of slushy stuff that was underneath the 12 inches of powder, had turned to concrete, I deemed the task done.
I have to cut this blog a little short as it is snowing again. My husband is home, but he is at work and just called me to see how I was doing, and that he will be late tonight and therefore, by the time he gets home, the snow will be like rocks and would I mind shoveling . . . .

LOOKING FORWARD TO LENT?

Tue, 5 Feb 2008 17:00:04 -0600

Eli Manning just eluded a sure sack, completed a pass that set up the go ahead touchdown in Super Bowl 42, when my husband turned to me and said, “I can’t wait for Lent.”
Huh?
“What do you mean, you can’t wait for Lent?”
“Nothing. That’s it. I can’t wait for Lent, that’s all.”
Geeze. Who is this guy?
I can’t wait for a lot of things, like: the day my credit card balance is zero, or spring, or maybe the day when I get new windows, or finally having wallpaper that isn’t falling off in my dining room and possibly becoming a grandmother . . . no, that I can wait for. But Lent?
As a kid, Lent was The Day After. Like, one day the sun was shining and the birds were chirping happily, and then . . . boom! Doom. Gloom. Lent.
Lent, for me, was all about hair shirts, kneeling on stones, self flagellation (figuratively, but . . . , ) eating stale bread and drinking warm, sour milk and liking it because who was I? A dirty, rotten sinner. It was a view that was shaped by my grandmother, who put the poop in party pooper:
“Sure, you’re healthy now, but wait.”
“There’s food on the table now, but wait.”
“Happy now, but wait.”
Suffering, wallowing in self-imposed oppression was right up her alley. I only saw her smile, two times – when she was widowed, and when she was diagnosed with cancer. No wonder she loved Lent!
I went to a dimly-lit Ctholic grade school the hallways painted a nice mental institution green, with nuns who, I think came from the Mother House in East Berlin.
Sister Mary Luftwaffe made us announce to the rest of the 4th grade class what we would be giving up during the course of Lent. Anyone who said something that was deemed too soft, or didn’t have enough self-sacrifice was told to ramp it up.
“I’m giving up candy,” became “I’m giving up anything that I like to eat.”
“I’m giving up watching TV,” became “I’m going to cloister myself in my bedroom and take a vow of silence.”
After all, Jesus suffered and died for us.
Now, my husband, on the other hand, is a glass is half full kind of guy, who was raised in a happy, Kennedy-Catholic family and went to a grade school with happy nuns who all looked like Ingrid Bergman or Audrey Hepburn – had a totally different take on what Lent was or is.
“Seriously, you are looking forward to Lent?” I asked him.
“Yeah, I like Lent.”
“Why the heck would anyone like Lent? All that suffering. All that sacrificing. Ugh.”
“Well, it’s always been time when I slow down, take stock, look inside, see what’s there, shore up some things, maybe change a little bit, see if I can improve . . . you know, like we were taught in grade school.”
“Oh, yeah, riiight.”
Look inside?
Take stock?
Evaluation?
Maybe I’ll keep the hair shirt in moth-balls this year and take a page from my husband’s book.

Matron of Menopause?

Wed, 30 Jan 2008 14:00:39 -0600

An old English euphemism refers to menopause as "turning St. Catherine's corner." Perhaps she should also be acknowledged as the matron of menopause.
I went in for my annual check up – height 5’ 4,” weight 165 pounds! (What?!) blood pressure 97 over 58, pulse 65, temperature 97.6 degrees, age? 52.
Guess what my doctor told me?
“Hmmm,” she said, “Your vaginal walls are collapsing.”
Huh?
“Hmmm. And, your pelvic floor seems to be sagging.”
Uh. Huh.
“Have you been having problems with any leakage?”
Kind of.
“Musty odor?”
Uh . . . .Maybe I didn’t need a doctor, maybe I needed a general contractor.
But, there is hope. There is a cream available. Of course, it is not covered by my insurance company and it would cost about the same as my peptide-enriched, vitamin-filled, turning-back-the-clock wrinkle cream, which I am almost out of.
Hmmmm. What to do? What to do? Well, with the help of Saint Catherine, I went with the wrinkle cream because, everybody sees my face and who sees my va-jay-jay other than Dr. Robertson?

Saint Genesius Patron Saint of Comics.

Mon, 28 Jan 2008 13:48:07 -0600

Feastday: August 25
Patron of actors
3rd. century. During a stage performance before Emperor Diocletian in Rome, the actor Genesius portrayed a catechumen about to be baptized in a play satirizing the Christian sacrament. In the midst of the ceremony he was suddenly converted to Christianity. When Genesius persisted in his faith, he was beheaded.
Death by beheading? Quick. Painless. Sure beats dying a slow death while doing a stand-up routine. I hate bombing. And, I don’t understand how or why it happens. I write material that I think is funny. I test drive it. Other people – not my relatives, but real people – tell me it’s funny. I don’t think they’re lying. Are they?
Last Sunday, I got up in front of, oh, let’s say, about 1000 people – very nice people who actually invited me to their soiree to perform! – and I started my little bit that I tailored to that particular audience, and I got to the first in a serious of killer lines that I was sure would deliver (one of many) BIG LAUGHS, I’m thinking, “Okay, get ready. Here it comes. Wait for it. . . .” and . . .
nothing.
Not a chortle, smirk, guffaw, giggle. I would have settled for a nervous I’m-so-embarrassed-for-her laugh. I didn’t even get that!
So, I was a little thrown off, but . . .
On to the next set up. And punch line. Did that deliver the goods? No.
Neither did the next one. Or the next one. Okay, in my own defense, I performed while people were being served their dinners, so there was waitstaff running around, “Coffee? Coffee?” and a lot of dish clinking and silverware scraping and chit chatting. And, I was on this stage that was set up for the band in front of a huge dance floor, so the first row of tables was maybe 50, 100 feet away. Not exactly an intimate setting.
All I could think of was Larry David who would scold his audiences, (I’m paraphrasing) “Hey! You people! The least you could do is laugh! Would it kill you?”
At one point I got a little bit testy and yelled, “I’m warning you! Put down that breadstick!” The audience didn’t care.
Hecklers? I would have welcomed hecklers.
Basically, I was up there, talking to myself. It got to a point where I didn’t even care what I was saying anymore. I riffed about whatever popped into my head, and when I was done . . . well, no one even knew I was done. I had to tell them that I was done.
Three times.
I left the stage to a smattering of applause -- not meant for me, but for the waiter who dropped a tray of dirty dinner plates.
Thank you! You’ve been great!

Jesus: The Teenage Years

Fri, 25 Jan 2008 12:46:54 -0600