Happy Halloween

Here's the best part of Halloween: Candy Corn.

Really, I ought to just slide up to the sugar bowl and eat it directly out of there, but there's something so lovely about candy corn. It is the quintessential Halloween candy. It has the right fall colors, lots of orange and yellow. In fact, it has the colors that my beautiful Japanese maple should have right about now.

So, even though I'm not dressing up as anything (I figure, I'm witchy enough on a regular day--why go for the obvious today) I can still enjoy the candy. And there's plenty of it because I gave in and went to get the candy--including Jonathan's selfish candy.

I remember that as a kid, the focus moved quickly to figuring out which house had the best candy. There were always some creepy people who gave out fruit--um, I guess they never got the memo about CANDY. And then there were the ones who gave those weird black and orange peanut butter taffies. I like them now, but for a ten-year-old, c'mon, dig a little deeper in those pockets and come out with the cash for the good stuff. We can't forget the folks who pooh-poohed Halloween altogether, and gave out the tracts about burning in hell because we weren't saved. Gimme a break--no kid in my group was thinking Satanic thoughts---we had to visit as many houses as possible to get the loot!

The big ceremony was at home sorting the stash. There's so much new candy today, but I am partial to memories of the good ole days. Remember the red wax lips? They tasted kind of like licorice. Remember the sugar sticks that looked like a pack of cigarettes, complete with the red tip? Man, what Big Tobacco executive came up with THAT idea? Talk about raising a generation of smokers!!! I hated the Necco wafers, but loved Pixie Sticks. I never did figure out how to suck down all that sugar without clogging up the straw with my slobber.

And of course, the best part about being the oldest is trading all the crummy candy for the good stuff. I'm guessing that won't work anymore. You kids can keep the Sour Skittles and the Gummy Worms. I'm settling in for the night with a bowl of candy corn.

I'm pooped

So it's late and I'm tired. I just posted my blog at Rosary Army about 12 hours late, but it's still Monday, so I'm just gonna let it go.

I've been a bit put out by the problems with blogger, plus, Mondays really kill me with classes straight through. At least I have lunch, but that's filled with responding to email and such, so really, not much of a break.

Although I get to leave at 3 pm, there's still the second shift to consider. I had a meeting at the high school from 3-4:30, and then had to take Jonathan home and haul Christy across town for another meeting. We didn't have dinner until almost 8 pm, which is pretty late for us. Usually, the animals are salivating and licking their chops the minute they get in the car, so tonight they had to wait for me to get back from Salem. Ha!

And! More of the same expected for tomorrow. No treats, just tricks. Oh, and I promised Jonathan some selfish candy--candy for him--not for giving away. We'll see.

My blog is dead

Something weird is happening. I hate to think I have to switch to the beta.

[frown]

Bah

My post blew up yesterday. Maybe you saw it. Maybe you didn't. I saw it. Twice!

And then it was gone.

I realize that maybe this endeavor is a bit more complicated than I can handle, but I plug along gamefully anyway.

my uncle schmoozing with the pope

So my dad in his very unsubtle way, forwards an email to me that shows an email exchange between my brother and our uncle, in Cuba. The unspoken threat: you better get off your franny and write!

OK, OK, I hear ya loud and clear.

Then, this morning I open another email, this one from my mom. Another forward, this one from my cousin Mertxe in Cuba (she's a missionary nun there) and it's this awesome picture of my uncle speaking with Pope Benedict XVI. How cool is that?

I guess I better write him, huh?

The pressing question on my mind is: what language were they speaking?

Things to do

So, it's raining and that means I'd rather be in bed. But no, I'm up and dressed and ready to take Frick and Frack to school. They have already wiped out my money and my patience with party requests for the weekend. Are their beds made? No. Did I say Yes? No. Ha!

Anyway, for the voyeurs, here's what I have to do:

1. Finish a translation for an obscene amount of money (for only 2 hours worth of work). Too bad I'm not terribly interested in doing this for a living. I hate marketing myself in spite of the fact that my dad is an excellent salesman and trained me. Bah, just not interested.

2. There's that pile of essays calling to my red pen. I need caffeine before I tackle that penance.

3. I need to write a proposal for a film class. I am soooo pumped about that. Can you believe I get to pick 10 films to discuss in a film as literature class? I am sooo forgiving of my remedial classes just because of this little carrot. Anybody have any suggestions? I was thinking of doing a "cultural literacy" theme, showing those films that are a part of American culture. I'm thinking Casablanca, and of course, Star Wars. I also want to include one Hitchcock film. That's actually created some fun dinner time debates. The kids are pushing for The Birds or Psycho, but I'm torn between North by Northwest or Vertigo. Meanwhile, John is campaigning for Rear Window. This is going to be fun.

And of course, it wouldn't be a Friday if I didn't complain about the bane of my existence (other than the dog).

4. The laundry. What else?

The bathroom stalker is back

Man! Or rather, woman! The bathroom stalker is back. I'll spare the details--just coming here to vent because no one else is around.

This time, she entered after me, there was an open stall, but she stood outside mine until I emerged.

WEIRD!!!

The NaNoWriMo Challenge

So I finally gave in to Rob's gentle nudges and have registered to be a participant in National Novel Writing Month. YES! I did it. I even succumbed to the nerdy button advertising said registration. Scroll down the page and look for the little running guy carrying a pencil. It says for all the world that I am a participant. Somehow, that has the same terribly cheesy feeling I associate with getting a certificate of participation when everybody in the group got an actual award. Sheesh, let's not delve into my childhood baggage right now....

Anyway, I did it, and so now you know about it, so I guess I would be a jerk to drop out now. Talk about creativity at gun point. Being the competitive person that I am, I can't imagine bailing out now, although in terms of my writing projects, I do tend to be Achi-like in abandoning things. Lest anyone care, I haven't quit the real novel I've been writing for a couple of years, I'm just slowed down by the immense nature of the research. I'd like not to look like a total jerk when I have my characters walking down certain neighborhoods only to have somebody's granmother point out that I got it wrong. Unfortunately, Tio Humberto died after I started interviewing him, and then Tia Esther refused to talk about the event I wanted, so I guess that gives me the liberty to make up the the rest of the story. Wow, I guess I rambled off topic there for a moment. Another one of those tricks we use to avoid the topic at hand. I gotta write a novel in 30 days.

AND THERE'S NO COFFEE POT IN THE HOUSE!

Well, the good news is that the contest requires no quality. It's supposed to be one giant vomitous draft. I can do that if I give myself permission not to revise the day's work. Hmm, we'll see how my personality manages this challenge.

Anyway, that's what's going on. Check out the website, and play around over at Ink 'n Doodles Creative Workshop, too. Who knows? Maybe I'll get that novel finished. It beats doing laundry

The $600 Cell Phone Bill Debacle of 2006!!!

Yep.

John blanched when he saw the bill. Let me tell you that I'd still be laughing at the vision of a middle-aged guy dropping his jaw just like in the cartoons if I hadn't been suffering from apoplexy myself.

Finally, he regained his color, and of course it shot into scarlet immediately. He grumbled, "CHRISTINA! BRING ME YOUR PHONE!"

Naturally, she came running, sporting a glazed deer in the headlights look.

"HOW DID YOU MANAGE TO MAKE 1,318 TEXT MESSAGES IN ONE MONTH!"

Sorry about the caps, gentle reader; unfortunately everything that John said was in this Incredible Hulk voice. It was almost like being in a scene from the Mask. The veins were pulsing, his jaw was square, Christy was getting smaller and smaller.

Where was I? Cowering behind my monitor--I had text messaged a few times, too.

I kept waiting for him to crush the phone in his giant cucumber fingers. Instead, he excused her, and called the phone company.

Let me tell you that it was the first time I ever saw him deal with customer service in a civil tone. Maybe this company really does have its act together, or he realized that snorting like a crazed bull wasn't going to work in his favor. Maybe a little of both? The good news is that my darling husband is finally mellowing, like a fine wine.

He went through the entire bill itemization without once losing his cool. Amazing.

And here's the good news. They had a record of the offer for free text messaging. It was never applied, so a little magic behind the scenes and the agent adjusted the bill. Phew!

Feast day of St. Anthony Mary Claret

The Holy Spirit works in crazy ways, and today is such an example of His influence in my affairs. My work schedule is wacky, with some days that start at 7, and others that start much later, and consequently end late. You can imagine that it impacts my family, not in a negative way, but that schedules must be carefully arranged. Daily Mass is not something that I fit into that schedule. Let's just say that my attendance is totally random, or motivated by some feast day or special intention.

Last Sunday, John, a.k.a. the lead usher, put away the collection, sealed it, and went home. Then he discovered our contribution still in his pocket. Ooops. It fell to me to take it to the church, and so I attended morning Mass today. Truly, it was a case of coincidences, and I had no motive other than leaving early so I could attend Mass since I was going to the office.

Our pastor, a quirky (how 'bout that generous description?) but kind man, assumed that I had attended Mass for a specific reason. You see, today is the feast day of the Bishop of Santiago, Cuba--St. Anthony Mary Claret. You can read about his life here. He was a very interesting man, one that I knew some, but not much about.

But back to the pastor--he assumed I was there for the feast of this fascinating saint, and indeed, FJ's homily was about St. Anthony Mary Claret's life. In his own weird way, FJ spoke to me, literally, by acknowledging me in the congregation (he does that--it's always a surprise to the victim), but spoke to me more clearly through his interpretation of Claret's life and message. In short, he used, practically, the same words I used at the end of my weekly post at Rosary Army's blog. Among other things, Claret was devoted to the rosary. Hmmm, cue the creepy music.

Anyway, FJ kindly offered the day's intention for the clergy in Cuba, acknowledging my uncle, whom he has never met. I might shake my head at his quirkiness, but he is a good guy.

shades of 2001: A Space Odyssey

So I'm scrolling through the news this afternoon and see this picture from NASA. Here's the link to the Hubble article, but that's not what interested me. Doesn't it look like a human embryo? I think so.

In a political statement brought to you by, ME, here's a link to some sensible pro-life stuff. I'm all about common sense folks. I mean, if the Humane Society protects sea turtle eggs because those embryos will be sea turles one day, how come they don't protect human embryos? How's that for taking human out of HUMANE?

OK, thanks for listening.

Incidentally, here's my post at Rosary Army. Mom, you really just need to bookmark the page, k?

Jane Wyatt died!

Wow, I had no clue she was still alive. I would have bet she was like a hundred! In fact, she was 96.

In a moment that links me to The Gilmore Girls, I love the 1950's sitcoms. Father Knows Best was one of my favorites, although I have to admit that I loved Wyatt more as Spock's mother. That weird Vulcan kiss with the finger thingie was a gas.

My other favorite is, of course, Leave It to Beaver. In addition to having a crush on Wally, only to see what a nerd he's grown up to be, I owe my predilection for pearls to that other TV mom, June Cleaver, um, Barbara Billingsley. In fact, I advertise my psychotic intent to really clean house by donning my pearls.

rainy days and sundays

Sundays are pretty ok in my book. Rain just makes it a whole lot better. We slept in to the incredible , unbelievable time of 8:10. I feel like I may have wasted my entire morning. Not!

It's been a very low key morning, and so I thought I'd pop in to post something--anything--rather than return to doing...nothing.

Hey! We're actually enjoying Sunday the way it's meant to be! After lazing around and having a very sugarladen but tasty breakfast of cafe con leche and ginormous cinnamon buns, we've each retired to our little pursuits. I'm here, of course, updating this and trying to get myself all geared up for National Novel Writing Month, at the persistant urging from Rob at Ink n' Doodles. Christy is off with her music, and Jonathan and John have resumed their work in the basement. I'm sure they'll be up shortly in search of lunch and positive reinforcement for having laid two more tiles and swept a bit.

Actually, I shouldn't mock them too much. They've gotten quite a bit accomplished, and the basement is moving toward completion. I just think it's a wise course of action for me not to entertain thoughts of a completion date.

And, the best news of all, the dog is taking a nap. No chirping at the moment. Here's hoping you have a relaxing Sunday afternoon, too.

another excuse to avoid laundry

entertain yourself with this:

You Are Marge Simpson

You're a devoted family member who loves unconditionally. Sometimes, though, you dream about living a wild secret life! You will be remembered for: your good cooking and evading the police Your life philosophy: "You should listen to your heart, and not the voices in your head."

The Simpsons Personality Test

pantyhose, feminism, and common sense

I've got one of those jobs where "professional dress" translates to: you better be wearing pantyhose. My knee-jerk reaction to that is: the men better be wearing ties.

Consequently, we've got a lot of women wearing that awful support hose from the 70's--you know what I'm talking about--the one where the nude shade makes it look like you've been at the beach all summer, but your arms and face are scary-white. They lead to saggy ankles (tsk tsk).The guys, of course, don't disappoint. There are a few who wear their ties proudly--with short-sleeved shirts. I'm tempted to check their collars to see if the ties are snap ons.

Anyway, I dutifully wear my pantyhose.

This afternoon while in the ladies room doing the ministrations ladies do in those rooms, I managed to poke a finger through my hose. I didn't think it had compromised anything--I was sure it wasn't going to run because more than likely it would just continue to tear along the fault line. I was right.

By the time my staff meeting was over, the little tear was now a gaping hole in my thigh, and all that compressed thigh was trying to escape from the not-so-tiny-anymore hole. Yikes! It was like a sausage trying to escape the casing. Ew, perhaps that's not a good choice of imagery.

I dutifully wore the offending piece of lingerie. While chatting with two of my colleagues back in the office, the conversation made its way to a point where somehow it seemed appropriate to share my mishap. Why? Well, one of the ladies is pregnant, and so that automatically sets the stage for pregnancy war stories.

I told them about my sausage-casing thigh. They looked at me like I was afflicted. I got, in stereo, "Take them off!"

Oh.

Why didn't I think of that?

feet are gross: and so are toes

So I'm sitting at my desk drinking my green tea (because there is no coffee-maker in the house---re Coffee Pot War of '06) and I got to thinking about what I could write. I wasn't going to post after all, so I got entertained by a game of Spider Solitaire. I can win at the hard level, which pretty much qualifies me to do...nuthin'.

Anyway, I've got a load of laundry in the dryer, so I can't go barefoot according to FLylady. Here I am--it's 9 pm-- I'm wearing my comfy flannel jammies, and I've laced up some shoes. She says we need to wear shoes so we know we mean business with the housework. I'm sensing an awful off-topic track here....and I move my feet and somehow WHOA! I catch my toenail, in the shoe, in the sock and I feel like there's some kind of Chinese bamboo torture attacking my toe.

I gingerly remove the shoe and the sock, to discover that my nail has somehow separated from the skin, only in a perfect little box, so half is disconnected and the rest is stuck where its supposed to be. Pain. Pain pain pain.

I figure, it's my blog, and you are the weirdos cuz you come here and read it, so why not share a real moment in the life. Here's a picture. It's the middle toe, and you can barely see what happened, but there's something about posting my toes here that makes me feel a bit self-conscious about a close-up. On second thought, this is going to be one of those posts I just should have let die.

A Cup of TEA and a Random Thought

In the world of silly conversations, today I discovered something really funny about my sister.

She hates tea.

What's the big deal? She very much wants to like tea. She jumps at the opportunity to make tea, because, in her own words, "I like making tea." What a loser.

She also randomly orders tea in restaurants because they have nice-sounding names such as darjeeling or tisane, or she'll latch onto something fancy, such as Earl Grey. And then she'll taste it and go, "Ew, don't like it."

HA! How could I not mock her here?

Dancing Monkeys?

One of the things that I really enjoy about my job is, believe it or not, the hours I must spend in my office to be available for students. It's like I get paid to catch up on things that I need to do that are computer related. I write here, in the blog; I write a weekly blog for Rosary Army (my mother reminded me I haven't posted it yet--sorry Mom, I have a new schedule and I teach straight through Mondays, so you'll have to wait-maybe I'll have to turn it into Tuesday Thoughts). I work on some other things, and catch up on grading, too.

My favorite, however, is catching up on my favorite podcasts. I listen to them right off the internet, and it's turned into a great treat for me. This morning I finally listened to the Rosary Army 100th episode while, among other things, putting away laundry at home.

I've reviewed a few things here, some books, a play...the dangerous sport of wheelchair drag-racing in the streets of Atlanta. It makes sense that I should review my favorite podcast.

I got hooked on the Rosary Army Podcast, hosted by Greg and Jennifer Willits, last year when they started it. Actually, Greg got it going, and when Jennifer joined him, the quality improved (ha!) and the show went in a wonderful direction full of spontaneity and humorous banter, with a sprinkling of serious topics affecting families. It's all done under the mantel of Mary's exhoration to "do as He says" so listeners can bank on Roman Catholic content that is faithful to the Church's teachings.

The bonus is that we can hear normal people (okay, the normal part is a bit generous) talk about their lives, their trials, tribulations, and joys, AND be practicing Catholics. It's a lovely example of a young couple living the gospel in the world. Incidentally, there's a great deal of catechesis going on, sometimes direct and prayerful, and other times through their brilliant characters, Captain Catechism and his sidekick, Merry Medal.

The 100th Episode is a must-listen for those of you interested in something better than angry talk radio. Give it a listen. I promise you'll get hooked.

whatever happened to Paul Hogan?

We found Crocodile Dundee at Helen's Oktoberfest in the Georgia mountains.

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Things must be tough in Hollywood; he seems to be the local troubador.

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This morning, very early, I took Christy and Jonathan to the All-State auditions in some little-known backwoods town somewhere between Atlanta and Macon. When we got home, starved and punch drunk, John suggested we get lunch in Helen, two hours away. It was a brilliant idea. You couldn't ask for a more beautiful fall day, so we were game. Only, it's October. Duh, you say? Well, it's more like Homer Simpson's Doh!

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This is what it looks like trying to get into Helen in October. We realized, a bit late, that maybe it wasn't such a brilliant idea afterall.

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We entertained ourselves for an hour, while waiting to travel 2 miles...here's a self-portrait of me in my boredom. We also listened to Univ of Georgia lose. HA!

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And we made friends with a Shriner. They always do good work, in spite of the goofy hat. These are men with great conviction, or a poor sense of fashion.

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Nevertheless, we finally made it into town. That's the Hooch (the Chatahoochee River, of course).

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We naturally headed straight for our favorite restaurant, Alt Heidelberg. Here, the budding thespians are contemplating the joys of Spezi.

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Of course, then there's dessert at one of the bazillion kiosks selling funnel cakes. The consumer bought a ginormous strawberry and cream concoction, which I dutifully gnawed on for a while. Here, a very nice nun (from Cleveland, Ohio!) took our picture. I should have taken her picture, instead. She was smoking Tiparillos. Nice.

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Incidentally, any clues about why a Bavarian/Swiss town is flying the Mexican flag? Maybe you can find the answer at the very first restaurant in town. Casa de Pepe. Jeez. I like Mexican food as much as the next person, but you don't see Warner Brothers cartoons at Disney World, ya know?

Edited by me: Hey, I'm a moron. That ain't no Mexican flag. I just realized that, in order, it's France, Bavaria, U.S. , ITALYand that last one I had to look up--Norway (there's actually a Norse collection in the midst of all the German stuff in Helen--go figure). I'm still offended by the tarbaby in the next picture, though.

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Speaking of the inexplicable, I actually saw this little statue in town. Does one go up to the homeowners and ask: Where have you been for the past 40 years? Just sayin'.

And finally, thanks for reading this far down in the interminable post of 2006. It was a long day, thus a long post. It ended on a hysterical note, too. This picture is not so great, but it's significant in the historical moment that it represents. We were chatting on the way home and John got lost. He got lost! LOL!!! And the best part is, he admitted it!!! With an announcement, no less. "Hey, you're not going to believe that I think I'm lost."

LOL---ROFLMAO!!! I love this guy.

Triskedekaphobia? Not us!: Happy Day, Christy!!!

On a Friday the 13th, 16 years ago, my precious Mouse was born. John was threatening to name the baby Jason if it was a boy. The nurses were scandalized. The doctor told me not to worry. I guess he knew something all along.

Anyway, no such thing as bad luck. I even walked under a ladder today, because they are fixing the roof just outside my building, and I would have had to re-enter and leave by another exit. Like I said, I'm not superstitious. But, I watched some people hesitate, go back in, or think about it before they walked under the ladder.

What a bunch of losers. The only bad luck would be if the thing fell on their heads. They could get a clue from the wacky people here, having a grand time at the annual let's debunk superstition party going on in New York. There's even an obstacle course where they dodge black cats, open umbrellas indoors, and yes, even walk under ladders.