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As Sally Field said, "You like me, you really like me!" Well, at least Tim likes me. He nominated me for the Stylish Blog Award. Me? Stylish? Aw shucks. I'm speechless. Which for me is a rarity.
So, without further ado, here are seven things you might not know about me.
- I always wanted to have a farm and raise goats, honeybees, and quail.
- I used to stand in line with my grandmother for her monthly supply of cheese and peanut butter from the government.
- In high school, I attained sharpshooter level in riflery.
- I prefer a bow to a gun.
- I learned how to drive in a green 1972 GMC Gremlin when I was 11.
- I read my first words when I was two but I am a very slow reader, to the point where it embarrasses me.
- I am utterly terrified of snakes, so much so that I can't even look at pictures of them without being scared.
Wow, never in all my blogging days has the word "I" appeared so many times in one blog! That's another thing about me that you may not know. Writing that relies too heavily on "I" makes me uncomfortable.
Now, here are seven Stylish Blogs that you should check out:
VIRGINIA THROUGH MY LENS
Honey, I'm Home
Constantly Evolving
Hope in a Basket
KING OF NEW YORK HACKS
Ramblingon
Mom And Me, Kassey
It's easy really. Seven things that people might not know about you and seven other nominations for the Stylish Blog Award.
I think I'll go back to writing without "I's" now.
My promise to Tim rings hollow today - this blog isn't a follow-up to his nominating me for the Stylish Blog Award as it was supposed to be. No pie-crust promise this time, Tim! The next blog *will* be in response to the Stylish Blog Award.
Today, there's just something I have to get off my chest. Uh-um... Out of my chest? Oh, bad pun (you'll understand after reading the entire blog). Someone please, for god's sake, get the image out of my head!
The Gaelic family is adventurous when it comes to food. Deirdre adores Brussels sprouts. Finola has eaten venison, buffalo, and elk. I tried rattlesnake once, frog legs a couple of times, and alligator on several occasions. Yes, even Rocky Mountain Oysters. There is a beef liver, tongue and heart in my freezer waiting to be cooked up in a hearty dish. But there are limits.
Raw oysters never cross my lips anymore following an experience with a bad one many years ago. Mr. G and I had some bad sea urchin once, never again. And that Japanese fish that's poisonous? No thank you.
Now comes news of things that really turn the stomach. Especially two pieces of news this past week.
In a small town in New Zealand is an annual food festival that in past years has served up such "delicacies" as wasp larvae ice cream and deep-fried huhu grubs. This year the craze will be shots of strawberry-, chocolate-, or vanilla-flavored horse semen. Yes, you read that correctly. Horse baby gravy. Claims are that it tastes like a milkshake.
On the other end of the spectrum (in every literal sense) is news from England of a new ice cream flavor - Baby Gaga. Made with Madagascan vanilla pods and lemon zest, it's said to be very rich and creamy. Rich and creamy? You be the judge of that. It's made with free-range human breast milk! But this free-range human won't be volunteering to help produce or consume it. And I have better ideas for Madagascan vanilla pods.
There are just some things I draw the line at. Horse semen shots and breast-milk ice cream are two of them.
Some nice folks stopped by to read the first of the sensory blogs on sight but were disappointed that there were no links to some of the sites. Links have been added to some. Check them out here.
Third in my series of lists of the senses is smell. Mostly in memory of that sense which our family lost last week when we all developed head colds of varying degrees. (Cue the Dies Irae.) My first list was sight; the second list, sound.
Without further ado, I give you scents I want to experience before I die:
- That baby-smell on the top of a grandbaby's head
- Sweet-shrub wafting through my open bedroom window on a warm spring morning
- White Shoulders as I nuzzle in for a hug (my grandmother's signature)
- Chanel No. 5 as I nuzzle in for a hug (my mother's signature)
- Mrouzia in Marrakesh
- Rogan josh outside Lakshmana temple in Khajuraho
- Spruce and firs giving way to glaciers in Denali
- Varnish remover while refinishing an antique [fill in the blank] by myself
- Lavender fields in Provence
- Body oil with patchouli being massaged onto me while at a beach-front spa in the Caribbean
Coming up with scents to experience is quite difficult. Knowing what I want to do or see is easy; but how does one describe a new scent? Today's list was very challenging. That will be your challenge now -- what scents do you want to experience?
We all serve sentences. The difference is in our awareness of our sentences. Some of us intuit our sentences while not explicitly knowing that they're there. Others of us turn a blind eye to them, refusing to acknowledge their existence.
Growing up was one of my sentences. In a small southern town, when the Alpha girls turn against you, there's not much else except to pour yourself into your studies and your hobbies. There's something better waiting after graduation. And an unbearable life was bearable for the most part.
Open-ended sentences are harder to deal with. Those life sentences that actually feel like life sentences. Such as a really rough spell that Mr. Gaelic and I went through at one point in our marriage. The finite is easy. It's the infinite that crushes the bone.
Once again, a sentence is upon me. A sentence that is, thankfully, finite. Four years at the least, thirteen max. Four to pay for private Ivy college, thirteen for full retirement benefits. A friend wasn't satisfied with my reason for working -- to pay for college. She noted that we could always take out a loan to pay for college. Pressing harder, she made me evaluate the why of not wanting to take out a loan. Her pressure made me realize the reason was our dream retirement -- a house in the mountains of western North Carolina, eastern Tennessee, or southwestern Virginia. The floor plans are on the computer hard drive. She suggested I print it out, frame it, and put it on my desk.
I did her one better. It's the wallpaper on my office computer.
When an IT person stopped by last week, he asked if that was my house. "Oh, no, that's my retirement house. That's why I'm doing this," as I motioned around the office.
As Nietzsche said, he who has a why to live can bear almost any how.
Either Mr. Gaelic is really good at his job or we’re just a bunch of political junkies around here. A friend posted a link to a hearing in which he was seated behind his boss. As I clicked and opened the video, Mr. Gaelic, in the next room, heard the chairman’s voice for, oh, two seconds and asked, “Are you watching the Senate Finance Committee hearing? Why are you watching the Senate Finance Committee? That’s the Senate Finance Committee.”
Yeah, Mr. Tax Policy, it’s the Finance Committee. But as my friend said in his own words, the video also comes in handy in case you have trouble sleeping.
Everyone always says that they need a vacation from their vacation. Well, I need a sick day from my sick day.
There's a cold going around work and it finally landed on my desk. After a noontime meeting and eating at my desk, the last thing I needed was four more hours of work. Especially since I had been in the office for six hours. Mr. Gaelic (we carpool) drove me home and wrapped me in a blanket. I had some fun websites to visit (thanks to a chat session with Laoch), hot apple cider to soothe my throat, and three layers of fleece to help settle me in for a nap. I slept for all of 30 minutes.
Not that my body didn't need the sleep and could have used more, but that our neighbor from across the street called asking if his two girls could come to our house after school. The wife was recently diagnosed with lung cancer which has already spread to her liver, spine, hip, and shoulder. The husband had to take the wife to the hospital because her pain medicine isn't blocking the pain. Even sick with a head cold, you don't turn away the kids of a woman with cancer.
Fine and good. They stayed in the family room with Maeve playing Wii until supper. But I still heard them. Been there, done that, got the t-shirt! Having a five-year-old saying, "I want..." and "Why...?" does not make for a restful afternoon. Maybe it was easier when they were my own kids. Maybe I'm becoming a codgerly old woman. Or maybe, just maybe, I'm plain sick and tired.
Office email exchange:
Hi all,
I'm putting together a staff list for just in case emergencies. Please provide the following:
Local address: (where you sleep most of the time, Sean, not where your parents think you live)
Local phone:
Cell phone:
Significant other or whom to call if you don't show up for work:
Birthday:
Thanks,
Your Fabulous Office Manager [that would be me, in addition to being the scheduler]
The director of the legislative staff wrote back with the following.
Address: XXXX Street
Phone: XXX-XXXX
Cell: XXX-XXXX
Significant other or whom to call if you don't show up for work: Could be many different women, depends on the night and my mood . . .
Birthday: XX/XX/XXXX
I replied,
Thank god you didn't hit Reply All. Hahaha!!!
He replied to my reply,
That would just have been bragging . . . ;-)
Happy Manufactured Day that Really Doesn’t Mean Anything Except to Extort Things from Men with the Threat of Withholding Sex If Women Don’t Get What They Want Which Most Often Is an Engagement Ring or a Promise of a Monogamous, Long-Term Relationship Complete with Children and a House in the Suburbs, Oh, and a Dozen Roses Delivered to Her Office to Make her Coworkers Envious that She has Such a Thoughtful Boyfriend Who Felt that He Had to Send Her Flowers Because of the Date on the Calendar!!!
And Many Happy Returns of the Day! Unless she has to return what your sorry ass messed up as “the perfect gift” in which case you won’t be getting any for a month. Or until you grovel in front of her and her friends.
[I'm not hating on Valentine's Day. I'm just wondering why there are so many expectations for one single day.]
Second in the non-bucket-list list of things to experience before I die is sound. Last time we explored things I want to see before I die. This go-round it's sounds. For your listening pleasure, I give you my Top Ten (to be experienced in person, of course).
- Mendelssohn's Bridal Chorus at my three daughters' weddings
- My grandbaby's giggle
- An iceberg calving
- Gurgling lava and its hiss upon running into the sea
- Adhan in Istanbul
- Oseh Shalom in Lodz, Poland
- The wind while standing at 29,029 feet above sea level
- A wolf's howl while tent camping along Slough Creek in Yellowstone
- Dinka hymns in Juba, Southern Sudan
- My husband's Russian outside the Church of Spilt Blood in St. Petersburg
My sounds of non-silence. Although complete and utter silence ranks pretty high as well.
This isn’t a “bucket list”. It’s just a list. Maybe this will be the first in a series of lists.
Things I want to see before I die:
- The Nazca Lines
- The Roman Catacombs
- The aurora borealis
- Penguins in their natural habitat
- Polar bears in their natural habitat
- Victoria Falls
- The Road of Bones from the back of a motorcycle
- A grandbaby’s eyes
- The world from the highest point in Africa
- The winter solstice sunrise from inside Newgrange
What do you want to see before you die?
About three weeks ago, we had an ice storm and a two-hour delay for work with schools closed for the day. Mr. Gaelic, in typical male thinking, went out to scrape the ice from the truck, neglecting to salt the walk on the way to the vehicle. Two step out my front door, not even off the front stoop, and WHAM, I fall and shatter my left ring finger. Two cut-off wedding rings, five pins, one cast, and untold numbers of Oxycontin later, he readily admits he could have been more focused on safety and less focused on getting to the office "early".
The stitches came out Friday. While the nurse was removing the black threads (and let me just go on record as saying that having stitches removed from a finger hurts almost as much as the break itself), I was lamenting the scar I will have. The nurse (a man) suggested that a new ring might be in my future. Mr. Gaelic agreed. And I have a witness!
Mr. Gaelic has been very protective ever since my fall. He holds my arm in the snow, or walking down stairs; he carries bags for me; he drives me to work. (Oxycontin use prohibits driving, at least in my book.) He also drives me to my favorite hair salon to have my hair washed and blow dried. The bandage is supposed to stay dry and I wouldn't be able to hold both a hairdryer and brush even if he washed my hair for me at home.
Yesterday's salon outing also became a stop at my new favorite designer's store. Certain designers cut their clothes in a way that fits my body well without the need for alterations. Dana Buchman used to be my favorite until she discontinued her designer line in favor of a line exclusively for Kohls. She may be the same woman, but her clothes don't fit like they did when she had her own stand-alone stores.
Yet even with my new favorite designer, he has several labels and each one fits differently. His basic line fits me in the rear but not the waist or sleeve length. His next step up runs small for size. Even though dress size numbers don't bother me, if the mid-line label fits my waist and sleeve length, it doesn't fit my hips.
That leaves his top-end prêt-à -porter line. Prêt-à -porter is ready-to-wear, as opposed to his couture line which is seen on the catwalks of Bryant Park (oops, I mean Lincoln Center where they moved Fashion Week this year). Great. Just great. My body type fits the most expensive line. What's a girl to do?
Buy on sale only.
Which is what happened yesterday. I snagged a 100% cashmere dress for more than 75% off the original price. I didn't have to elbow my way through the crowds at Loehmann's or Filene's Basement or TJMaxx. The saleslady set us up in a cozy dressing room with a loveseat and table and offered us coffee and water. And the dress fits like a glove!
My new shopping habit won't be hitting the discount racks in strip malls, but hitting the stand-alone designer store downtown when they hang a Sale sign in the window. Same price, better service. Eureka! I have found my new favorite store!
Facebook is a wonderful tool to help reconnect with people. The majority of my FB friends are from my small Southern hometown of 7,000. We catch up about parents, careers, spouses, children. We post old photos from our elementary school days, church choir, high school yearbooks. And we tag each other. Helpful after all these years.
And so talkative. It seems that they all want to chat whenever I'm online. After trying to carry on five conversations at one time, it was time to leave my chat status as offline. Multitasking is one thing but there are limits.
Until last night. That's when I wanted so much to go back in time and talk to people who wanted to talk to me. One in particular. A guy who went through twelve years of school with me. He had joined the Air Force, married, divorced, stayed in Colorado.
With FB, it starts in cryptic ways. "My heart is breaking with the news."
Then it becomes a mystery. "D was a great friend."
The mind races. What happened to D?
With enough reading and poking around, it becomes clear. "D didn't post anything on Fishville this morning and I was about to call him when I heard the message on my phone. My baby brother is gone. Cardiac arrest."
Sadness, regret, realization that we're middle aged. Wasn't this supposed to be fun?
The congressman is going on a military trip to Florida soon. Which requires paperwork. It was dutifully filled out and ready to fax to the Navy liaison office when a snafu hit.
His mother-in-law is very ill. He may have to scrub the trip. Even if he goes, flight plans have changed since he won't be returning to Washington with the missus. She's at her mother's side.
Because of the now-complicated situation, it was easier to walk the paperwork to the liaison and explain things face to face rather than on the phone. How lucky can a gal be? The two Navy liaisons in charge of the trip met me at the front office area. Both Navy, both blond, both blue eyes. Blue like the sky over the Caribbean Sea. All warm and decadent.
The next time the legislative staff needs something from the Navy liaison office I'll happily volunteer to walk to their office. As I told our legislative director, I may be married but I can still look. All of a sudden I sound like a man!
Who's my boss? Is it the congressman or his chief of staff? The chief of staff hired me and is in the office on a much more regular basis than the congressman. The congressman has to give speeches on the House floor, attend committee meetings, and cast votes in both places.
When the British Embassy invited congressional staffers to a reception at the Ambassador's residence, the congressman was out of sorts that he wasn't invited. But he gets better opportunities than a reception with a bunch of redcoats.
While at the reception, our small group of five office mates kept mostly to ourselves. At one time the COS was standing next to me and his arm brushed against mine. But he didn't move it! Personal space, Dude! Don't you know about personal space? Apparently not. I was the one who pulled my arm away.
After the press secretary and I had snuck away for a bit to explore the residence, we joined the legislative director, the staff assistant, and two Brits they were chatting with. In the flow of the conversation, I glanced at the press secretary who'd just commented on something. You know how something in the distance can catch your eye? In my direct line of view was the COS across the room. Looking intently in my direction. Was he looking at me or the press secretary?
Fortunately nothing else has happened until a few days ago. After a meeting involving me, the press secretary, and the COS, the press secretary had another meeting to run off to. That left the COS and me to walk back to the office. As we were leaving, the COS and a member of another congressman's staff were joking at my expense about my fall on the ice.
Was it the way he was joking with me? Or the way he looked at me while joking? Or the way he walked a little closer than necessary on the way back to the office? Or am I really rusty from not working in an office for all those years?
I had been carrying around 10 extra pounds. But today, I lost all that weight in about 10 minutes!
"Inconceivable!" you might say. "How did you do it?"
Easy. The nurse cut off my cast. Freedom!!!
Not so fast. The doctor unwrapped the finger to reveal a Frankenstein finger with ugly black stitches running down the length of my finger. The scar looks angry. Hopefully it will heal well.
Since it still needs time to heal, and since the stitches aren't ready to come out, the hand doctor rewrapped the finger, lashed it to my middle finger with surgical tape, and splinted it with a cushioned piece of metal running down the back of my hand. Another week until the next follow-up visit to have the stitches removed.
No, cute Dr. MCL-Injury was nowhere to be seen. Even though he told me it looks like a grenade went off in my hand, I should probably watch to whom I tell that story.
Yesterday in the cafeteria line waiting for my BLT on toasted white, a Capitol Police officer asked what happened. I told him my story (at which he winced - they all seem to do that) and the grenade part (at which he didn't wince). He raised his right hand and said, "I know something about grenades going off in your hand."
I winced at his years-old-but-still-angry scar where his ring finger and pinkie should have been.
Five pins in one finger. Not just one finger but one bone! Crushed. Smashed. The word Broken doesn't really describe it.
My cast is twice as large as the original that the ER doctor put on. It weighs in at ten pounds. There are few tops or dresses that will fit over the "claw". If it were summer short sleeves would be appropruate. Of course, if it were summer, there would have been no ice to cause a fall.
Oxycontin is now my best friend. And my worst enemy. It kills the pain. But it makes me loopy. And tired. Very tired. Caffeine is back in my life after an almost-twenty-year hiatus. Ack!
I am so ready for this effing cast to come off. I'm about to the point of ripping it off myself. If you hear a loud scream during the night, don't worry. It'll be me. Not from pain or agony. But from frustration and lack of being able to scratch my forearm.
The weatherman says we're supposed to get up to 5 inches of snow by tomorrow night. So far this season, he's been batting 1000. He's missed it every single time. He always prefaces his prediction with "depending on how the storm moves". Talk about hedging your bets.
This snow prediction is a lot like sex. "Depending on how it moves", you either get covered in white stuff or left high and dry.
Hello blogworld! My one-handed typing is getting better. Time to update all my buddies on the finger.
The surgery was Saturday morning. While checking in at the hospital, I ran into another orthopaedic doctor. He was my doctor when I tore my MCL while skiing several years ago. He and my hand doctor are in the same practice. My skiing-injury doc had seen the x-rays of my finger and commented, "It looks like a grenade went off in your hand." When I mess up something, I really mess it up royally.
And apparently the x-rays lied. My finger bone wasn't in three pieces; it was in five. That means there are five pins in my finger holding it together. Covered by a huge-assed cast. So huge in fact that several of the big burly Capitol Police officers actually winced upon seeing it. One greeted me in the cafeteria with "Ouch!" when he saw my claw of a bandage.
There's no timeline yet on how long I'll be in a cast or information on physical therapy. My follow-up with the hand doctor is Friday. Maybe I'll get to see the ski-injury doc while at the office. He's really handsome. But not handsome enough to tear an MCL or break a finger just to get to see him.
Mr. Gaelic here to report that Mrs. Gaelic fell on the ice this morning and broke her ring finger, which means that the ER aide had to cut her wedding band and engagement ring off her finger. The rings can be mended in time for our 20th anniversary in May, and her finger should be mended long before then. We should know in a few days if she will need a pin to mend the broken bone.
In the meantime, Mrs. Gaelic will be posting few blogs except for those she dictates.
When a person loses weight, as I have in the past two weeks, articles of clothing fit differently. Usually it's seen in the waistband of a skirt or the seat of a pair of pants. Mine showed up in the lingerie department. And not in the expected way.
Since birthing my first baby, my non-maternity bra size has been constant. Let's just say that my bra size is larger than the average American non-surgically-enhanced woman. But it's exactly the same as the average American surgically-enhanced woman. And no, I'm not surgically-enhanced.
When the sales lady led me into a fitting room for a current sizing, my expectation was that I would be down to the average non-surgically enhanced size. She told me my new size. I was shocked! Shocked, I tell you!
Rather than moving down a size, she brought in the next letter up, even suggesting at one point that two letters up might be necessary. Did the weight shift upwards? And if so, how?
I went crazy. Not mad-as-hell crazy but lost-my-mind shopping crazy. Once the damage was done, there were five new bras in my shopping bag. Black, nude, midnight purple, light purple, and hot pink. Why so many funky colors?
To paraphrase David O. Selznick as he told Ann Rutherford on the set of Gone With the Wind, perhaps no one will see the undergarments, but I'll know they're more than basic.
What I'm about to say will piss off any number of people. But this is my rant. If you don't like it, too bad. 'Cause it's the way I feel.
I am no longer a full-time mother. And I hate hate hate that. My new job demands over 50 hours a week. Including the 2 1/2 that I put in today. Today! A Sunday! The Sabbath! So much for keeping all Ten of the Commandments.
My paid job is a full-time office position. The entire family eats breakfast together before Mr. Gaelic and I carpool to our respective offices and Deirdre drives Maeve and herself to school. We eat supper together every possible night. Mostly five of seven, since Deirdre and Maeve both babysit and Deirdre has a boyfriend.
But there is no way that I can in good conscience call myself a full-time mother. Other women, upon hearing me call myself that in the past, would say that they work as a whatever at such-and-such a place. Then they'd tack on that they were full-time mothers as well. Hell no you're not!
Can you be a full-time surgeon and a full-time high school principal at the same time? No. Then what makes you think you can be a full-time whatever and a full-time mother at the same time? You can't. Because you're not there for your kids full time. When they need you. When they come home from school upset and claim that nothing is bothering them, until three hours later when they've finally decided to tell you what's wrong.
I miss my kids terribly. I was an awesome full-time mother. It was my calling in life. We chose for me to stay home with them and our finances suffered for the first few years after the transition. Only in the last three years had we fully recovered financially from going down to one bread-winning salary.
Mr. Gaelic has heard this rant before. He understands that he's not a full-time father. He understands that no parent who works at any job other than parenting can claim to be a full-time parent. That goes for parents who work from home, too. How does Junior feel when you say to him, "Mommy can't play with you right now because I've got to take this call and finish this report"?
I was fortunate to be able to be a full-time mother for 14 years. I experienced my youngest's infancy and my eldest's graduation. I also realize that taking a paying job is something I do for my children. I am providing Finola with the opportunity to attend the best possible college for her. I will continue in the paid workforce if Deirdre and Maeve want to attend prestigious private universities as well. What I do I do for them.
I just wish there were some way to provide the best for them while providing the best for me and Mr. Gaelic. We miss our former lifestyle of a home-cooked supper on the table at 6:30 every night, no lines at the grocery store or dry cleaner, and being able to do absolutely nothing on Saturdays and Sundays.
I want to be a full-time mom again.
My friend listened to my complaint about wanting to be caught up at work. I feel like I'm one day ahead and two weeks behind. To me, the ideal would be to leave every day having acted in some way on every meeting request that came across my desk.
"That's unrealistic," she said, "because the minute you get up from your desk there will be another phone call or email. You won't get a break."
"By the end of the week then."
"How about Thursday for being caught up?"
"Why not Friday?"
"Friday is the last day of the week. People will realize they haven't sent you their meeting request and don't want it on their mind over the weekend. Friday and Monday are your busiest days."
Poo-poo! Friday is the end of the week. People will want to focus on getting out of the office and on to the weekend.
Not!
She was right. Yesterday there were 78 emails when I arrived at my desk at 8:20 a.m. The only breaks from constant work were to take employment papers to the finance office, pick up forms from the travel office, and have lunch. The only time in the two weeks of work that lunch wasn't eaten at my desk.
Keep in mind that work was constant. At times there were four lines ringing at once on my direct line. Some people called the legislative staff to have them ask me for a meeting with the congressman. The incoming stream of emails was constant during the day. With the congressman and the chief of staff both out of the office, I left work early. At 5:50 p.m. The first time before 6:30 in the two weeks that I've been working.
Before shutting down my computer, I checked the number of emails in my inbox. 72! It's progress.
Parents die before their kids. That's the way it should be. It's not always that way.
Christina-Taylor Green was too young to die. Her parents should never have gone through what they've been through. The only good thing that came out of her death was that her donated organs have already saved one child's life somewhere on the east coast.
Last summer, a friend was diagnosed with stomach cancer. With a wife who couldn't take unpaid leave from work, I sat with him, tried to get him to walk, and helped with his meds and his feeding tube. At his funeral, his eldery mother was completely distraught.
Now death is lingering around our neighborhood again. Just yesterday came an email from a husband telling me to tell the other neighbors about the wife's diagnosis. A non-smoker, she was diagnosed with lung cancer which has spread to her liver, spine, hip, and shoulder blade. Her children are 7 and 3. Her parents still live in Massachusetts.
There should be a law that no parent should bury a child. It's far too inhumane. You can see it on the faces of John Green, my friend's mother, and any other parent who has survived a child.
Mr. Gaelic sure knows how to rub it in. He's on a business trip to New York City and emailed me a picture he took from his hotel window. It's overlooking Times Square. Dammit all! Why am I not living in New York?
Many years ago at a parish retreat, there was an ice-breaker exercise. Using the entire ballroom as an imaginary map of the United States with one corner being Maine, another Florida, and so on, the priest told us to go stand, without talking to anyone except to question where they were, in the location that we would want to live if money were no object. I made my way up the east coast inquiring of people, "Where are you?"
"Newport, Rhode Island." "The eastern shore of Maryland." "Cape May, New Jersey." I finally placed myself where New York City would be and looked up to see Mr. Gaelic standing close by.
"Where are you?" I asked.
"New York. Where are you?"
"Me too."
Without conferring, we had both ended up at the same place.
I should have gone back to the paid workforce years ago. In the eight days since I began working, I've lost three pounds. No exercising. No dieting. Just working.
My theory: There's no kitchen to walk through and nosh all day. There's no snack time for me when the kids get home from school. There's no drive-thru Mickey D's, either. Which was, is, and (hopefully not always) will be my downfall.
There were about 30 emails on my office computer this morning. About the Tuscon shooting. And safety. Although Congress wasn't in session today, there was a gathering on the east front for a moment of silence for the Arizona victims.
The Sergent at Arms and the Capitol Police sent information on personal safety that included how to avoid a terrorist roadblock while driving, how to avoid being boxed in while driving, and how to alert the police if someone acting abnormally comes into your office. In addition to safety briefings, we were given hoods to be worn in case of chemical, biological, or nuclear attacks. We received two one-way alert radios connected directly to the Capitol Police. And two shelter-in-place packs the size of large carry-on bags.
Where do you draw the line between accessibility and safety? Where do we set the gauges on any spectrum? And whom do we trust?
Salmaan Taseer couldn't even trust his own guard.
In actuality it may have been only a week since the last menu plan was posted. It feels like two weeks. In the intervening seven days, my first experience in the paid workforce in many years began; my boss was sworn in as a freshman Member of Congress; another congressman and a senator both called me by name and hugged me in front of my coworkers; and I met another congressman who went to high school with my brother-in-law. Additionally, my New Year’s Resolution of cutting back on fast food for lunch is intact. And finally, a congresswoman from Arizona was shot at an official public event which killed at least one of her staffers.
Welcome to the life of a public servant.
The only rub is actually preparing a nutritious supper for the children, Mr. Gaelic, and me. The plan that I so diligently worked on last weekend in preparation for the first week on the job fell to pieces on Wednesday. Maybe working 52 hours this week had something to do with it. Wednesday and Thursday evenings ended up not with supper but with falling into bed two hours before my usual bedtime.
Lunches on the other hand ended up being much healthier than my usual fast food drive-thru. Truth be told, the plans for sack lunches fell apart Sunday evening when they weren’t prepared ahead of time. Instead, the cafeteria in my building has a variety of vegetables sides that end up being afterthoughts for most folks.
Here is this week’s plan.
- Monday
- Breakfast: oatmeal
- Lunch: cafeteria meal
- Supper: uhhhh…
- Tuesday
- Breakfast: cereal
- Lunch: cafeteria meal
- Supper: hmmm…
- Wednesday
- Breakfast: soft boiled eggs, toast
- Lunch: cafeteria meal
- Supper: to be determined…
- Thursday
- Breakfast: cream of wheat
- Lunch: cafeteria meal
- Supper: no earthly idea…
- Friday
- Breakfast: cinnamon toast
- Lunch: cafeteria meal
- Supper: pint of ice cream or popcorn???
- Saturday
- Breakfast: sausage, eggs, grits, toast
- Lunch: tomato soup, grilled cheese sandwiches
- Supper: let’s just stand in front of the freezer until something comes to mind
- Sunday
- Breakfast: waffles, sausage
- Dinner: roast chicken, carrots, green beans
- Supper: can we have tomato soup and grilled cheese again???
For those of you who may have been snowed by my pretense of organization, you can see from the week’s menu that I plan to focus my organizational skills, and finite amount of brain energy, on getting my boss’s schedule under control. After that, I’ll be back to organize my family’s meals.
You're all sworn to secrecy about what I'm going to tell you. The reason for the secrecy is also the reason you're reading this here on Blogspot rather than on the MSN site. My former blog is shuttered because of a stalker. Bear with me in my cryptic ways of blogging. It's for safety reasons.
Last month, after taking time away from the paid workforce to raise my children, I accepted a job with an incoming Member of C0ngress* from my home state. One of my blogs described the journey to this job. During the first week in the office, my boss was interviewed for one of the three major nightly news programs. In the segment was a very quick shot of me at work at my desk while his press secretary stood beside my chair. We were in the background as he was moving some things into the office. It's around the ten minute mark in the video.
My apologies for not explicitly saying my boss's name or home state. Please understand my need for a bit of privacy. Even by posting the past few blogs, my fear is that someone can still piece together too much information. Now for the consequences.
Please, please, please, if you have figured out all (even with my cryptic writing), keep it to yourself. If my stalker ever discovers this site, it too will be taken down.
*Purposefully typed wrong to throw off search engines.
Since there was more than one request for a link to the video that I mentioned on Wednesday, here is the video. Look closely. I'm not on camera that long.
What are you making for supper tonight?
Reservations!
Ahhhhhhhhh..............
Did you see me on TV last night and tonight? It was very short. In the background shot of my boss. On one of the national nightly news programs.
What? You didn't TiVo the news?
As I said, very short. Just like this blog.
The skirt from today's suit has a leather-edged zipper in back that zips from both ends. One continuous zipper with a half inch of black leather on either side. To make a kick-pleat, pull the zipper up from the bottom hem as high as desired.
Today's kick-pleat couldn't be too high because of my stockings. Yes, real honest-to-God stockings. With lace at the top around the top of my thighs. Too much of an unzipped kick-pleat and the lace tops peek through.
Bending over to retrieve a pencil that fell from behind my ear, the zipper decided on its own to take that opportunity to slide itself all the way up. My skirt began to slide forward from my hips.
It's amazing how fast a person can stand up and turn around! My hands quickly found the wayward zipper and slid it back to kick-pleat length while my eyes gazed around the room to see if anyone noticed my impromptu mooning.
As Shooter Jennings would sing, "Get outta that skirt, but leave them high heels on." Oh, dear!
We pulled away from the house this morning at 7:40 a.m. and returned at 8:35 p.m. You've got to be kidding me! Five days a week, 48 weeks a year, for the next 13 years? Lunch was eaten at my desk all the while still working. This is insane! Granted, we had to go straight from work to pick up Maeve from her ballet class. But still. Mondays will be long days.
Tomorrow Mr. Gaelic has to be at his office at 7:45 a.m. We'll probably leave around 7:15. No ballet, so we'll be home by 6:45 p.m. Then the schedule gets better with "normal" hours of leaving around 8:00 a.m. and returning around 6:45.
Eleven, twelve, thirteen hour days are the norm for people who work on Capitol Hill. Once, in my first incarnation on the Hill, I was still in the office at 11:00 p.m. At Mr. Gaelic's present office, he has even had days that lasted until 1:30 a.m. Yes, that's almost an 18-hour day.
God, it feels great to be back where I started!
Now that my dirty little secret isn't so secret anymore, perhaps the menu plans will include lunch. My dirty little secret? Fast-food drive-thru for lunch. As a full-time mother for the last 15 years, I fell into the habit of eating fast food while out running errands. Eating in the car between stops meant more efficiency. But at the expense of my waistline, and maybe my health.
Starting an office job tomorrow means either taking my lunch or eating in the cafeteria. At least for the first week. Mr. Gaelic suggested getting away from the office for lunch. It's good to have a change of scenery.
So, for Laoch and Gail, here is an attempt at eating a clean lunch.
- Monday
- Breakfast: cream of wheat
- Lunch: ham and Swiss on sourdough, chips, apple, 2 chocolate pieces
- Supper: chef's surprise (Finola is still home from college and will cook)
- Tuesday
- Breakfast: cereal
- Lunch: turkey and provolone on spelt, chips, clementine, 2 chocolate pieces
- Supper: beef Stroganov (Deirdre's specialty since she will cook)
- Wednesday
- Breakfast: soft boiled eggs, toast
- Lunch: office reception (it's Swearing-In day for the 112th Congress)
- Supper: kidney beans, fried okra, kale
- Thursday
- Breakfast: oatmeal
- Lunch: ham and Swiss on spelt, chips, banana, 2 chocolate pieces
- Supper: vegetable soup, homemade bread (probably overly ambitious but we'll see)
- Friday
- Breakfast: cinnamon toast
- Lunch: turkey and provolone on sourdough, chips, apple, 2 chocolate pieces
- Supper: dinner out to celebrate the first week on the job
- Saturday
- Breakfast: sausage, eggs, grits, toast
- Lunch: leftover soup
- Supper: steak, baked potato
- Sunday
- Breakfast: waffles, sausage
- Dinner: chicken 'n' dumplin's, broccoli, carrots
- Supper: PB&J sandwiches, chips
I need to work on a side for my lunches. Easing back into making lunches means only thinking about the mains for now, which are still sandwiches at this uncreative point. The two chocolate pieces? Mr. Gaelic gave me two boxes of Godiva chocolates for Christmas. The boxes are still unopened. They will be my dessert in my sack lunch.
Truth be told, I have mixed emotions about my new job. I'm excited to be back in the political world of Capitol Hill. At the same time, I'm anxious about the logistics of latch-key kids, wholesome suppers, and running errands. Heaven help me.
Almighty God, whose Son Jesus Christ in his earthly life
shared our toil and hallowed our labor: Be present with
thy people where they work; make those who carry on
the industries and commerce of this land responsive to thy
will; and give to us all a pride in what we do, and a just
return for our labor; through Jesus Christ our Lord, who
liveth and reigneth with you, in the unity of the Holy Spirit,
one God, now and for ever. Amen. (BCP, p. 208)
It's been said that simply having children doesn't make one a mother. Sometimes the mothering is done in the presence of one's own children but not necessarily towards them.
When Mr. Gaelic and I decided to allow Deirdre to host a New Year's Eve party at our house while we were at another party, we had our reservations. But we wanted to give her the opportunity to show us how much she's matured over the last year. Or to fail miserably and learn from her mistakes.
After the talent show at the other party, Mr. G and I headed back to our house. Suspicion was high when we heard Maeve in the back seat speaking into her cupped hand holding her cell phone, telling whomever was on the other end that we were on the way home and were presently at the corner of Such-and-such Street and This-and-that Road.
Instead of changing into casual clothes and walking down the street to watch the fireworks, we camped out in our bedroom and watched to see if anyone was going outside for anything illicit. Sure enough, there were four boys in the garage, smoking cigarettes and climbing on Mr. G's motorcycle. At 6'5", when he moseyed outside and told the boy to get off the bike, the cigarettes went out faster than the boy got his leg over the seat. The high school kids don't call Mr. G the Terminator for nothing.
While Mr. G was doing the tough dad thing, I was on my knees in front of another boy who had made the mistake of going to another teen party which had been busted up earlier. He somehow made his way to Deirdre's party. Already intoxicated. Three-sheets-to-the-wind intoxicated. Deirdre sat beside him while I asked him if he knew who I was. "You're Didi's mom." I asked if he knew where he was. "At Didi's."
"Can you drink something?"
"Yes."
"Take these two Tylenol and drink this water."
When another boy's mother showed up to drive her son and the intoxicated boy home, it was imperative that she knew what had happened. Although my thoughts were the same as hers, I didn't voice them. "You really messed up," wasn't something that he needed to hear right then. With a hangover, he'd know it. And he can always be told later, when he might actually remember hearing it.
Dierdre did an okay job for hosting her first party. She could have done better. She also could have done much worse. Mr. G and I debriefed her after everyone had left and told her as much. She acknowledged that and apologized profusely for not being able to stop the intoxicated boy from showing up and for not being able to stop the boys in the garage from smoking.
The lesson she learned was that, even though we don't approve of certain activities by teenagers, we're not going to berate them or throw them out when they are in need of a caring adult. Her thanks to us for helping with the intoxicated boy were sincere.
My lesson came when she told me during the debriefing that the intoxicated boy was the same one who was in the hospital two weeks prior from attempted suicide. His parents had abandoned him and both blamed him for their problems. My lesson was that I must parent any child in need. Not just the ones that I birthed.
Every year at this time people decide to make their New Year's resolutions. A lot are too ambitious. "I'm going to run in a marathon every month." A lot are too vague. "I'm going to lose weight." Some are un-doable. "I'm giving up homework."
Every year my gym is flooded with new resolutionaries from January through March. March seems to be when most people give up their New Year's resolution to get in shape, lose weight, and go to the gym every day. Come March, there is no longer a wait for the treadmills.
This year, I'm doing the opposite. My gym membership was one of the first things to go when a job offer came my way. Until I have a better grasp on what my schedule will be like, there was no sense in paying a monthly membership. And besides, once the weather improves (I'm such a weather wimp when it comes to exercising outside), the National Mall from the Capitol to the Washington Monument between the Smithsonian museum buildings will be my treadmill.
This year's resolution will be something more attainable. Once, after posting the weekly menu, Laoch asked me why I never included lunch on the menu plan. The kids eat at school and Mr. Gaelic eats at work. He likes to get out of his office for a while and doesn't take his lunch for that reason. What I didn't tell Laoch was that I eat on the run. My lunch is usually a fast-food drive-thru. For all my cooking clean at the house, I eat trash for lunch.
But this year! This year, with the help of a full-time office job, I resolve to eat fast-food no more than three times a week. It helps that there is a cafeteria in the office building.
Now, if only it were that easy for Mr. G. He resolved to exercise at least 30 minutes once a week. He can always lace up his running shoes and meet me halfway on the Mall. Yes? We'll see.
Mr. Gaelic and I had a fight the other day. About the laundry. For more years than I can count, I have been the washerwoman for our family. Until the girls each turned 12, at which point they were responsible for their own laundry. But I still do the household linens and Mr. G's and my laundry.
Sometimes Mr. G helps with the laundry. He does a terrific job of sorting the laundry, most of the time. He knows which things go in the dryer and which need to be hung to dry, most of the time. He even folds the laundry when it's dry.
It's the folding that brought about the fight.
As I fold the laundry, I make sure that everything is neatly folded and placed in the proper place so that when it's time to pull on something there is no thinking about it. Mr. G, on the other hand, doesn't turn items right-side out. When the laundry come back to our room, I must then refold the majority of my clothes while his are ready for the drawers.
Trivial, I know. But it's usually the trivial things that bug us and get under our skin and add up until we (people in general) really can suffer it no longer. That usually leads either to keeping it bottled up and leading to resentment or lashing out at the other person with a scorecard of grievances.
In our case, I did neither. I quietly told Mr. G that there was something bothering me that I wanted to talk to him about and asked when we could discuss it. We pulled two chairs to face each other and I began explaining in a normal voice what was bugging me. After every statement, he told me what he heard me say so that I was sure he understood me. I told him how his actions made me feel and asked him if he could come up with a solution. Again, he mirrored my words and expressed how he didn't mean for his actions (or inaction in this instance) to upset me. He offered his own solution that I found acceptable.
And that was our fight.
No yelling, no nagging, no hurt feelings, no resentment, no stewing, no slamming doors, no stomping out of the room. Nothing. Except a big bear hug after it was over. We should fight more often.
There are seven of them each, seven virtues, seven vices. In case anyone needs a reminder, they are Chastity, Temperance, Charity, Diligence, Patience, Kindness, and Humility. And Lust, Gluttony, Greed, Sloth, Wrath, Envy, and Pride. I know which ones I deal with on a weekly basis -- Lust, Gluttony, Greed, Sloth, Envy, and Pride. Wrath I'm not bothered by, unless someone lays a hurtful finger on one of my children. Then that person will have to deal with the Wrath of Gaelic. Other than that, it's just the other six I'm guilty of.
I have no virtues. Only vices. All seven of the virtues are quite arduous for me. I should be more diligent about them. But then I wouldn't be able to boast of having absolutely no virtues at all. See, pride is my biggest vice!
A man after my own heart, or finger, has come to my rescue. He knows that all women need to be reminded of their worst vices. And in a way that is right in front of women all the time. As rings on our fingers. The problem is the way he depicts Pride. Not my favorite vice anymore. Looking at Stephen Webster's renditions of the Seven Deadly Vices, I think my new worst vice is Envy. No, make that Wrath. No, make it Lust. Oh, hell, I'll take all Seven of the Deadly Virtues, I mean Vices.
After a successful trip for haircuts, seeing Mom's new office was a highlight of the day. Unfortunately, it was locked. Why waste a good visit to a House Office Building without paying a visit to the House ID Office.
The man at the desk was so helpful. After checking my driver's license and recording who was taking the forms, he simply gave me the ID forms to be completed for the Congressman, his wife and adult children, and the office staff. He was friendly and talked to Deirdre about college selection. And who says government workers aren't helpful? In fact, everyone we encountered on the Hill today was exceedingly helpful and friendly.
So the next time that you hear someone degrade civil servants, the government, or the folks on Capitol Hill, just tell them that you know someone who works there who just happens to be the nicest person. And politely ask them to take it back, for my sake.
That does it! I refuse to celebrate Christmas ever again. Either that or I’m going to become a hermit.
The week after Christmas is the annual neighborhood “Regifting Party”. Basically a White Elephant party. A way to trade in (and up?) that chartreuse sweater from Great Aunt Erma.
Before I put my foot down a few years ago, the Regifting Party was fun because of all the extended-family gifts. Back then, the extended family of siblings-in-law, cousins, nieces, and nephews would exchange presents. The problem is that the exchanging of gifts was done out of obligation rather than desire. When people that you’re not close to give you gifts, they don’t always work out. Because how would our relations, who are scattered all over the country, know enough about us to buy something that really meant something to us? We rarely hear from them.
Now they get Christmas cards only. But the kids’ only surviving grandparent still sends a check in early December for me (usually) to buy something for the girls from her since she doesn’t “know what they need” as she says. I don’t mind doing it. But I imagine when she reads her thank you notes from the girls that she’s as surprised as they are to what she gave them.
This year after all the presents were opened and we sat around the living room amid hills of wrapping paper, one of the girls commented that the gifts this year really came from the heart. My gifts from Santa, Finola, and Deirdre all made me cry. (Which is why I won’t celebrate Christmas again. They’re getting too good at making me cry.)
This year, no one asked for anything. No one wrote out lists of Christmas wishes. Each of us in the family had to think about what made the others what we are. Our likes, our needs, our wants.
And they all hit the bull’s eye.
Which means that we have absolutely nothing to take to the Regifting Party. Anybody got any soap-on-a-rope?
Existentialists, hedonists, skeptics, stoics, epicureans! Finola and Mr. Gaelic are talking philosophers as I'm thinking food. Funny that one of my favorite foodie websites is Epicurious.
Christmas Day is over, but the Christmas season has only just begun. And already the planning is underway for two more holidays quick on Christmas's heels. And just as with Christmas, both of the upcoming holidays have their own set Gaelic-family menu. The holidays? New Year's and Epiphany.
When the kids were young, I would cook a private restaurant-quality dinner for Mr. G and me to have after the kids went to bed. Now teenagers, they stay up later than we do. And get invited to New Year's Eve parties.
- Monday
- Breakfast: cream of wheat
- Supper: pinto beans, okra, rice pilaf
- Tuesday
- Breakfast: pancakes, sausage
- Supper: pork chops, mashed potatoes, green beans
- Wednesday
- Breakfast: soft boiled eggs, toast
- Supper: vegetable soup, homemade bread
- Thursday
- Breakfast: oatmeal
- Supper: tacos, refried beans (use leftover pintos)
- Friday
- Breakfast: cinnamon toast
- Supper: dinner out at New Year's Eve party (family friends so our kids know their kids)
- Saturday
- Brunch: friend's New Year's Day party
- Dinner: neighbor's New Year's Day party
- Supper: ham steak, black eyed peas, collards (traditional Southern New Year's Day feast)
- Sunday
- Breakfast: bacon, eggs, grits, toast
- Dinner: roast chicken, quinoa, pumpkin
Epiphany is next week. Another week to plan. Even though I already know what will be on the menu on the 6th. You, on the other hand, will have to check back next week to find out.
Merry Christmas! Turn on your speakers, go to full screen, and click here for the story of Christmas.
If you’re my friend in real life, you probably know that when it comes to politics I’m Russia – a riddle, wrapped in a mystery, inside an enigma. You also know that although I call myself a [insert political party], I have voted for both parties.
If the past is prologue, then I am back where I began.
It all began on the Senate side of Capitol Hill working for a [insert political party]. My hometown Congressman hired me away from the Senator after less than a year in DC. After I left the Hill to work as a lobbyist, the Senator switched parties. As I noted to my other lobbyists, switching parties didn’t change the way he voted. It was probably all those breakfasts at the White House with the President who was a [insert other political party].
Now that my children are older and Finola is attending a private Ivy League college, going back to paid employment was in the game plan. My life as a scheduler will begin the first Monday in January. The Congressman is a [insert other political party].
The circle is now complete. Come January, I will have worked on both sides of the Capitol and both sides of the aisle. As with any job, there are pros and cons. The pros definitely outweigh the cons. Cue the Stones.
Match Game was a hilarious show. It still is, even in reruns. The panel just wouldn't be the same without Brett Somers, Charles Nelson Reilly, Richard Dawson, Nipsey Russell, and the dumb blonde at the end of the bottom row. It was always a dumb blonde, always female, but not necessarily with blonde hair.
Gene Rayburn had the best time with audience participation in asking the panel questions that went like this. "Dumb Dora is so dumb," At which point the audience would yell back in unison, "How dumb is she?" Gene would smile and laugh like it was the first time that happened. Then he would complete the question to the panel, "Dumb Dora is so dumb, she tried to BLANK her birthday cake."
Recently in telling a friend about my new job, I said that I was already working on the job without being on the payroll yet. My new job as the scheduler to a freshman Member of Congress begins on 3 January. The 5th is the Swearing In ceremony. But people already are requesting appointments with the new Congressman. People who will be in town specifically for the Swearing In and the celebrations that follow. So work I must. Because he has to have his schedule worked out for that first week.
I told my friend that is the reason I was hired. Because I'm good at what I do. "Really gooooood," were my exact words.
Which made me feel like Gene Rayburn with some audience that should be yelling back, "How good are you?"
And once again, we are five. Finola arrived home from college. She's home. Home! And this is her room, and we're all here. And she's gonna be with us for a while, because she loves us, and we love her, and -- oh, Auntie Em -- there's no place like home!
In getting ready for the coming Christmas season, I stumbled upon this. It may not be quite what the doctor ordered.
If you're going to be sick, it's better to be sick the week before Christmas than during Christmas. That's what I'm telling myself.
Deirdre brought home a cold. She gave it to Maeve. Maeve gave it to me. I told Deirdre I want to give it back to her. "Read your receipt. No returns," she retorted. But having a head cold complete with stuffy ears means mis-hearing things.
Maeve: "What is a..l...mo..?"
Me: "Did you say a la mode or Alamo?"
Deirdre: "We're at h....st..."
Me: "Did you say holly stand or Hollister?"
Mr. G: "Can you put the s....... away?"
Me: "Did you say syrup or sex?"
I should have been able to guess with Mr. G's comment. We had pancakes for breakfast.
This will be a busy week in the Gaelic household. Finola returns from college late Tuesday night. There is a party at a neighbor's house on Christmas Eve afternoon from 3:00 to 5:00 for kids and adults. Deirdre and Maeve are acolyting at the 11:00 p.m. Christmas Eve service. That means that Saturday is Christmas.
For as long as I can remember Christmas Eve supper was always spaghetti. Probably because my mama didn't want to have to spend a whole lot of time in the kitchen if she was going to be cooking a big meal the next day. That tradition is being instilled in my children. There were exceptions to the spaghetti rule. For a while we would alternate hosting Christmas Eve supper with friends. Our years to host, I would give a nod to the wife's Italian heritage and make a pasta with seven types of seafood. Still the pasta from my childhood, but the more traditional Italian Christmas Eve flavor. On our off years, my donation would be a homemade panettone.
Here are this week's menus:
- Monday
- Breakfast: grapefruit, toast
- Supper: butternut squash soup (leftover from last week), fresh baked bread
- Tuesday
- Breakfast: cereal
- Supper: chili with assorted toppings, rice
- Wednesday
- Breakfast: bagels, creme cheese
- Supper: potluck (to clean out the fridge)
- Thursday
- Breakfast: oatmeal
- Supper: potluck (to finish cleaning out fridge) or delivered pizza
- Friday
- Breakfast: cinnamon toast
- Supper: spaghetti
- Saturday
- Breakfast: waffles, sausage links
- Dinner: standing rib roast, red wine sauce, horseradish sauce, Yorkshire pudding, mashed root vegetables, Brussels sprouts, congealed salad, steamed pudding with hard sauce
- Sunday
- Breakfast: cream of wheat
- Supper: shepherd's pie (use leftover root vegetables as topping)
Christmas dinner may sound like a lot of work. It's the same menu from year to year. After 20 years of cooking holiday meals by myself, by this time I can do it in my sleep. Sort of like every other holiday with their own constant but individual menus.
When Mr. Gaelic and I bought our Christmas tree today, there was still snow on the branches from earlier this week. Yes, it's only seven days until Christmas. No, we weren't too busy to get one before now. It was on purpose. Waiting until Advent is over before we begin celebrating Christmas. Advent ends tomorrow.
Next year, we'll be buying our tree from a cut-it-yourself tree farm. The church where we usually buy our tree sold out yesterday. The garden center where we purchased this year's tree only had a handful left. The salesman at the garden center told us that they don't get fresh shipments during December; they get one shipment of trees just before Thanksgiving since people want to decorate after the turkey and leftovers are in the fridge.
If I had it to do over again, I would institute some changes in our house. Santa would visit on December 6th, the feast of Saint Nicholas, Bishop of Myra. He's the saint that "evolved" into Santa Claus. December 25th would be a religious celebration of the Nativity of Our Lord and not a celebration of commercialization. Adults would exchange gifts on New Year's Day as they did in Medieval and Renaissance times.
I already buck one trend. There is no Easter Bunny.
During Lent, which begins on Ash Wednesday, everyone in the family gives up something. During those 40 days, we put whatever we have given up in our Easter baskets. Whether it is Starbucks, chocolate, or scotch, when we are tempted to partake during Lent, we put it in the basket. For things like scotch or Starbucks, we put in either a new bottle of single malt or a gift card for lattes.
When Easter rolls around, we can break our fast of what was given up. But it's a more meaningful symbol of sacrifice if we can see it every day on the dining room table. After all, that's part of the meaning of Easter -- sacrifice (Good Friday) and resurrection (Easter).
How did I get on Easter? Oh, yeah, before we forsake Him on Good Friday we have to birth the Baby. Now, if only I could just turn back the clock a few years and have the kids' stockings filled two weeks after Thanksgiving by that almost-forgotten bishop . . .
Have you ever worked and worked at something? Trying to get it right. Whether it’s a lay-up on the basketball court and putting some English on your backhand. You practice it over and over trying to condition the muscle memory.
For several months, my routine at the gym has been: 20-30 minutes of interval training on the treadmill, 10 minutes on the rowing machine, 3 sets of free weights (alternating upper body, lower body, and abs), then 15 minutes practicing my ballet turns before ending with a long stretching session. For just as many months, my excuse for not completing the turns crisply was either being too tired or being too rushed or having a stuffy nose and ears (inner ear disturbances through off your balance). They are just excuses. Because I wasn’t finishing the turns with technical accuracy. But then yesterday . . .
Nailed it! [Happy dance] Wow! You should have been there. It was an awesome feat. I was able to stick my tour jeté. That was the Best. Feeling. Ever.
I may never again be able to nail it like that. And I may not do much walking today. Too many celebratory pirouettes across the basketball court.
It was bound to happen.
A man wants to go to a bar with his friends and stays a little longer than he should. He knows that if he calls his girlfriend/wife/significant other that she'll be mad at him for going to a bar. He needs an alibi. His friends will cover for him. But if he whips out his cell phone in the middle of the bar, she'll know where he is and still be mad at him. It's too cold/rainy/crowded to step outside to call.
What is the poor chap to do? How can he convince her that he's not at a bar?
Enter the Teletransporter. Yes, it's a real thing.
It's a soundproof booth from which he can make a most convincing call. There are different sound scenarios to play while he calls her. There's only one catch. The only ones available so far are in Argentina. That's quite a ways to go for a beer with your friends just to have a cover with the Teletransporter.
I don't watch TV. There are exceptions to that rule, such as the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade (gotta see the Rockettes), some sporting events (depending on how my teams are doing), and all of the Charlie Brown holiday shows. Most TV shows that I've seen are shown via the computer, either Hulu, YouTube, or straight from the show's website.
Although there's one show that I did want to watch last year, even though most of that viewing was after the televised time and viewed directly from the show's website. "Who Do You Think You Are?" It's coming back this fall with more stories of family roots. Learning about celebrities' family trees can be entertaining, but I watch the show for clues of how to search for my own family.
At what point is my research complete? It probably will never be complete. There will always be the proverbial brick wall of an ancestor that I will swear was dropped off by aliens. It's been said that our dead are never dead to us until we have forgotten them. My children know me; hopefully I'll be around for my grandchildren to know me. Two hundred years from now, I hope one of my descendants will have a genealogical chart where I am listed. And possibly know where my grave is and place flowers on it in my memory and in thanksgiving that, without me, that man or woman would not be standing there. Much as I have done at countless graves of my ancestors.
