Don't Stand So Close to Me

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?

Ask Me How I Lost 10 Pounds in 10 Minutes!

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.

Giving You The Finger (Update)

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.

Weather Report

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.

How To Limp Dangerously

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.

Ice Ice Gaelic

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.

Breast Be the Tie that Binds

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.

Bring It On

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.

A Scheduler's Work is Never Done

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.

Here We Go Again

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.

On the Avenue I'm Takin' You To . . .

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.

And Now For Something Completely Different

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. 

How Far Is It from Tuscon to Punjab?

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.

Menu Plan: January 10 - January 16

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.

Truth or Consequences

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.

Twofer; or, Update to Hi Mom

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.

That Was Easy

What are you making for supper tonight?

Reservations!

Ahhhhhhhhh..............

Hi Mom!

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.

Leave Them High Heels On

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!

Is It Friday Yet?

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!

Menu Plan: January 3 - January 9

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)

The New Year's Child

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.

The Resolutionary

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.

Fight Club, Gaelic Style

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.

Seven Deadly Virtues

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.

On the Fourth Day of Christmas

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.

The Ghost of Christmas Regifting

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?

Menu Plan: December 27 - January 2

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.

An Artistic Christmas

Merry Christmas!  Turn on your speakers, go to full screen, and click here for the story of Christmas.

Winding Down and Catching Up

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.

How Good Are You?

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?"

The Wizard of Ahhhhs

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!

Merry (Postmodern) Christmas

In getting ready for the coming Christmas season, I stumbled upon this.  It may not be quite what the doctor ordered.

What Did You Say?

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.

Menu Plan: December 20 - December 26

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.

The (Holiday) Time Machine

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 . . . 

One Good Turn

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.

No, Really, Honey, I'm at Karate Class

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 Know Who I Am

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.

Ode on a Sensuous Leg

Oh, to have my legs caressed with a special softness! To feel them wrapped snugly in a warmth that envelopes them entirely. All at once. From my lacquered red toes to the top of my ballet-toned thighs. Front and back and all around. A kind of softness that makes people want to rub their hands all over my legs.

I’ve only felt such a luxurious touch once in my life. And that feeling was so fleeting but also was so memorable that it etched itself forever on my soul.

Now my greed, envy, and lust want it again. My legs desire nothing more. Just to be swathed during the winter in nothing less than cashmere stockings.

But I’m not picky. If you can’t find cashmere stockings, I’ll take cashmere tights or hold-ups as well.

Of This I Am Certain

ATTENTION:  IF UNDER THE AGE OF 18, CLICK HERE.



Now that we've got the kids out of the way, let's talk about Santa Claus.

Do you remember when you were a child at Christmas?  You couldn't wait for Christmas.  Do you remember staying up to see Santa but always falling asleep?  He never came when you were awake.  Even when you weren't sure whether Santa was real or not, you still made a list for him.

During yesterday's sermon, the priest made a comment that I had never heard before.  "The opposite of faith isn't doubt; it's certainty."

He wasn't talking about Santa Claus, of course.

Menu Plan: December 13 - December 19

Almost 200 pounds!  That's how much meat was stuffed into the freezer this past week.  In the long saga of the meat co-op, the last possible pick-up time until next spring was last Wednesday.  My order included a quarter of a cow and a half of a hog.

In reorganizing the freezer, there was a treasure trove of some of the richest homemade stocks you've ever laid eyes on.  They lay forgotten underneath more recent additions of puppy pops (doggie ice cream), frozen yogurt, and Phish Food.  Part of the reorganization included making a detailed list of everything in the freezer and the numbers of same items. 

With the discovery of liquid gold, this week will see more soups on the menu.  Even though stock freezes well, it should not sit at the bottom of the freezer never to see the bottom of a soup pot.  And with that, I give you this week's menus.

• Monday
• Breakfast:  bagels, cream cheese
• Supper:  peanut soup, millet bread
• Tuesday
• Breakfast:  cereal
• Supper:  pinto beans, corn pudding, fried okra, cornbread
• Wednesday
• Breakfast:  cereal (again since Mr. Gaelic is catching an early flight to Chicago for business)
• Supper:  butternut squash soup with bleu cheese, fresh baked bread
• Thursday
• Breakfast:  cream of wheat
• Supper:  potluck
• Friday
• Breakfast:  grapefruit, toast
• Supper:  date night (both girls are babysitting)
• Saturday
• Breakfast:  bacon, eggs, grits, toast
• Supper:  pizza for girls, Winter Solstice Party with Boat Burning for Mr. G and I (yes, a real Viking tradition)
• Sunday
• Breakfast:  pancakes, sausage links
• Dinner:  pork chops, mashed potatoes, green beans

Our friends, who are Jewish, are having their annual Winter Solstice Party where they burn a boat, just like the husband's ancestors.  Jewish Vikings???  No.  He converted to Judaism for his wife.

256 Shades of Me

Contradictions in my life are a norm.  Usually because society today tends to only see things in black and white, although there are many shades of grey.  Take, for example, some of my liberal opinions.

1. I believe there should be no Ten Commandments on courthouse squares or behind judges' benches and there should be no Bible to swear on before a jury.
2. The Church should not be authorized by the State to perform legally binding marriage rites.
3. Stores should not decorate for Christmas.

I'm a radical, aren't I?

But once people learn my conservative beliefs behind my leftist opinions, they get a clearer picture.

1. I am a Christian.  At some point there may be a Hindu or Muslim or Wiccan judge who wants to post some of their religious writings behind the bench.  I don't want to see that in a courtroom or on the courthouse square.  I don't want to have to swear on some Wiccan book before a jury.  To prevent that from happening, no one should be allowed to have anything.
2. Too many churches are already performing same-sex ceremonies.  In wanting to welcome all of God's children, these churches are ignoring the Biblical purpose of marriage.  There should be two marriage ceremonies, the legal one performed by the State and the religious one performed by the Church.  Those who want only the legally binding contract of a marriage certificate would see a probate judge or his representative.  Those who want to live in the Biblically-sanctioned institution of marriage would also have a marriage rite in the Church.
3. Christmas is religious holy day, not a time to make money for stores.  As a Christian, I don't celebrate Hanukkah or Passover (although I have been invited to Seders and Shabbat dinners).  Seeing non-Christians, or worse former Christians who now claim to be atheists, decorating a tree and going carolling doesn't celebrate Jesus's birth.  Why not only sell Christmas trees at churches on Sundays (or Saturday evenings if there's a service then) to parishioners?  You want to celebrate Christmas?  Go to church!

Do I still sound like a leftist? 

I don't believe we can legislate or force our religious views and morality onto others.  We tried that once.  It didn't work.  (See the 18th and 21st Amendments to the Constitution.)  As much as we may dislike being a melting pot of religions and races and beliefs, having a majority Christian population (for now) should not give us license to inflict our beliefs on minority populations (who might become majority populations in the future and want to inflict their beliefs on us).

According to a paraphrase of Winston Churchill, I am Russia.  I am a riddle, wrapped in a mystery, inside an enigma.  However, with that quote, now everyone will be seeing red and calling me a Pinko Socialist Commie rather than seeing all of my shades of grey.

Saint Gaelic

I just realized that when something is bugging me I don't/can't wait until the next day to blog about it (if I've already posted one today).

Take today for instance.  For the past three nights Mr. Gaelic and I have been called saints by several parents.  The latest ordeal began last Saturday night when Dierdre and her two friends Alice and Lori were planning on spending the night at Lori's house.  They were all downtown with their boyfriends before they were to head back to Lori's when they ran into another friend, Jordan.

Jordan is a very petite blonde who was adopted from Russia by a single mother.  There has always been some sort of drama surrounding Jordan and her mom.  The biggest was last summer when Jordan ran away and moved in with a boyfriend several years her senior.  Two other mothers became involved before Jordan was returned to her own mother.

Last Saturday, Jordan told the three girls that her mother had said it was alright for her to sleep over at Lori's too.  Lori's mom asked Jordan if it was okay when all the girls showed up.

On Sunday while Mr. Gaelic and I were sitting in church, my cellphone rang.  We had left Maeve at home because she was tired from babysitting the night before.  I didn't answer my phone but shoved it deeper into my purse to muffle it.  Turns out that the police were at my house and wanted Maeve to call us.

Jordan's mom had called in a missing person's report on her.  The police had gone to all the places that she had been known to go.  Apparently they hit our house before hitting Lori's house.  That's where they found her.

Deirdre and Alice, who returned from the sleepover just after I arrived home, were telling me the whole story (which, believe it or not, I've shortened here) when the police pulled up in front of my house again.  This time Jordan got out of the cruiser and walked to our door and the police drove away.  No how-do-you-do, no nothin' from the police.

Jordan and her mom needed a cooling off period.  It was agreed that Jordan would stay with Alice for two nights and with us for three nights.  Mr. Gaelic talked to her about what her plan was.  She had none.

Mr. Gaelic is the only male in her life.  Her mother is a never-married woman; Lori's father died 11 months ago; Alice found out about her father's affair before her mom did and he moved in with his much-younger girlfriend.  But Jordan needs more help than any of our skill sets allows.

In talking to her mom today for almost an hour, she and I decided that we would drive Jordan to her mom's house this evening.  I don't know whether Jordan will stay or leave again.  As much as I would like to help, she just can't stay here another night.  And I'm not about to turn her out on the street. 

This is what I was actually writing about the other day with the tractor-beam parents and the lighthouse parents.  I really have come to appreciate lighthouses.  They can be the saviors of many.  But still some ships are lost at sea.  I'm ready to hand back my sainthood.

My Chemical Addiction

Element: Redhead
Symbol: RH
Atomic Weight: Accepted as 118, but known to vary 105-175.
Discoverer: It's debatable, some say Adam, but we now know that only God could discover something so perfect!
Occurrence: Copious quantities in all Urban areas, with slightly lower concentrations in Suburban and Rural areas. Subject to seasonal fluctuations.

Physical Properties

1. Surface usually covered with minimal painted film. As a rule, not necessary.
2. Boils at everything, freezes without reason.
3. Melts if given special treatment.
4. Bitter if used incorrectly. Can cause headaches. Handle with care!
5. Found in various states; ranging from virgin metal to common ore.
6. Yields to pressure applied to correct points.

Chemical Properties

1. Has great affinity for Gold, Silver, Platinum and many precious stones.
2. Absorbs great quantities of expensive substances.
3. May explode spontaneously if left alone on dates.
4. Reactive in liquids, even more increased activity when saturated in alcohol.
5. Repels cheap material. Neutral to common sense.
6. Most powerful money-reducing agent known to Man.

Uses

1. Highly ornamental, especially in sports cars.
2. Can greatly improve hormonal levels.
3. Can warm and comfort under certain circumstances.
4. Incapable of cooling things down, when it's too hot.

Tests

1. Pure specimen turns rosy pink when discovered in natural state.
2. Turns green when placed beside a better specimen.

Caution

1. Highly dangerous except in experienced hands. Use extreme care when handling.
2. Illegal to possess more than one.

Good News, Bad News

I have some good news and some bad news.  Which do you want first?

The bad news is that I may not be able to blog as often as I would like to after the 3rd of January 2011.  The good news is that is the start date for my new job with the congressman-elect.  I was offered and accepted the position I wanted.  :)

She Comes from Alabama with a Resume on her Knee

For those of you who wished me luck in my job interview, you are the best!  My phone interview with the Chief of Staff went very well.  So well, in fact that in setting up a time for the interview through email exchanges, he remarked that given my previous experience he felt like he was walking into a BMW showroom.

Then came the interview with the Big Boss.  In all my life I have never had an interview with someone in his hotel room.  He invited Mr. Gaelic to come along; so I took him with me. 

We chatted.  I think I passed because while I was sitting there he called the Chief of Staff and told him that if he wanted to hire me to do it.  I think the job is mine.  We just have to make it official.

My professional life officially started while I was in law school in my home state of Alabama.  To help pay for tuition, I worked in the district office of one of the U.S. Senators from Alabama.  He offered me a position in his Washington office and I didn't look back.  Eight months after moving to DC, my hometown congressman wanted to hire me since I was from his district.  In total I was there seven years before moving "downtown" to a lobbying firm where I lobbied for medical education and medical research.

While pregnant with Maeve, our third child, I decided that I really wanted to be a full-time mother with my youngest and be there for all her milestones.  Which is what I've been for all these years now.

But now I'm headed back to work on Capitol Hill for a freshman Member of Congress from my home state.  I'm pretty sure the job is mine. 

All this is a way of letting you know more of who I am.  And also to explain that my blogging days will be numbered.  After January with the new Congress, I will not be posting updates on Facebook or uploading blogs here.  My time will belong to the constituents of the congressman's district, which incidentally is also my mother-in-law's district.

I will try to blog whenever I can.  I love and appreciate each and every one of you. 

Mrs. Gaelic, In the Living Room, With a Match

Tight opening shot of Mrs. Gaelic in front of the fireplace on her knees lighting kindling to start a fire.  Pull back to include Mr. Gaelic and Deirdre walking in living room.  Mrs. Gaelic looks exasperated, sits back on her heels, looks up at Mr. Gaelic.

MRS. GAELIC

Can you come do this for me, Mister Fire Starter?  You're so good at it.  I'm not good at starting fires.

MR. GAELIC

Sure.  [long pause with a deep thoughtful expression on his face]  Tu est très bon dans la chambre.

Deirdre walks up behind her father with a wrinkly nose.

DEIRDRE

Ewwwwww.  You made me take French.  I've had French.  That's gross.  I don't want to know that. 

Mrs. Gaelic is almost on all fours laughing so hard.

DEIRDRE

You can't do French.  You can't do Russian.  Forget about German.  You'll have to learn sign language.

MRS. GAELIC

I could do sign language for that too.

DEIRDRE

Yeah, right.

Out of Mr. Gaelic's line of sight, Mrs. Gaelic makes a sign which cannot be repeated on prime time blogs. 

DEIRDRE

Ewwww.

Both Mrs. Gaelic and Deirdre erupt into laughter. 

There's a Light, Over at the Gaelic's Place

A couple of years ago, the adult ed hour at our parish was led by a phenomenal woman who works as a chaplain at a local private school.  Her talk was about children and parents and relationships.

She said there are two types of parents -- tractor beam parents and lighthouse parents.  Remember the scene in Star Wars when the Millennium Falcon gets caught in the Death Star's tractor beam and pulled into the landing bay?  That's like a tractor beam parent. 

They are intent on making the child into what they think the child should be and do and learn and say and befriend.  They latch onto the child and draw that child into their ways, their beliefs.  The children aren't allowed to fully become their own person.

Now imagine a lighthouse.  What does a lighthouse do?  It stands on a craggy outcropping shining its light out into the darkness.  If a ship were to go toward the lighthouse, what would happen to the ship?  It would be destroyed on the rocks.  Ships see the light from the lighthouse and know that the light is leading them to safer waters, not drawing the ships toward danger.

Finola, who sat in on the discussion, claimed that she was the lighthouse to many of her friends.  She thought that being a lighthouse is a very tough position to be in as a teen among peers.  Perhaps she was born old, more mature.

Being a lighthouse parent is also a hard row to hoe.  We've tried to be lighthouses for our children.  Recently we've been shoved into the lighthouse role for Deirdre's friends.  I see the tractor beam of the other parents.  They want their children to be what they want the children to be.  And the children rebel in various and sundry ways, often reaching out to us "the cool parents".

We are no less strict than other parents.  We just know when to pick our battles and which battles are more important than others.  Parenting is a difficult and sometimes thankless job.  I am encouraged by the knowledge that my children's friends feel comfortable enough to seek refuge in the calmer water to which we can lead them. 

With time, perhaps the tractor beam parents and their rebellious children will learn to live with each other's differences.