Note to self, 1990's style: Do NOT grow hair out.... Before we get to this hideous hair photo and related memories in honor of the pending anniversary.... 

Note to self: The next time I text the wife to tell her I am in a "lock down" at work because there is an armed robbery going on across the street, I need to remember to text her when it is over so she doesn't think I've been shot and murdered. I totally forgot about texting her back. I was so engrossed in watching the whole thing--SWAT team and all--that when it was over, I just went on my merry way, back to work, yipping about what transpired outside our window. 

We were all fine, thank you for asking, in no apparent danger that I could tell, although...those big ass guns the SWAT team was toting around did make me nervous. FYI: It was a dry cleaner getting robbed. I wanted to yell: "Hey dip-shit! You're right down the street from the Police Station and no one gets their clothes dry cleaned any more!" But, I kept my mouth shut. I let the police do the talking. 

I am sorry to say that despite the overwhelming police presence, the guy got away. I'm just glad he ran somewhere besides to our building. 

Note to self, number 2: The next time I decide to grow my hair out, I am going to go get this photo and remember why I should NEVER grow my hair out again. Oh dear. This photo is from the mid-to-later 1990's, taken in Province town, Massachusetts. For some reason, I let my hair grow relatively long (actually, very long for me). I must have gotten sick of having short hair or maybe I had a head injury during a softball game and decided that long hair was a good idea or maybe I was delirious in a psychotic funk and heard voices telling me to grow my hair long. I'm not sure which is the worst part of the whole hair disaster: the luscious widow's peak; the frizzy -licious-ness; or, the overall look. I think it's the overall look that takes the cake. 

This photo above represents the "Going East til we can't go east anymore" road trip we took--to this day, I don't know how I talked the wife into it, as she hates riding in cars. I must have promised her we would stop at various shopping malls along the way. Anyways, as we are nerds who enjoy visiting college campuses, we stopped at FIVE campuses in one day. Awesome! Five campuses, one bad hair idea. Works for me. I liked having long hair but it certainly does not look like it liked me. 

In case you are sadly and mistakenly thinking, "well, it's not a good look, but it's really not that bad," I have included the photo to the right. I thought it'd be nice to experience the whole 1990's effect while sporting long hair. Nothing like some "skinnier at the ankle" jeans to make your day. (I think the wife is wearing loafers without socks. The 1990's were like that, you know.) And, no--I do not have any idea why I have a leaf from the little tree in my mouth. Maybe I was hungry or needed some roughage. 

The wife had some pretty long hair in the 1990's, too--as evidenced here. I think we should both call it a day and go for the sleek and short styles. I have had fleeting moments of wanting to grow my hair out again, but then I quickly slap myself in the head as hard as I can, pull out photos and then wait for the moment to pass. I have yet to take action on any such thoughts. (I think the wife has fleeting moments of traveling in a car, but then she quickly pokes herself in the eyes, throws herself in front of a moving bus and waits for the moment to pass.) 

Suffice it to say, I have complete confidence that my hair lady will not let this long haired travesty happen again. Instead, she will focus on how to hide the grey..... ....trust me, that will keep her busy.

I Love the '80s, Part I: Softball 

I thought I'd share a few photos & stories from the '80s over the next few posts, for no other reason but that I can....that, and because I've been digging through old photos to make a card for the wife and that's got me lost in the 80s. Ah, here's a keeper. Waiting between softball games, enjoying a moment in the shade, nineteen-eight-something- something. Ripped t-shirt neck, a high-fashion move forever linked to the 1980's. Real Chuck Taylor high tops, BEFORE they became fashionable. Asymmetrical hair swooshed over like a tidal wave. This photo SCREAMS 1980s. For the record, I have a broken jaw in this photo, so if I'm looking a little more chip-munky than usual, it's just the swelling in my jaw, not some weird case of the mumps. You might be wondering why we are wearing different colored uniforms. I just told you--I have a broken jaw--I can't be playing! On the bench style dictated the wearing of the black, ripped t-shirt. I had to look good, you know, and I look so much better in black than white. Softball in the 1980's wasn't just a sport; it was a way of life. Every weekend was spent away from home, playing softball on some softball diamond somewhere near or not-so-near. The only goals was to qualify for "State." Work didn't matter (um, did any of us have "real" jobs back then?), the lawn didn't matter, the laundry didn't matter--well, besides having a semi-clean uniform. No pets--we were never home. No vacations--who can leave town with all that softball going on? No prime-time TV--we were never home. We played three nights a week plus weekend tournaments. Somehow, we ended up playing at four different local diamonds, with each diamond featuring its own delights. "The Ace" featured the grossest soda on the planet (we are convinced they used water from the river to make it), the biggest bugs in the universe (of which would fall down your shirt and into your bra) and, the most primitive of diamonds. "The Forest" featured the hardest infield ever made--I think they used cement when making that one. Sliding there meant a summer-long strawberry on your leg, sure to bleed every game for the duration of the season. "The District" field was a blinding hell-hole: when the sun was setting, batting averages plummeted. "The Players" featured a really nice infield (soft, warm sand) and a bar where many a dance was spontaneously held, quite to the dismay of some of our friends. The parking lot was a ball of dust, so that made playing a bit difficult when everyone was leaving from the previous game. Tournaments meant road trips. Lots of road trips. I don't know how we paid for all of this because we really did have sucky jobs with sucky pay. I think we could afford it because we stayed in the grossest, cheapest hotels we could find, we'd come home for the night whenever possible (thus saving hotel costs), we brought our own food/coolers or ate fast food, we carpooled for gasoline-saving purposes and we didn't spend money doing anything fun because we were at the ball park all day. The furthest we went was Louisville (at least I think that's the further we traveled). That doesn't sound far but trust me, that was far enough. All that fun in the sun led to one too many sunburns. There were times we were so fried we couldn't sleep at night. Big chunks of skin peeling off...a sport in itself, a dermatologist nightmare. Those who were drinking beer tended to be that much more sunburnt, but they didn't care because they were drunk. The wife and I were sober but still sunburnt, so I guess that makes us sun-stupid. Those were the days before people actually wore sun screen, so it was not safe-sunning. (Didn't we use baby oil back then so we would get tan?) Of course, all that softball-playing left us with a billion stories, of which about one percent are able to be shared in a public venue. You'll have to settle for a photo or two. That's it. Otherwise, I'd have to kill you. These days, we go out to the softball field two or three times a season, and trust me--that's enough. I can no longer chug around the bases, nor do I want to. We have two dogs that need love, a lawn that needs tending, jobs that actually require our attention, TV reality shows that need to be watched. I don't know how people our age continue to play. Maybe that's why I don't know many people our age that still DO actually play. Let's see: no strawberried-bleeding legs, no bugs in my bra, no three-night a week commitments, no sharing gross hotel rooms with six of our closest friends. I'm all good with that.

Blair Witch Stix

Since we are approaching our anniversary, I've been thinking a lot about funny things in our history. One event, of which I do not think I have yet written about, is the "Blair Witch Stix Project" MJagger and I pulled on the wife.

Many years ago, back when The Blair Witch Project was a big hit, the wife and I watched the movie. For some reason, the movie really got to the wife, although I don't think she realized it til much later. If you haven't seen the movie, suffice it to say it's a movie made with a really shaky camera about dumb people who go into the woods, find weird stick shaped creations, have bad things happen to them. Not much happens in the movie that in itself looks scary, but it did seem to scare many viewers. (It just made me nauseous with all that shaky filming.)

MJagger and I must have been bored at work one day because we decided it would be really funny to make one of those "Blair Witch Stix" doo-hickeys and put it in the wife's car, so when she came out of work, she'd find it and be at least momentarily freaked out. Now, the wife is no fool and can ALWAYS tell when I've been home and what I've done when there. She reads carpet and flooring, I swear. Her car is her shrine, and she can always tell if someone's even been near it, let alone touch it, so that would be a challenge. MJagger and I really had to think about this, as I was going to have to go home, get the wife's spare key for her car, place the Blair Witch Stix in the car without being seen, take the key back to the house and make sure everything remained undisturbed to the wife's eye. I knew the key would be the most important part of the mission, as if the car key was not hanging there when the wife got home, she would know for sure it had been me and how I got into her car.

MJagger and I went outside and found some sticks, perfect for the making of our little scary artifacts, and made our Witch Stix. It looked just like what was in the movie. Score! Then, it was off the house to begin our mission....

The hardest part was getting the carpeting not to show I had been there, so I stepped only when absolutely, positively necessary and then used my hands to smooth away my footprints from the carpeting as I left the area. I grabbed the spare key, careful not to touch ANYTHING in the process. I made sure the key hook remained perpendicular to the floor, that the remaining keys were all in a line. I didn't even drip any sweat, as I knew that would be a dead give-a-way.

When we got to the parking lot where the wife's car was parked, we had to move quickly. We dare not been seen! Using my sleeve to open the door handle (didn't want to leave any prints on the car), I opened the door and carefully placed the Blair Witch Stix on the floor. It looked GREAT and would have creeped me out had I been scared by the movie. Slowly, carefully I shut the door. As quick as we could, we squealed out of the parking lot and headed back to our house.

If I thought I was nervous the first time, the pressure was a billion-fold this time; after all, this time I'd have to make sure I got it "right" and that the carpeting was perfect. I hung the key up, worrying that they looked exactly the same as when I took it, smoothed the carpeting, left everything just as it was when the wife had gone to work in the morning. Now, all we had to do was wait.....

This was in the day before our owning of cell phones, so I had to literally wait until the end of my day to find out what happened. Suffice it to say, it was worth the wait.

The wife went to her car, got in and saw the Blair Witch Stix. At first, I do believe she was freaked out; but, after a few seconds of contemplation, she realized it was probably just me being funny. She drove home, little Witch Stix staring back at her. She entered the house, thinking she'd see I had been there...but, there were no signs. (I rock!) This got her brain going and she got a little more freaked out. She then became rational and assured herself I had come home and gotten the key and would bring it back when I returned from work....

.....but, there was the key, hanging RIGHT THERE!

The wife was now officially, completely freaked out! How could the stix get in the car if I didn't have the spare key? How could the key even be there? How could I have been in the house without leaving tell tale clues?!!!

FREAKED.
OUT.

When I got home, I played totally dumb. I was like, "what ARE you talking about?" I reminded her I don't have a key for her stupid car and that I hadn't been home during the day. "You can always tell what the hell I do when I'm around here and you're not--does it LOOK like I was here?"

FREAKED.
FREAKED.
OUT!

Here face was priceless.

My fun was only momentary, as I couldn't help but laugh. The joke had been a complete success, so it was only fair I confess.

You know, maybe I should go find some sticks and arrange them Witch Stix style and give them to her for the pending anniversary....or, feel free to make some of your own and put them around our house to help us celebrate.....!

Ides of Marching Thoughts

I dedicate this blog post to Sandy-o-Rose, who knows not to knit and drink at the same time.

Words for the Ides of March: It's never a good sign when your Wal-mart cashier is crying.

This morning, while shopping at Wally World (I had to go there because I forgot my stupid debit card at home and the grocery store I usually use doesn't take credit cards), I had the pleasure of a crying cashier. I must have had my "I'm a counselor" look, because the more she talked, the more she cried. Oh dear.

The photo to the left has nothing to do with anything except my cousin sent it to me and it made me laugh. That's me selling girl scout cookies in 1974. I'm the one with the sweet barrette and happenin' beret.

For those of you wondering: the wife is indeed back in true form, despite being uterus-free. This week (it was her spring break), she washed all the windows in the house (both inside and out), waxed all three cars, installed new blinds, cleaned all the light fixtures & fans in the entire house, sealed all the grout in the whole abode (and, trust me, we have a LOT of grout--the kitchen, foyer, and bathrooms have real tile--I didn't even know you had to think about grout let alone seal grout), repaired a crack in the basement wall, purchased a new bed, fixed the slats under the bed after the Land of Slumber incorrectly installed them, graded all her piles of papers, finished the mid-term grades, took the dogs to the groomer and, as she says, "did countless loads of laundry."

Words of Wisdom from another nose-rleated accident yesterday: Never walk into a plate glass window while in public and while a paramedic is looking right at you. Sigh. I was at a church health fair (pushing flyers about my place of employment) and was on break....I went out in the foyer to call the wife and babble about something of no redeeming value. As I was waiting for her to pick up the phone, I was pacing a bit, looking down, listening to her message, when....

BAM!

I slammed right into a plate glass window. I mean slammed. Which part of me hit the glass first?

My nose, of course. Ow, ow, ow. (My brand new glasses also took part of the brunt but they were saved from certain doom by my large, Polish nose.)

For those of you who are skeptical, you can go see the giant, greasy nose print on the glass. I left it there for all to see. In fact, I encourage all to go see it and enjoy a good laugh.

Of course, I didn't miss a beat. I left the message on the wife's phone and went back to my booth. Unfortunately, I saw this paramedic just howling with laughter as I returned to the booth. He was talking to two other firemen and three policemen (one of which was MJagger's husband). As I figured he had just witnessed me bounce off the window, I walked up to him and said, "Man, that was stupid!"

He really did try to stop laughing but he was turning red, so I assured him it was indeed okay to laugh. I was the hit of their day, I am sure.

Last night, the wife and I went and saw "Slumdog Millionaire" last night. (My nose didn't prohibit me from having a fun night.) I had previously refused to go see it as I hate violence in a movie. I want a happy, warm-fuzzy movie. I agreed only after going on-line and finding spoilers which told me the entire movie AND after talking to MJagger, who assured me I'd be fine. I also got up and went to the bathroom as a scene approached that I wanted nothing to do with. It worked out swimmingly. I thought the movie was good, was glad I knew what was going to happen and I enjoyed eating a ridiculous amount of popcorn. I figure I earned it as my cholesterol is down to 202, which for me is awesome. (I refuse to take meds and am lowering it by diet, exercise, ;physillium husk and giant pills of Omega-3s...it's down from an all-time high of 275, so I'm mighty proud of myself and my efforts. Thank you, Leslie Sansone and Dean Ornish!)

Today, we are off for a walk....and, I'm sure the wife will have some horrible house-related tasks. Whatever happens, I can honestly say: At least I'm not at Wal-mart, crying at my register and my nose doesn't look too swollen.

The Counselor Speaketh

I can go back to being a smarty pants tomorrow. Today....

.....a few angry, judgemental moments in the Addiverse:

I hear Rihanna (aka Tina) and Chris Brown (aka Ike) have reunited AND are working on a duet. As you know, Christ beat the snot out of Rihanna and yours truly (counselor extraordinaire) correctly but sadly predicted she would return to him, as predicted by the cycle of abuse. (Oh, I'm sorry--he ALLEGEDLY beat the snot of her. Those bites and bruises and injuries could have come from anywhere in that limo.)

I would like to commend Chris Brown's public relations team as they are marketing geniuses. GENIUS! Get Rihanna to do something that publicly proves to the world how sorry Chris really is. What could ever be better than the two of them singing together? Nothing!

Do you hear my gagging? I can barely swallow my own saliva at this moment.

You know, when Chris abuses Rihanna again and she's too ashamed or scared or whatever to say anything and it finally comes to the public eye that this schmuck has not changed one single thing about his physically-abusing self , I hope someone sues the piss out of the PR company. I don't know how they can sleep at night. It is absolutely disgusting what they are doing. Save Chris' career at the expense of Rihanna's dignity & self worth. Show all the young people in the world that it's okay to be physically abused as long as he says he's sorry.

Note to my nieces and all the young people in the world: It is NEVER okay for someone to hit you. It is NEVER okay for someone to abuse you. Never, never, never. There are a lot of people your age thinking that Chris Brown is a good guy, that he's really sorry, that he'd never hurt Rihanna (before or again), that they are in love and that they are all good.....

.....well, my counseling degree and I are here to tell you that if anyone EVER hits you, you let me know, 'cuz I'm gonna make sure you have the self-respect and the self-confidence to run quickly away from the situation. I'll help you get a restraining order if I have to. I'm gonna open a giant can of Hate-o-rade. I'll drag you down the street by your undies.......

I'll do whatever it takes to help you understand that you are a beautiful person who should NEVER be abused and should NEVER stand for it. You don't deserve that, it's never an okay part of a relationship, it's not something that just happens and "he didn't mean to do it." I'll go all therapeutic on you. I'll tape posters of the "Cycle of Abuse" on your bedroom door.

Rihanna, it's not too late. I know it's hard. I know it's so public. I know he is really, really (gag) sorry. It's not too late. Listen to Oprah and Tyra. They know what they are talking about. Listen to the therapists in the world. Lisa to Tina Turner. Just listen to someone besides Chris Brown's team of unethical, self-serving media whores who want nothing more than save his career, damn your mental health and expendable self worth.

The Great Key Incident of 1989 

I don't know how I got so far behind in blogging, but I did. It might be that I've been busy writing my blog for the local newspaper (not even one-billionth of a percent as fun as this one) or that I've been busy being un-friended on Book de la Face or I've been busy being recruiting by well-intentioned, caring people who want to save me or that I've been busy doing housework (which I have not been in the least bit)....but, in reality, I've been busy watching Dancing with the Stars and eating copious amounts of chocolate. I will now speak of the "Key in the Californian Car Trunk" incident of 1989. For some reason, it's on my mind. The wife and I were on vacation, basking in the California sun. It was 1989 and this was our first real vacation together. We had a beautious Geo Prism for a rental car, of which we decided was mainly plastic with some wheels. It served its purpose. We had done the L.A. to San Fran drive-the-coast trip, we'd been to Disneyland and every mall in the area and thus we had headed to Huntington beach to do some laundry and hang out by the ocean. Doing laundry on vacation is not very fun but it is important if you want clean undies and have run low. It's a beautiful day, warm and sunny. We are wearing our swim wear as we will be going to the ocean after finishing our laundry. I had my huarache sandals on (remember them?) and the wife had some form of surf socks on. We pull into the laundromat parking lot, unload the trunk and slam the trunk shut. Let me clarify: I slammed the trunk shut. I had a moment of terror: I wasn't holding the car key. I asked the wife if she has the key; she assured me I have it but I do not have it and so we are now both looking at the closed trunk. As the car is still open, I don't panic; I just open the back door and pull down the seat to get into the trunk..... ...but, the only thing that isn't plastic on this car is the very spot I'm looking. No, there is no access to the trunk; I am looking at cold, hard metal keeping me from accessing the trunk like I would do in my own car. A trickle of sweat sneaks down my temple. No, there is no trunk latch. No, there is no access. But, I think: "Hey! there's that plastic key in the glove compartment. We'll use that to open the trunk." I go to to glove box, pull out the plastic key and.... ....find out it has never been cut. It's just a big blob of uncut plastic with a key-shaped top. More sweat. "We'll call the car rental company!" This was in the days before cell phones and everyone used public telephones. At least we didn't have any trouble finding a pay phone. They even had phone books at the phones. I call but they are absolutely no help. This must have been in the day before customer service. The person was very rude and spit out that I would have to go get a key cut at a local car dealer. Are you friggin' kidding me? Like we know where that would be. Mr. Car Rental Man and I hang up on each other. I pull out the phone book. The wife and I are starting to get a little bit testy with each other. Like that's gonna help. I find a car dealer and ask if they can make the key. The guy says they can. He tells me it's about a mile from where we are standing. I thank him and tell him we are on our way. Of course, since we don't have a car, we walked. Walking a mile in huarache shoes isn't fun but it's not impossible. We get to the dealer in about 20 or so minutes.... ....only to find out their key-cutting machine is in pieces and is not operating. They cannot make us a key. The wife and I are much more testy at each other now. I ask if there is another dealer in the area; I am told there is one down the road. Being young (read: stupid), I didn't ask any questions. I got directions that sounded simple enough. THe guy called the other dealer to ensure they could make the key; this was confirmed. He tells them we are on our way. The wife and I go out the door and start hoofing our way to the next dealer. Words of wisdom: always ask HOW FAR it is to the next place, especially when you are walking. SEVEN MILES LATER, seven bloody feet, no-longer-speaking-to-each-other seven miles later, seven hot with no water miles later, we arrive. It took almost three hours for us to get there. We walk in to the dealer, hot, sweat and really pissy. Our feet really were bleeding and covered with blisters. We are parched. We are suicidal. Maybe homicidal. I say to the guy, "I"m here to get a key made." He looks at me like I'm from Mars. "The dealer of such and such called, confirmed you can make a key?" He looks at me and then says, "That was hours ago!" I agree with him. When he starts saying stupid things (of which I have blocked out) and he wants to know why it took so long for us to get there, I scream (and I do mean screamed):

"WE WALKED!" At this point, I burst into tears. Suffice it to say, he got us some water, made a key pronto, didn't charge us for the key, put us in an air conditioned car and drove us back to our key-in-the-trunk rental car. Trunk opened, with the rental key indeed in the trunk, he scooted off as fast as he could. After all, it was very evident that the wife and I were NOT speaking and NOT happy. We didn't go to the beach. We didn't do our laundry. We didn't talk to each other for the rest of the day. We could barely walk for the next week. Today, it's a funny story and we still have that extra key; I hang it on the Christmas tree every year. Then: not a funny story. Today, there is customer service and cell phones and cars with foldout seats with access to the trunk. Besides, no one wears huarache sandals any more. I know why.

Jumpin' Jesus!

This one may certainly cement my place in Hell.

I am 100% sure I've already blogged about this but I couldn't find it in my blog pile, so here we go again. Heck, there are a lot of new readers right now and most of you regular readers just skim, anyways and probably don't remember the first time I wrote about this and I might be funnier this time, so I'm going with it. I'm perimenopausal--I can't remember what I had for dinner; how am I supposed to wrote about a year ago?

This edition of Jumpin' Jesus is dedicated to Pot Holder Grrrl. She was on campus during the time the wife and I were there, so she is truly part of our history. And, I went on a few dates with her would-eventually-be husband, so that counts for something, doesn't it?

I'm flashing back to college, 1983. That's when the wife worked in the college chapel for the Catholic Priest. Being the good Catholic that she was, this was like the BEST JOB EVER for a collegiate Catholic. Her family was probably so happy they wept when she got that work-study job. I'm not sure what she was supposed to do during this very holy employment but she it was her work-study placement and thus she was often found hanging around in the chapel, which meant I could be found hanging around in the chapel.

Side note: I asked the wife tonight what she was actually supposed to be doing when on the clock. She said, "Honestly, I don't know." Who works in a chapel for work-study, anyways? Talk about a cake job. The wife added later, "I think I did my homework."

One of the wife's jobs was to "break the bread" when it arrived for Mass. Back in those days, it was way cool to have someone bake a loaf of bread, bring it to church, rip it up and then "serve" it up during Communion. The bread usually arrived a day or two before the Mass, so there was plenty of time for bread ripping....and, bread consumption. I tried to be around whenever the wife was on bread ripping patrol because I loved that stuff and wanted a chance at eating some of that home made bread. Yum!

Some of you devout Catholics have begun hyperventilating--tell yourself: it's not blessed bread yet, so it's just bread, not the body of Christ. The time to freak about about communion bread comes later in the story.

This bread was DELICIOUS. I mean we loved, loved, loved it. It was sweet but not sugary, hard but not too hard, dense and delicious. Because it was so delicious and because we each weighed about seven million pounds and because we were college students who really didn't think twice about things, we would eat as much bread as we could without letting it "show" that so much bread was "missing." We quickly learned that if we filled the "bottom" part of the bowl with regular old hosts and put the bread on top and fluffed the bread, it looked like there was a lot of bread. If we tried to fill the bowl without the hosts, it looked like someone had indeed been snarfing down bread with the communion wine that was missing.....

.....Yes, we drank the unblessed communion wine while stuffing unblessed, homemade communion bread into our traps. I am here to tell you that the wine is AWFUL. Terrible. Poor, desperate college students don't really care--they just make faces and pass the bottle. And, it wasn't the blood of Christ yet, so what's really wrong with drinking cheap, yucky wine in the back of a chapel? (Have I ever mentioned how hard it is to get the cork out of the bottle when you don't have a cork screw? One time, we just shoved a knife into the cork and pushed down. The cork shattered and all the cork-ettes floated around in the bottle. I'm guessing the priest had to few a pieces of cork that weekend. And, since we no longer had a cork to re-cork the bottle with, we covered the bottle with tin foil. Bet that kept if fresh and tasty.)

But, I digress. Back to the bread.

The bread was ripped, consumed, fluffed on top the hosts and covered. It sat in the bowl, waiting for its turn to become the Body of Christ.

This is where I come in. If you think it's entertaining that the wife worked at a church during college, you'll love to learn that I used to serve Communion while in college. You know, as an extraordinaire minister. Blessed or whatever, there I was, seal of approval to serve communion, doling out the Body of Christ to the parishioners. I did this whenever needed, hung over or not, dressed appropriately or not, feeling holy or not. Most often, I was hung over, a wrinkled mess and not very holy--but when the Body of Christ calls, you answer.

It's my weekend, so I belly up to the bar---er, I mean I waddle up to the altar, get my Body of Christ from the priest, grab my bowl of bread/bowl of Jesus and waddle to my place to serve Communion. The wife and I had gotten a little over zealous in the "use the hosts to fluff the bread" department, so bread was just about flowing over the top of my communion host bowl. I'm standing there with my mantra, "Body of Christ, Body of Christ, Body of Christ," handing out bread.....

.....when the unimaginable happens:

The BODY OF CHRIST JUMPS OUT OF MY BOWL AND ONTO THE FLOOR!!!

This is worse than death to a Catholic.

JESUS HAS JUST JUMPED OUT OF THE BOWL AND HE'S ON THE FLOOR!!!!

I do not know what to do. There's the hunk of bread, no longer just a hunk of bread but rather a hunk of Jesus, Body of Christ, on the floor by my left foot. I am filled with sheer terror. They never told me what to do in such emergencies. How was I to know Jesus would ever jump out of the bowl? I can see him, he can see me.

I look at the person I was about to provide Communion, I look at Jesus on the floor, I look at my bowl. Jesus ain't getting off the floor and the priest isn't noticing the Catholic Chaos going on next to him. The line is getting longer, people are waiting for their transubstantiated piece of bread....

There is nothing I can do but bend over, pick up the Body of Christ and shove it into my mouth.

You know, the wife and I always tried to rip the bread into small, manageable pieces, but this piece (of course!) was a HUGE hunk of bread. Usually, this would have been an awesome thing; it's the size you hoped you'd get when getting communion--but, in this case, this huge wad of bread was a bad thing. I've got this dry, dry mouth, I'm already freaked out and now I've got this wad of bread that I can't swallow and I have to continue my job of serving Communion. I shove the wad to the left cheek and mutter out "Bolly of Cliste, Bolly of Cliste."

The rest of the Mass went without a hitch. No one was the wiser. The world didn't end, I wasn't struck down by lightning. Everything seemed in order.

Me? I returned to my seat and tried not to pass out or vomit. It's really hard to be 20 years old and have such trauma come your way.

Twenty five years or so later, I no longer serve Communion....but, I still would sure love that bread recipe.....

Random Thoughts on a Monday Evening

My Adam's Apple and my nose have healed, thanks for asking. Most people, when leaving for work, are told by the spouse, "Have a nice day." With me, the wife says, "try not to get hurt today."

In the "I told you so" department (scroll back a few blog entries), Rhianna has returned to her abuser. Ah, the cycle of abuse is sooooo powerful. I wish I had been wrong, but....I didn't spend all that money on a master's degree in the counseling field for nothing.

Score! I scored my first Bible today. Well, not my first Bible in my life---my first Bible from a co-worker. I won't say much because I don't talk about my job but if I did I would tell you that it was inevitable that I would be bestowed such a gift. Trust me on that. You might think it's really inappropriate to get a Bible handed you at work; you might think that's the greatest thing you've ever heard about happening on a job. Me? I'll have to get back to you on that. I'm going to chat with the Universe tonight and I'll let you know. I have to say I've never received a Bible at work before.....

Malaak Rocks! Today, I was invited to hear Malaak Compton Rock speak at a local fundraiser/award ceremony. Now, if you're like me, you are thinking, "Malaak who?" (No offense to her, of course--I'm just being honest and had to google her to learn more about her, her causes, her history.) Some of you may know her from Oprah's Big Give show (she was one of the judges). Others of you may know her as Chris Rock's wife (although I'm not big on knowing someone as "his wife"). Maybe you've heard her name on CNN for her UNICEF efforts. Whether you know her or not, I am here to tell you she is an awesome speaker with enough inspiration to fill a banquet hall three times over. I'd try and tell you about it but I'd rather you go to her website (e-village) at angelrockproject She made me want to run out and save the planet or doing something more profound than watching reality TV.

On a lighter note, I'd like to point out that the banquet people forgot to feed me while at this event. Really. I was sitting there, eating my salad and somehow, they served everyone else at my table their main course, but didn't give me mine--they kept moving and never came back our way. I suppose since it was a giant chunk of chicken, it was probably a blessing in disguise. I focused on the the dessert that was already on the table and got a bite to eat on the way back to the office. It actually made me laugh. Those of you who've been out to eat with me know that I have some bad food karma at banquests....I am ALWAYS the last to be served or they totally forget me and I have to chase the servers down or they just bring me a big o' slab of meat and let me deal with it. Then, I get to eat after everyone else is already done. The tribulations of the vegetarian way of being, I suppose.

A final random note: I was un-friended this weekend on Book de la Face. Those on FB already know this as I've been whining about it. As it was yet again an unfriending by a person who happens to be a fundamental, evangelical, conservative being in the Christianity department, this makes my head hurt. THEY asked to be my friend, not the other way around. I send them a note that literally says, "are you SURE you want to be my friend?" and give them an out, but they always say "of course I want to be your friend!" Then, they read my profile, look at the postings and go screaming toward the unfriend button. At first, it gets my goat; but, after awhile (and after listening to Madonna's "Hard Candy" and gorging myself on chocolate and being distracted by the wife), I get over it. I can't prove that my profile was the problem, anyways....and, there are worse things in the world than being unfriended; Malaak helped me remember that. Besides, I hear there is fair trade chocolate to be purchased, so I have to get on it!

Of course, this begs the question: If the person that gave me the Bible unfriends me, do I have to give the Bible back?