Funny Guy Friday is written each week by my husband, Mark. So, I married a funny guy...
About once a week or so, my twenty-five-year-old nephew, Daniel, comes over to our house to work on hitting with our 12-year-old son, Matthew. Daniel played baseball in college and can skillfully analyze Matthew's hitting imperfections in order to correct them. He doesn't charge for the lessons, unless you count the free dinners. Funny thing is that when he started, I asked Matthew if he were hearing something other than what I usually tell him. He told me no, but that Daniel just does it better.
I am sure that these lessons will pay off for Matthew because it looks like he has a great teacher.
Typically, I arrange for Daniel to come over, and then I announce it to the family when I walk through the door after work. My kids enjoy their cousin's company and are always excited to see him.
After he is done hitting with Matthew, Daniel will stick around and chase 8-year-old Noah around the house so he can deliver a wicked Atomic Back-Breaker or the equally devastating Big Tickle, or he may chat with 16-year-old Grace and give her advice about high school and growing up. Sometimes he just sits and visits, talking about nothing at all. It is fun for Cheryl and me to just watch and listen.
Tonight, when I came through the door and announced that Daniel was coming, Matthew asked why?
Why do you think? He comes to hit with you once a week but tonight, he and I are going out on the town together.
Sweet. Daddy is going to be Daniel's wing man!
Why do I have to be the wing man? He can be my wing man? What's a wing man?
Now, the idea of me hanging out with my nephew, Daniel, is not that far-fetched. In fact, I was roommates with his two older brothers for several months. Okay... so they were 8 and 11 years old at the time, and I was in law school, but still. Truth be told, if I had had any style, they probably wouldn't have cramped it anyway. I had no "game" because I was living with my parents.
That's right, it was just my mother and my father and I living in a four bedroom colonial. Still, I had it all... a bedroom and bathroom all to myself... an elderly landlady that did all the cooking, cleaning and laundry.... another equally elderly landlord that paid for everything. I also had a curfew. Okay, the curfew wasn't all that cool... but if I stayed out late my mommy couldn't sleep.
Let me tell you, it was a wild time on Kennison Lane.
Then it all changed. I came home from law school one day, and all my magazine covers were off the walls. What red-blooded American male did not have magazine covers pinned all over his walls? Well built... sleek... athletic bodies doing incredible, unbelievable, unthinkable, wild things. Of course, I am talking about the Sports Illustrated covers that I had stapled all over my room. Those guys were quickly replaced by bunk beds.
I went to my landlords and demanded an explanation.
Your brother, his wife, and their four boys are moving home for a while. You will be sharing a room with your nephews.
I don't get my own room anymore? Which nephew?
We said nephews... with an s... as in two.
Two? This is unacceptable.
You are never home anyway, so what does it matter.
What if I have a date and I want to bring her home and want, ahem, to show her my room.
Bring her home. She isn't allowed upstairs anyway.
My landlords had this silly little rule that no member of the opposite sex, not related by blood or marriage, was allowed to go upstairs in our house at any time. They couldn't even go up to use the bathroom... which was once my bathroom but was now going to be mine, Jeff's, Theresa's, Jonathan's, Jeffrey's, Joseph's and Daniel's bathroom. At the time, I did have a "downstairs girlfriend" but could only imagine an "upstairs girlfriend." I doubt that my fake upstairs girlfriend could have even found a seat in that bathroom.
What am I going to do with four boys?
You can play out back with them; they like sports.
That's true.
Sure. It will be fun.
I will dominate.
Sure you will, as long as your brother Jeff isn't playing too.
He cheats. He has always cheated, and you two let him cheat.
We will watch him a little closer this time around. We promise.
Okay, but will Mom still do all the cooking, cleaning and laundry?
Sure.
Will Dad still pay for everything?
Sure.
Fine, I'll try it, but, for the record, I am not happy about this.
Then move out.
Well, I am not that unhappy.
So, late each night, I would get home from law school, grab a bite to eat, sneak quietly into my room, shush my imaginary upstairs girlfriend, turn on the light next to my bed, and start reading. It was kind of like having your own room, only with two kids sleeping five feet away from you, and two more toddlers right down the hallway.
It wasn't so bad. I mean, I still got a lot of action at night, if you know what I mean.
Well, if you don't know what I mean, let me elaborate... one of the two toddlers would have an occasional accident at night. Guess who was the only one awake that could swoop in and handle the mayhem? That's right, good ol' Uncle Mark.
Every time this happened, I would tell him not to worry about it... our landlady does all the laundry. Then I would provide him with some dry clothes, and send him in with his parents. I promised him that I would never tell anyone about our little routine.
Perhaps this is why he is willing to do these hitting lessons for free. Please do me a favor and let's just keep this little tidbit to ourselves.
The truth of the matter is that I loved having those kids live with us. I loved playing ball with them, chasing them around the house and delivering a wicked Atomic Back-Breaker or the equally devastating Big Tickle, or just sitting around giving them advice about school and growing up. Their mother will tell you that my particular area of expertise was dating... real girlfriends, preferably.
Rule 1. Encourage your date to go with a strapless gown.
Rule 2. Always purchase a pin-on corsage.
You know it's funny... I do all these same things with my kids, but they seem to enjoy it more when it involves Daniel. Turns out, he just does it better.
I am sure he does... he had a great teacher.
Friday, March 8, 2013
Friday, March 1, 2013
Funny Guy Friday… The funeral crashers...
Funny Guy Friday is written each week by my husband Mark. So, I married a funny guy...
I must admit that I am jealous of my family. Every couple of weeks, when I come home from work, my wife and kids regale me with great stories… some funny, some heartwarming, and some inspiring.
They tell me about their new friends that they've met, and about the delicious meals that they've shared. It is always somebody new, and, if truth be told, somebody that they will probably never meet again. It really doesn't matter because on these days, they are great pals, willing to share lifelong stories.
Where, you ask, can you congregate once every month with a room full of strangers and enjoy great food and camaraderie?
The answer may surprise you.
Funerals.
That's right, I said funerals. My family have become the Funeral Crashers.
Perhaps a little history may help explain how all of this started.
My father passed away about two years ago. We had what I considered to be the typical funeral experience… a viewing, a funeral, and a repast (by the way, repast is a new word that my wife sprung on me after committing herself to this cause).
It was moving to see the different people who showed up to pay their respects. This was both Cheryl's and my first experience with a death in our own family, and it made us both realize what the visitation part means to those that survive the deceased.
I made a mental note of it… and then promptly forgot about it.
Cheryl made a mental note of it and BOOM… she and the kids have a new career… professional mourners.
I think that the priests have her on speed dial so they can fill a church at any time.
At least three times in the past three months, Cheryl has announced that she and the kids are going to take some time off from their rigorous home school schedule in order to attend a funeral. On each occasion it was an adult parent of a friend, and in two of the three, they barely knew the deceased.
I am advised that typically our kids are among the youngest members of the congregation. In fact, it is kind of humorous to hear eight-year-old Noah give his critique of the homily… Father Lewis gave a great homily. It gave me a lot to think about. Monsignor was kind of complicated, but it was funny to see our friend's baby making faces in front of me. Maybe he was having trouble understanding, too.
From what I can gather, my kids are not always the youngest attendees as it appears that it is not just my family of home schoolers that considers attending a funeral as a field trip.
Hey Christi, did you guys know Mr. Jones?
No, not really, why do you ask?
His funeral is today, and I think I might run the kids over. I can pick your kids up and take them if you want. I am sure we will get some lunch afterward.
Well, we were going to go to the aquarium but this might just work out better… sure, if you don't mind, I will take you up on that offer.
Now I understand attending the service at the church, but what I don't get is the luncheon after the Mass. It seems to me that would be reserved for close friends and family members, but my family always seems to find a way to worm their way in. Cheryl assures me that they are always invited. I tell her that when people stand up at the end of the funeral and invite people "back to the house" they really don't expect the friend of the niece's cousin's daughter… and her three kids... to pop in. Cheryl assures me that they do, in fact, expect them all to pop in.
This past week, they had the pleasure of sitting next to an elderly gentleman who happened to be the father of a friend of ours. Turned out that he knew Cheryl's father and that they played shuffle board at the Knights of Columbus. He had a lifetime of stories, and my kids seemed to hang on every word. In fact, I think that they have a play date scheduled for next Thursday.
The reality is that this whole process is very healthy for our kids.
My brother once told Cheryl that kids are afraid of death because their parents are afraid of death. My father was home for four weeks before he passed away, and if you could find a way to get past the whole dying thing, it was a beautiful four weeks. Friends and family came and went and paid their respects while he was alive and coherent. There was nothing to fear. His funeral was a celebration of his life, and we did want everyone to share in it.
As a child, I cannot recall ever attending a funeral. To this day, I am never sure how to act or what to say. I want so much to let people know that we are praying for them and for their family. More importantly, I want them to know that their loved one is in a better place. My words always seem so shallow, ineffective and rehearsed.
So how can I get better? I can practice. I can watch others. By trial and error, I can see see what works and what doesn't work.
Lord knows that my kids are getting a lot of practice. They will not be afraid of death and words of comfort will come easy to them. Not only will they have the right words, they will also have the wisdom to be quiet and listen to family and friends as they tell stories… some funny, some heart warming and some inspiring.
When you think about it, you will never get that kind of knowledge at any aquarium.
I must admit that I am jealous of my family. Every couple of weeks, when I come home from work, my wife and kids regale me with great stories… some funny, some heartwarming, and some inspiring.
They tell me about their new friends that they've met, and about the delicious meals that they've shared. It is always somebody new, and, if truth be told, somebody that they will probably never meet again. It really doesn't matter because on these days, they are great pals, willing to share lifelong stories.
Where, you ask, can you congregate once every month with a room full of strangers and enjoy great food and camaraderie?
The answer may surprise you.
Funerals.
That's right, I said funerals. My family have become the Funeral Crashers.
Perhaps a little history may help explain how all of this started.
My father passed away about two years ago. We had what I considered to be the typical funeral experience… a viewing, a funeral, and a repast (by the way, repast is a new word that my wife sprung on me after committing herself to this cause).
It was moving to see the different people who showed up to pay their respects. This was both Cheryl's and my first experience with a death in our own family, and it made us both realize what the visitation part means to those that survive the deceased.
I made a mental note of it… and then promptly forgot about it.
Cheryl made a mental note of it and BOOM… she and the kids have a new career… professional mourners.
I think that the priests have her on speed dial so they can fill a church at any time.
At least three times in the past three months, Cheryl has announced that she and the kids are going to take some time off from their rigorous home school schedule in order to attend a funeral. On each occasion it was an adult parent of a friend, and in two of the three, they barely knew the deceased.
I am advised that typically our kids are among the youngest members of the congregation. In fact, it is kind of humorous to hear eight-year-old Noah give his critique of the homily… Father Lewis gave a great homily. It gave me a lot to think about. Monsignor was kind of complicated, but it was funny to see our friend's baby making faces in front of me. Maybe he was having trouble understanding, too.
From what I can gather, my kids are not always the youngest attendees as it appears that it is not just my family of home schoolers that considers attending a funeral as a field trip.
Hey Christi, did you guys know Mr. Jones?
No, not really, why do you ask?
His funeral is today, and I think I might run the kids over. I can pick your kids up and take them if you want. I am sure we will get some lunch afterward.
Well, we were going to go to the aquarium but this might just work out better… sure, if you don't mind, I will take you up on that offer.
Now I understand attending the service at the church, but what I don't get is the luncheon after the Mass. It seems to me that would be reserved for close friends and family members, but my family always seems to find a way to worm their way in. Cheryl assures me that they are always invited. I tell her that when people stand up at the end of the funeral and invite people "back to the house" they really don't expect the friend of the niece's cousin's daughter… and her three kids... to pop in. Cheryl assures me that they do, in fact, expect them all to pop in.
This past week, they had the pleasure of sitting next to an elderly gentleman who happened to be the father of a friend of ours. Turned out that he knew Cheryl's father and that they played shuffle board at the Knights of Columbus. He had a lifetime of stories, and my kids seemed to hang on every word. In fact, I think that they have a play date scheduled for next Thursday.
The reality is that this whole process is very healthy for our kids.
My brother once told Cheryl that kids are afraid of death because their parents are afraid of death. My father was home for four weeks before he passed away, and if you could find a way to get past the whole dying thing, it was a beautiful four weeks. Friends and family came and went and paid their respects while he was alive and coherent. There was nothing to fear. His funeral was a celebration of his life, and we did want everyone to share in it.
As a child, I cannot recall ever attending a funeral. To this day, I am never sure how to act or what to say. I want so much to let people know that we are praying for them and for their family. More importantly, I want them to know that their loved one is in a better place. My words always seem so shallow, ineffective and rehearsed.
So how can I get better? I can practice. I can watch others. By trial and error, I can see see what works and what doesn't work.
Lord knows that my kids are getting a lot of practice. They will not be afraid of death and words of comfort will come easy to them. Not only will they have the right words, they will also have the wisdom to be quiet and listen to family and friends as they tell stories… some funny, some heart warming and some inspiring.
When you think about it, you will never get that kind of knowledge at any aquarium.
Friday, February 22, 2013
Funny Guy Friday... What did I do to deserve this?
Funny Guy Friday is written each week by my husband Mark. So... I married a funny guy...
This past Saturday, Cheryl helped organize a woman's retreat at our church. The next day, on the way to Mass, she was reciting the list of women who had attended. There were more than a hundred women, so it was a long list. I mean a long, looooong list. I knew most of them, but then she mentioned a name with which I was not familiar, and I asked a very simple question... Who is she?
You know who she is.
No, no. I do not know who she is.
She is kinda tall, blonde... graduated with my brother. She helps with the children's choir. Very pretty... with a beautiful voice.
But sweetie, I only have eyes for you... and ears for you!
Okay, I know that I exaggerate the truth a bit, but I have to be perfectly honest... I really did not say I only have eyes for you and ears for you. I said...
Still not ringing a bell. I don't recall ever going to Mass with the children's choir.
Yes you did; on that Feast of Mary... all the singing groups were at Mass.
I do remember I had arrived late... I made a joke about the men in the choir eating all the kids in the children's choir, but I never noticed any tall blonde leading the kids. For all I know, she was just another victim during the Feast of the Kids' Choir.
At this point, Gracie chimed in:
You know who she is dad; she is tall and blonde.
Okay, we have established tall and blonde... sounds like I'd like to meet her... but I still do not know who she is.
At this point both Cheryl and Grace got upset with me.
You're not trying.
I'm not trying? What are you talking about?
Whenever you don't understand something, you shut down.
I don't know the tall, pretty, blonde woman who runs the children's choir. I understand that I do not know the woman, and I am neither ashamed nor confused by this fact. I don't know the woman.
This battle was not over. Once we arrived at church and got settled into our pew, Grace and Cheryl scouted the woman out. In the middle of the Gloria, Grace pointed her out to me.
Oh, the woman between the two tall guys?
That's her husband and her son. Her son went on retreat with us.
Yeah, I know him, I think. Big kid... went on retreat with us?
Yes, yes, you know her, too.
No, no, I don't. In fact, I was going to say I did not know her even if I did.... but I don't. So there! Are you going to get mad again?
Mom is right, you don't try!
How is it that I am the bad guy here? I didn't deserve that. I was just minding my own business, not knowing someone, and all of the sudden, I get attacked.
This was not the only time during the week that I would suffer such an undeserved assault.
Late Sunday night, Cheryl came down with the stomach flu. I like to think this was God's way of paying her back for the way she had treated me on the drive to Mass. I could be wrong now... but I don't think so.
Anyway, she was completely out of it on Monday so I told the kids to stay out of our room and be quiet. I checked on her now and again, but she was either asleep or in the bathroom. Being the good husband that I am, I even did about ten loads of laundry.
Tuesday was more of the same for Cheryl, but I had to go to work. When I got home, I got the kids fed (Actually, I made Gracie feed the kids, but I ordered it, so I am taking credit for it), and I readied Matthew for his CCD class.
After dropping him off, I attended the first session of a program that the Church is putting on during Lent. It was Cheryl's idea for us to participate. She has never met a church function that she did not want to try, but since she was sick, I decided to go by myself... all by myself... alone... without Cheryl... at a church function... solo... alone... at church!
Certainly, this would make my sick little girl happy.
When I got home, she asked how things had gone.
Fine. It was good.
Tell me.
It was like the first day of class, when they hand out the syllabus, nothing too exciting. Oh, I did get approached about organizing and running a men's retreat.
Tell me about that.
What's to tell... I got asked to organize and run a men's retreat like the one you just did.
That was it. I knew Cheryl had to still be feeling the effects of the flu because my bare bones description of the conversation would not typically suffice.
Wednesday morning, Cheryl was up early and hopped in the shower. I was shaving when she revisited the whole men's retreat topic.
I told you last night, I was asked to organize a men's retreat at the church.
That's it? I want a story. I need a story... something linear... with a nice beginning that develops the characters taking part in the conversation... a middle that begins to tie together all the loose ends... and a thrilling conclusion that wraps up the whole story in a nice tidy package complete with a bow. You give me nothing. Forget it, I have to work too hard with you. Oh, and by the way, I just threw over the dirty clothes from our bathroom that you must have walked over for the past three days. And you know, it might have been nice for the kids to have checked on me every once in a while when I was sick.
Feeling better, honey?
Yes. A little.
Are you really feeling better?
Yes, I am feeling better.
Then can you iron a shirt for me?
I have already done too much today, and I am going to lie back down.
That was it. 7:45 a.m. and she was back in bed under the covers leaving me to fend for myself. This, after all I had done for her.
What did I do to deserve this fate?
I had done the laundry.
I had checked on her every once in a while.
I had kept the kids away from her so she could rest.
I had attended the church thing... by myself, I might add.
Forget it, it is obvious that I can't do enough around my house, so I am going to concentrate all of my efforts on that men's retreat thing. Cheryl tells me the first thing I have to do is to come up with a topic.
I wonder if the priests have any insight on a husband's role in keeping a marriage healthy.
Forget it... There's only one hope for the husband... Divine Intervention.
This past Saturday, Cheryl helped organize a woman's retreat at our church. The next day, on the way to Mass, she was reciting the list of women who had attended. There were more than a hundred women, so it was a long list. I mean a long, looooong list. I knew most of them, but then she mentioned a name with which I was not familiar, and I asked a very simple question... Who is she?
You know who she is.
No, no. I do not know who she is.
She is kinda tall, blonde... graduated with my brother. She helps with the children's choir. Very pretty... with a beautiful voice.
But sweetie, I only have eyes for you... and ears for you!
Okay, I know that I exaggerate the truth a bit, but I have to be perfectly honest... I really did not say I only have eyes for you and ears for you. I said...
Still not ringing a bell. I don't recall ever going to Mass with the children's choir.
Yes you did; on that Feast of Mary... all the singing groups were at Mass.
I do remember I had arrived late... I made a joke about the men in the choir eating all the kids in the children's choir, but I never noticed any tall blonde leading the kids. For all I know, she was just another victim during the Feast of the Kids' Choir.
At this point, Gracie chimed in:
You know who she is dad; she is tall and blonde.
Okay, we have established tall and blonde... sounds like I'd like to meet her... but I still do not know who she is.
At this point both Cheryl and Grace got upset with me.
You're not trying.
I'm not trying? What are you talking about?
Whenever you don't understand something, you shut down.
I don't know the tall, pretty, blonde woman who runs the children's choir. I understand that I do not know the woman, and I am neither ashamed nor confused by this fact. I don't know the woman.
This battle was not over. Once we arrived at church and got settled into our pew, Grace and Cheryl scouted the woman out. In the middle of the Gloria, Grace pointed her out to me.
Oh, the woman between the two tall guys?
That's her husband and her son. Her son went on retreat with us.
Yeah, I know him, I think. Big kid... went on retreat with us?
Yes, yes, you know her, too.
No, no, I don't. In fact, I was going to say I did not know her even if I did.... but I don't. So there! Are you going to get mad again?
Mom is right, you don't try!
How is it that I am the bad guy here? I didn't deserve that. I was just minding my own business, not knowing someone, and all of the sudden, I get attacked.
This was not the only time during the week that I would suffer such an undeserved assault.
Late Sunday night, Cheryl came down with the stomach flu. I like to think this was God's way of paying her back for the way she had treated me on the drive to Mass. I could be wrong now... but I don't think so.
Anyway, she was completely out of it on Monday so I told the kids to stay out of our room and be quiet. I checked on her now and again, but she was either asleep or in the bathroom. Being the good husband that I am, I even did about ten loads of laundry.
Tuesday was more of the same for Cheryl, but I had to go to work. When I got home, I got the kids fed (Actually, I made Gracie feed the kids, but I ordered it, so I am taking credit for it), and I readied Matthew for his CCD class.
After dropping him off, I attended the first session of a program that the Church is putting on during Lent. It was Cheryl's idea for us to participate. She has never met a church function that she did not want to try, but since she was sick, I decided to go by myself... all by myself... alone... without Cheryl... at a church function... solo... alone... at church!
Certainly, this would make my sick little girl happy.
When I got home, she asked how things had gone.
Fine. It was good.
Tell me.
It was like the first day of class, when they hand out the syllabus, nothing too exciting. Oh, I did get approached about organizing and running a men's retreat.
Tell me about that.
What's to tell... I got asked to organize and run a men's retreat like the one you just did.
That was it. I knew Cheryl had to still be feeling the effects of the flu because my bare bones description of the conversation would not typically suffice.
Wednesday morning, Cheryl was up early and hopped in the shower. I was shaving when she revisited the whole men's retreat topic.
I told you last night, I was asked to organize a men's retreat at the church.
That's it? I want a story. I need a story... something linear... with a nice beginning that develops the characters taking part in the conversation... a middle that begins to tie together all the loose ends... and a thrilling conclusion that wraps up the whole story in a nice tidy package complete with a bow. You give me nothing. Forget it, I have to work too hard with you. Oh, and by the way, I just threw over the dirty clothes from our bathroom that you must have walked over for the past three days. And you know, it might have been nice for the kids to have checked on me every once in a while when I was sick.
Feeling better, honey?
Yes. A little.
Are you really feeling better?
Yes, I am feeling better.
Then can you iron a shirt for me?
I have already done too much today, and I am going to lie back down.
That was it. 7:45 a.m. and she was back in bed under the covers leaving me to fend for myself. This, after all I had done for her.
What did I do to deserve this fate?
I had done the laundry.
I had checked on her every once in a while.
I had kept the kids away from her so she could rest.
I had attended the church thing... by myself, I might add.
Forget it, it is obvious that I can't do enough around my house, so I am going to concentrate all of my efforts on that men's retreat thing. Cheryl tells me the first thing I have to do is to come up with a topic.
I wonder if the priests have any insight on a husband's role in keeping a marriage healthy.
Forget it... There's only one hope for the husband... Divine Intervention.
Friday, February 15, 2013
Funny Guy Friday... I'll see your sacrifice, and I'll raise you one......
Funny Guy Friday is written each week by my husband Mark. So... I married a funny guy...
What a week for our little Catholic family. It is the beginning of Lent, and we started it off with the annual pancake supper on Fat Tuesday. As we feasted on fruity chocolate pancakes, the topic of the dinnertime conversation turned to What are you giving up for Lent?
Leave it up to us to make it a competition.
Matthew started the bidding at electronics. Noah called the electronics and added drawing. Gracie is eating only food on the 17-Day Diet. Matthew and Noah globbed onto that and then suggested that since everyone is doing the 17-Day Diet, Grace has to add to her sacrifice.
Grace is the least competitive sacrificer and strongly disagreed with their suggestion. She emphatically stated that she would not give up electronics but conceded to exercising daily (not that big of a deal because she does that already). I decided to give up facebook, exercise more, and curse less... a trifecta of sacrifices. I don't curse a whole lot, but any cursing is too much. Then Cheryl dropped the grand daddy of all sacrifices... she is going to give up talking.
Wait a second... You can't give up talking, said........ everyone in the room.
Yes, I can... But I don't mean talking altogether. Just over-talking. I tend to over-talk by giving long drawn out explanations. I use too many words to get my point across when fewer words will do. I tend to use fifty words instead of seven. It can be an annoying habit, this whole over talking thing. People need to listen longer because I go over things two, three, four times just to make my point. You see brevity is the key to life... and to humor, but sometimes I am not brief... sometimes I am not funny but that is a different story altogether. What I really want to convey is that I tend to say many words when a few will do. I tend to go on and on.
Gee honey, I never noticed.
If you are keeping score at home, I stuck with the trifecta, Cheryl went with "no talking," and raised it with fasting from facebook as well. Both of the boys went with interesting combinations: Matthew added cold showers to his original no-screens commitment... and Noah will sleep on his floor, give up ice in his drinks (not sure where that came from), in addition to no gaming on the computer. Gracie stuck with the 17-Day Diet... Oh, and she added giving up listening to music. Well... she'll only listen to Christian music, anyway.
Ash Wednesday was day one of Lent, and I am sad to report that things were not going well. I have three clients that have hired me for my alleged legal expertise. All three called to get my advice and all three spent 15 minutes explaining to me why I was wrong. For the record, I was right. After the third call in the span of 90 minutes, I had had enough. It was as if I had no control over what was spewing out of my mouth. Seriously, though, why pay me so that you can ignore me? It seems to me, that people can ignore me for free. Cheryl has done it for years.
When I got home from work that evening, Cheryl was talking up a storm. There did not appear to be any difference between the old, over-talking Cheryl and the new, only talk when I need to talk Cheryl. When I pointed out my observation, Cheryl indicated that what she was saying needed to be said. She also pointed out that after she finished saying what needed to be said, she would go right back to not talking.
I get it... Cheryl is giving up talking unless she has something to say. I kind of like that. I am giving up all cursing unless there is something to curse about, and then I will go right back to not cursing. Whew, I feel better already.
Gracie is struggling because the 17-Day Diet requires that you have food in the house that is on the 17-Day Diet, and Noah spent the first night nestled between Cheryl and me (technically not a violation because he was not in his bed, but it violates the intent of the sacrifice rule). Plus, he was halfway through his nice cold lemonade before he remembered the ice thing.
Matthew reports that he took a cold shower, but we are completely relying upon self-reporting for that one... although I am sure there will come a day when Noah will sneak in the shower in an attempt to out him.
In spite of our rough start, we looked forward to the Ash Wednesday Mass. In fact, Matthew was serving on the altar. We arrived almost thirty minutes early, which is unprecedented... we actually beat the priests to the church. Typically, we sit in the end section where you can sneak in without much notice, but on this day, we had the whole church to ourselves. Gracie, being the creature of habit that she is, led us to our regular spot in the late section.
All of these great seats in a near-empty church and there we sat, tucked away in the late section. The pastor approached, and before he could ask what in the hell we were doing in the late section when all of the prime spots were open, I volunteered that we were there to report on people who would come in late. He advised that he does not care about the late arrivals, but he would appreciate a heads-up on the early-leavers. For the record, there was only one, and fortunately for her, I did not know her name.
The celebrant gave a great homily about how we need to guard against distraction... and be vigilant and strong with our Lenten sacrifices because there is one who is never distracted and is watching our every move. I turned to Cheryl and wondered aloud about how the priest knew our nosy neighbors. Cheryl advised me that he was talking about the devil. I knew that.
Then it dawned on me, it was perfect devil stuff... first day of Lent and I get three back to back to back calls from clients that drive me crazy. I took my eye off of the ball for five minutes and he took advantage. Oh, he is a sneaky little guy, that devil.
Day one was my wake up call, now I am ready. Fortunately, I still have thirty nine more days to get it right. I must admit, it would be much easier to concentrate on the task at hand if I could just get Cheryl to stay quiet.
On a separate but related topic, Matthew advised me that the Pope gave up being the Pope for Lent. And I thought that Cheryl was making a big sacrifice. Please pray for the Church to select a worthy successor. If you want to read about my favorite Pope story, check out this Funny Guy Friday from a couple of years ago.
What a week for our little Catholic family. It is the beginning of Lent, and we started it off with the annual pancake supper on Fat Tuesday. As we feasted on fruity chocolate pancakes, the topic of the dinnertime conversation turned to What are you giving up for Lent?
Leave it up to us to make it a competition.
Matthew started the bidding at electronics. Noah called the electronics and added drawing. Gracie is eating only food on the 17-Day Diet. Matthew and Noah globbed onto that and then suggested that since everyone is doing the 17-Day Diet, Grace has to add to her sacrifice.
Grace is the least competitive sacrificer and strongly disagreed with their suggestion. She emphatically stated that she would not give up electronics but conceded to exercising daily (not that big of a deal because she does that already). I decided to give up facebook, exercise more, and curse less... a trifecta of sacrifices. I don't curse a whole lot, but any cursing is too much. Then Cheryl dropped the grand daddy of all sacrifices... she is going to give up talking.
Wait a second... You can't give up talking, said........ everyone in the room.
Yes, I can... But I don't mean talking altogether. Just over-talking. I tend to over-talk by giving long drawn out explanations. I use too many words to get my point across when fewer words will do. I tend to use fifty words instead of seven. It can be an annoying habit, this whole over talking thing. People need to listen longer because I go over things two, three, four times just to make my point. You see brevity is the key to life... and to humor, but sometimes I am not brief... sometimes I am not funny but that is a different story altogether. What I really want to convey is that I tend to say many words when a few will do. I tend to go on and on.
Gee honey, I never noticed.
If you are keeping score at home, I stuck with the trifecta, Cheryl went with "no talking," and raised it with fasting from facebook as well. Both of the boys went with interesting combinations: Matthew added cold showers to his original no-screens commitment... and Noah will sleep on his floor, give up ice in his drinks (not sure where that came from), in addition to no gaming on the computer. Gracie stuck with the 17-Day Diet... Oh, and she added giving up listening to music. Well... she'll only listen to Christian music, anyway.
Ash Wednesday was day one of Lent, and I am sad to report that things were not going well. I have three clients that have hired me for my alleged legal expertise. All three called to get my advice and all three spent 15 minutes explaining to me why I was wrong. For the record, I was right. After the third call in the span of 90 minutes, I had had enough. It was as if I had no control over what was spewing out of my mouth. Seriously, though, why pay me so that you can ignore me? It seems to me, that people can ignore me for free. Cheryl has done it for years.
When I got home from work that evening, Cheryl was talking up a storm. There did not appear to be any difference between the old, over-talking Cheryl and the new, only talk when I need to talk Cheryl. When I pointed out my observation, Cheryl indicated that what she was saying needed to be said. She also pointed out that after she finished saying what needed to be said, she would go right back to not talking.
I get it... Cheryl is giving up talking unless she has something to say. I kind of like that. I am giving up all cursing unless there is something to curse about, and then I will go right back to not cursing. Whew, I feel better already.
Gracie is struggling because the 17-Day Diet requires that you have food in the house that is on the 17-Day Diet, and Noah spent the first night nestled between Cheryl and me (technically not a violation because he was not in his bed, but it violates the intent of the sacrifice rule). Plus, he was halfway through his nice cold lemonade before he remembered the ice thing.
Matthew reports that he took a cold shower, but we are completely relying upon self-reporting for that one... although I am sure there will come a day when Noah will sneak in the shower in an attempt to out him.
In spite of our rough start, we looked forward to the Ash Wednesday Mass. In fact, Matthew was serving on the altar. We arrived almost thirty minutes early, which is unprecedented... we actually beat the priests to the church. Typically, we sit in the end section where you can sneak in without much notice, but on this day, we had the whole church to ourselves. Gracie, being the creature of habit that she is, led us to our regular spot in the late section.
All of these great seats in a near-empty church and there we sat, tucked away in the late section. The pastor approached, and before he could ask what in the hell we were doing in the late section when all of the prime spots were open, I volunteered that we were there to report on people who would come in late. He advised that he does not care about the late arrivals, but he would appreciate a heads-up on the early-leavers. For the record, there was only one, and fortunately for her, I did not know her name.
The celebrant gave a great homily about how we need to guard against distraction... and be vigilant and strong with our Lenten sacrifices because there is one who is never distracted and is watching our every move. I turned to Cheryl and wondered aloud about how the priest knew our nosy neighbors. Cheryl advised me that he was talking about the devil. I knew that.
Then it dawned on me, it was perfect devil stuff... first day of Lent and I get three back to back to back calls from clients that drive me crazy. I took my eye off of the ball for five minutes and he took advantage. Oh, he is a sneaky little guy, that devil.
Day one was my wake up call, now I am ready. Fortunately, I still have thirty nine more days to get it right. I must admit, it would be much easier to concentrate on the task at hand if I could just get Cheryl to stay quiet.
On a separate but related topic, Matthew advised me that the Pope gave up being the Pope for Lent. And I thought that Cheryl was making a big sacrifice. Please pray for the Church to select a worthy successor. If you want to read about my favorite Pope story, check out this Funny Guy Friday from a couple of years ago.
Tuesday, February 12, 2013
Dr. Ben Carson's speech...
Here is the link for Dr. Ben Carson's speech at the recent National Prayer Breakfast. A must watch! God bless this man.
Friday, February 8, 2013
Funny Guy Friday… My last request(s)...
Funny Guy Friday is written each week by my husband Mark. So, I married a funny guy...
I just got home from a funeral service for a colleague's young husband. He died unexpectedly in the middle of the night. He leaves behind his wife and his two young sons.
His father-in-law spoke at the service, and he addressed his comments to his two grandsons. He spoke from the heart, and it was so very moving.
I stood in the back hallway next to very good friend of mine, as it was standing room only. My friend was brought to tears. When a young lady handed him a tissue, he, of course, pretended not to cry. I, of course, chuckled at that.
Guys pretend not to cry because they think their friends will tease them mercilessly if they show emotion. Who would do such a thing? I thought of that commercial that says… It's not tears; it is the awesomeness leaking out.
As I drove home, I began to think about my own funeral.
Let me state right here: I am not afraid of death. As I have explained to my kids... if I truly believe what I profess to believe, I know where I will be when that time comes. What is there to fear?
No sir, I am not afraid of death.
What I am afraid of is that nobody will come to my funeral. That I will be dead and it will just be Cheryl and the kids… and maybe not even Matthew if they schedule my funeral on a game day. I actually would encourage his absence if he were the starting second baseman. I mean, Wally Pipp missed a game because of a headache, and we all know how that turned out. Seriously though, wouldn't you think that Cheryl would have planned the service on an off-day.
I began to wonder who might speak at my funeral. So, minutes after leaving the service, I decided to plan my own funeral.
I called my friend… you remember my friend… he was the girlie-man that burst out in tears… like a little baby crying for his precious mommy. I advised him that if I die, I would like for him to be one of the speakers at my funeral.
His reaction to my request was a bit off-putting: he was excited.
I hope something happens to you soon, because I have some great material. I am a great pick to speak at your funeral. Plus, I will be funny.
I took this as a positive… now people will come to the funeral just to hear his jokes. Of course, I had to hide my own excitement… Just try not to cry, you big cry-baby-sissy! Awesomeness, my rear end!
One more friend and then perhaps a family member would round out the list of speakers. My best friend from childhood, PJ, could be a good choice, but he really is a huge crier. I mean a cry-at -a-hallmark-commercial type crier. I don't think he could make it thirty seconds before breaking down in a puddle of goo. He does, however, have a brother who would have no problems.
His brother is a former Secret Service agent, once stationed in New York City. Once, PJ and I went to visit him, and we arrived as he was returning from his late night shift. He informed us that their older brother Tim's grandfather-in-law, Gus, had died that day. We asked how he died, and he told us, Timmy killed him.
What?
Yeah. Timmy gave the surgeon permission to operate, and Gus died during the surgery… so… (and as he said this, he laid his service revolver on the breakfast table continuing... in essence… Timmy gave the doctor a gun and told him to go and kill Gus. Timmy feels terrible… Can you pass me the butter?
Now that guy will have no problem making it through a nice five-minute eulogy.
I'm not sure which family member I want as my final speaker. I suppose it could be my brother Jeff, but he tends to be… um… critical. I can hear him now, Can you believe it... he got hit on the head with a baseball. Why wouldn't he just catch it. I mean I knew he couldn't throw very well, but I always thought he could catch. Geez, it hit him right in the head… just catch the thing and you wouldn't be dead.
Perhaps his wife Theresa could say a few words, but I would be afraid that she would make up some bad stuff. I have a theory that she over-exaggerates her dislike for me because she has always secretly liked me best.
As for the music, I will leave that up to Cheryl's mother. She led the church folk group for years, and I would hazard a guess that she might enjoy picking out the music for my funeral.
My final request for my funeral is that Cheryl wear black… for the rest of her life. What the heck, my nice Italian Aunt Mary did when her husband passed away.
Cheryl's response to my final request… I don't look good in black. Maybe chocolate... or eggplant.
Those are not even colors... those are foods.
How about teal? Teal is the universal color. Everyone looks pretty in teal.
You do understand that the love of your life will not be around to see you in these flattering teal outfits.
I'll never meet anybody else if I am stuck wearing black all the time. How about I wear black for the funeral... and then I change into a teal outfit for the repast. I promise to wait a month before dating. I'll still wear teal if you want.
Deal!
As I plan my funeral, I can't help but think about that grandfather talking to those two young boys. He told them that their father loved their mother... loved them... and that they should be proud to tell people that they were his sons. He told them that their father was a good and honest man. As far as I am concerned, that is the highest compliment you can give a person.
I hope someone mentions it at my funeral.
Hmm… Maybe I should write all of this stuff down somewhere.
On a serious note… Please keep our friend Tracey and her boys Daniel and Timothy in your prayers this week. Thank you.
I just got home from a funeral service for a colleague's young husband. He died unexpectedly in the middle of the night. He leaves behind his wife and his two young sons.
His father-in-law spoke at the service, and he addressed his comments to his two grandsons. He spoke from the heart, and it was so very moving.
I stood in the back hallway next to very good friend of mine, as it was standing room only. My friend was brought to tears. When a young lady handed him a tissue, he, of course, pretended not to cry. I, of course, chuckled at that.
Guys pretend not to cry because they think their friends will tease them mercilessly if they show emotion. Who would do such a thing? I thought of that commercial that says… It's not tears; it is the awesomeness leaking out.
As I drove home, I began to think about my own funeral.
Let me state right here: I am not afraid of death. As I have explained to my kids... if I truly believe what I profess to believe, I know where I will be when that time comes. What is there to fear?
No sir, I am not afraid of death.
What I am afraid of is that nobody will come to my funeral. That I will be dead and it will just be Cheryl and the kids… and maybe not even Matthew if they schedule my funeral on a game day. I actually would encourage his absence if he were the starting second baseman. I mean, Wally Pipp missed a game because of a headache, and we all know how that turned out. Seriously though, wouldn't you think that Cheryl would have planned the service on an off-day.
I began to wonder who might speak at my funeral. So, minutes after leaving the service, I decided to plan my own funeral.
I called my friend… you remember my friend… he was the girlie-man that burst out in tears… like a little baby crying for his precious mommy. I advised him that if I die, I would like for him to be one of the speakers at my funeral.
His reaction to my request was a bit off-putting: he was excited.
I hope something happens to you soon, because I have some great material. I am a great pick to speak at your funeral. Plus, I will be funny.
I took this as a positive… now people will come to the funeral just to hear his jokes. Of course, I had to hide my own excitement… Just try not to cry, you big cry-baby-sissy! Awesomeness, my rear end!
One more friend and then perhaps a family member would round out the list of speakers. My best friend from childhood, PJ, could be a good choice, but he really is a huge crier. I mean a cry-at -a-hallmark-commercial type crier. I don't think he could make it thirty seconds before breaking down in a puddle of goo. He does, however, have a brother who would have no problems.
His brother is a former Secret Service agent, once stationed in New York City. Once, PJ and I went to visit him, and we arrived as he was returning from his late night shift. He informed us that their older brother Tim's grandfather-in-law, Gus, had died that day. We asked how he died, and he told us, Timmy killed him.
What?
Yeah. Timmy gave the surgeon permission to operate, and Gus died during the surgery… so… (and as he said this, he laid his service revolver on the breakfast table continuing... in essence… Timmy gave the doctor a gun and told him to go and kill Gus. Timmy feels terrible… Can you pass me the butter?
Now that guy will have no problem making it through a nice five-minute eulogy.
I'm not sure which family member I want as my final speaker. I suppose it could be my brother Jeff, but he tends to be… um… critical. I can hear him now, Can you believe it... he got hit on the head with a baseball. Why wouldn't he just catch it. I mean I knew he couldn't throw very well, but I always thought he could catch. Geez, it hit him right in the head… just catch the thing and you wouldn't be dead.
Perhaps his wife Theresa could say a few words, but I would be afraid that she would make up some bad stuff. I have a theory that she over-exaggerates her dislike for me because she has always secretly liked me best.
As for the music, I will leave that up to Cheryl's mother. She led the church folk group for years, and I would hazard a guess that she might enjoy picking out the music for my funeral.
My final request for my funeral is that Cheryl wear black… for the rest of her life. What the heck, my nice Italian Aunt Mary did when her husband passed away.
Cheryl's response to my final request… I don't look good in black. Maybe chocolate... or eggplant.
Those are not even colors... those are foods.
How about teal? Teal is the universal color. Everyone looks pretty in teal.
You do understand that the love of your life will not be around to see you in these flattering teal outfits.
I'll never meet anybody else if I am stuck wearing black all the time. How about I wear black for the funeral... and then I change into a teal outfit for the repast. I promise to wait a month before dating. I'll still wear teal if you want.
Deal!
As I plan my funeral, I can't help but think about that grandfather talking to those two young boys. He told them that their father loved their mother... loved them... and that they should be proud to tell people that they were his sons. He told them that their father was a good and honest man. As far as I am concerned, that is the highest compliment you can give a person.
I hope someone mentions it at my funeral.
Hmm… Maybe I should write all of this stuff down somewhere.
On a serious note… Please keep our friend Tracey and her boys Daniel and Timothy in your prayers this week. Thank you.
Friday, February 1, 2013
Funny Guy Friday... One word... maybe two...
Funny Guy Friday is written each week by my husband Mark. So... I married a funny guy...
I came home from work the other day, and taped to the door was the word ARISE. Not sure why it was on the door, but I figured it had something to do with the day's home school lesson. Cheryl will use bay windows to conjugate verbs, solve math problems, and do art work, so the word ARISE taped to the door did not stand out as odd. A few days went by and ARISE never came off the door, but still, I didn't ask.
Cheryl's sister Ann, came to visit for a weekend, and, as is often the case, all of our kids woke up and gravitated to our bed one morning...
(On a completely unrelated note... when Cheryl and I were first married, we simply had a full-size bed. We loved it. We could snuggle and hug and all that stuff without any effort at all. Then we graduated to a queen-size bed, and snuggling required one of us to cross over the "cold zone" in the direction of the other. The queen also allowed for at least one other person in the bed, and by this time we had Gracie. Today, we have a king-size bed, and snuggling requires a reservation. I don't even see Cheryl on most nights. Of course, all of our kids can climb aboard at any given time, so I suppose there is that.)
Anyway... I went downstairs and advised Annie that the gang was up in our room, and she should join in the fun. She came up and hopped on the bed with Cheryl and the kids.
The discussion meandered back and forth and at one point, I heard Cheryl explain to her sister that she is doing this thing where, instead of making New Year's resolutions, you choose one word for the year that will remind you to meet your goals. For instance, instead of saying you will lose twenty pounds, you pick the word healthy to remind you to eat healthy and stay active every day. Or, instead of saying you will go to church every Sunday, you pick the word praise to remind yourself to look to Heaven on a regular basis.
After an hour of talking, Annie and the kids decided that they would like to play a board game called Funglish. Everyone was very excited except Cheryl; she wanted to stay in bed and take a nap. We literally had just woken up about two hours prior to this, so one would assume that she would have been well rested.
Finally, we coaxed Cheryl out of bed, and as I trotted down the stairs, I saw that word again... ARISE!
I thought to myself...
No, it can't be... she didn't... no way... she wouldn't... no way in the world...
CHERYL, did you pick the word arise to be your word for the year?
Oh yes she did! This made absolutely no sense to me, so I began to run through all the reasons that she would have picked the word ARISE.
My first thought was that she just started at the beginning of the alphabet and ARISE comes before the word ASLEEP. Asleep would have been a much better word for her. She loves to sleep, and I can attest that she is pretty good at it, too. Many a night I have lain awake worried about the kids... work... money... the future. You name it; I lose sleep over it while Cheryl snoozes away.
Then I thought that she may want to try her hand at baking, so she wants to remind herself to add the yeast to her bread to get it to RISE. That did not make any sense either.
Then I thought that she was trying to remind herself to ARISE off of the couch once she has finished watching Monk after Monk with the kids.
When confronted, Cheryl quickly backed off of her word of the year.
I ditched ARISE.
How can you ditch your word of the year when we are not even out of the month of January? Besides, it is still taped to the door, you know.
Yeah, I was going to take it down, but then I decided to take a nap.
So, what is your new word for the year?
REFRESH!
As in, I feel refreshed after I take a nap?
No, REFRESH is a word that reminds me to do little things along the way... to remind me to REFRESH.
What are you talking about? Take a shower; that always works for me.
No, you are not getting it... REFRESH. Renew. Start everything clean and simple. Just a reminder to myself to make everything special and new again. Kind of reviewing and redecorating and reviving our home and our lives. Doing little things to make our lives better. For example, I bought little soap dishes for the shower, so we have a place for our brand new, pretty soap bars.
Now we are talking... I like the shower idea.... That's my idea.
You are not getting this.
I don't think you get it. Perhaps you could have picked the word PERSEVERE to remind yourself to stick with the word ARISE.
Don't you get it? I refreshed my word choice and picked refresh.
She was right, of course. I wasn't getting it at all. I mean, I got the whole word of the year thing, but I did not get ARISE or REFRESH as words for Cheryl.
Here are some better words to remind her to make my life... Did I say my life?... I mean our lives better.
CLEAN.
LAUNDRY.
IRON.
QUIET.
Each day, she can think, I need to clean today. I need to do a load of laundry today. I need to iron some of Mark's work shirts today. I need to use my inside voice today.
I like those words for Cheryl.
Cheryl just read this and has advised me that although each person is only supposed to have one word for the year, she can think of two words for me.
I don't think that she can post that on the front door.
Note from the editor...
Dear Funny Guy... You know my two words for you are "Love you," of course.
I came home from work the other day, and taped to the door was the word ARISE. Not sure why it was on the door, but I figured it had something to do with the day's home school lesson. Cheryl will use bay windows to conjugate verbs, solve math problems, and do art work, so the word ARISE taped to the door did not stand out as odd. A few days went by and ARISE never came off the door, but still, I didn't ask.
Cheryl's sister Ann, came to visit for a weekend, and, as is often the case, all of our kids woke up and gravitated to our bed one morning...
(On a completely unrelated note... when Cheryl and I were first married, we simply had a full-size bed. We loved it. We could snuggle and hug and all that stuff without any effort at all. Then we graduated to a queen-size bed, and snuggling required one of us to cross over the "cold zone" in the direction of the other. The queen also allowed for at least one other person in the bed, and by this time we had Gracie. Today, we have a king-size bed, and snuggling requires a reservation. I don't even see Cheryl on most nights. Of course, all of our kids can climb aboard at any given time, so I suppose there is that.)
Anyway... I went downstairs and advised Annie that the gang was up in our room, and she should join in the fun. She came up and hopped on the bed with Cheryl and the kids.
The discussion meandered back and forth and at one point, I heard Cheryl explain to her sister that she is doing this thing where, instead of making New Year's resolutions, you choose one word for the year that will remind you to meet your goals. For instance, instead of saying you will lose twenty pounds, you pick the word healthy to remind you to eat healthy and stay active every day. Or, instead of saying you will go to church every Sunday, you pick the word praise to remind yourself to look to Heaven on a regular basis.
After an hour of talking, Annie and the kids decided that they would like to play a board game called Funglish. Everyone was very excited except Cheryl; she wanted to stay in bed and take a nap. We literally had just woken up about two hours prior to this, so one would assume that she would have been well rested.
Finally, we coaxed Cheryl out of bed, and as I trotted down the stairs, I saw that word again... ARISE!
I thought to myself...
No, it can't be... she didn't... no way... she wouldn't... no way in the world...
CHERYL, did you pick the word arise to be your word for the year?
Oh yes she did! This made absolutely no sense to me, so I began to run through all the reasons that she would have picked the word ARISE.
My first thought was that she just started at the beginning of the alphabet and ARISE comes before the word ASLEEP. Asleep would have been a much better word for her. She loves to sleep, and I can attest that she is pretty good at it, too. Many a night I have lain awake worried about the kids... work... money... the future. You name it; I lose sleep over it while Cheryl snoozes away.
Then I thought that she may want to try her hand at baking, so she wants to remind herself to add the yeast to her bread to get it to RISE. That did not make any sense either.
Then I thought that she was trying to remind herself to ARISE off of the couch once she has finished watching Monk after Monk with the kids.
When confronted, Cheryl quickly backed off of her word of the year.
I ditched ARISE.
How can you ditch your word of the year when we are not even out of the month of January? Besides, it is still taped to the door, you know.
Yeah, I was going to take it down, but then I decided to take a nap.
So, what is your new word for the year?
REFRESH!
As in, I feel refreshed after I take a nap?
No, REFRESH is a word that reminds me to do little things along the way... to remind me to REFRESH.
What are you talking about? Take a shower; that always works for me.
No, you are not getting it... REFRESH. Renew. Start everything clean and simple. Just a reminder to myself to make everything special and new again. Kind of reviewing and redecorating and reviving our home and our lives. Doing little things to make our lives better. For example, I bought little soap dishes for the shower, so we have a place for our brand new, pretty soap bars.
Now we are talking... I like the shower idea.... That's my idea.
You are not getting this.
I don't think you get it. Perhaps you could have picked the word PERSEVERE to remind yourself to stick with the word ARISE.
Don't you get it? I refreshed my word choice and picked refresh.
She was right, of course. I wasn't getting it at all. I mean, I got the whole word of the year thing, but I did not get ARISE or REFRESH as words for Cheryl.
Here are some better words to remind her to make my life... Did I say my life?... I mean our lives better.
CLEAN.
LAUNDRY.
IRON.
QUIET.
Each day, she can think, I need to clean today. I need to do a load of laundry today. I need to iron some of Mark's work shirts today. I need to use my inside voice today.
I like those words for Cheryl.
Cheryl just read this and has advised me that although each person is only supposed to have one word for the year, she can think of two words for me.
I don't think that she can post that on the front door.
Note from the editor...
Dear Funny Guy... You know my two words for you are "Love you," of course.
Saturday, January 26, 2013
Funny Guy Friday... For better or worse... but not for renovating...
I, Mark, take you, Cheryl, to be my lawfully wedded wife... to have and to hold... for richer, for poorer... in sickness and in health... to love and to cherish... from this day forward... until death do we part.
I uttered these words more than twenty years ago and have not regretted them since... until maybe this past month.
You see, on New Years Eve, Cheryl and I decided to re-organize my closet. We started off by measuring the closet space so that we could purchase the appropriate parts at Home Depot. It was right there in the closet organizing section of Home Depot where twenty years of a blissful marriage began to unravel.
Cheryl was thinking out loud and talking her way through the math. I was listening and felt that she was making an error in the way she had measured. I interrupted her to ask if she were starting from the correct corner. She ignored me and continued to plow ahead aloud with her incorrect premise. I plowed ahead with my attempts to correct her.
After my second attempt to right the wrong, Cheryl uncharacteristically snapped at me. I felt that this was not necessary and instead of arguing, I said we would do this a different day. I was uncharacteristically calm. Cheryl did not like the idea of coming back on a different day, so we actually began to argue in the store. This is the first time that I was thankful that you can never find a Home Depot employee anywhere in Home Depot.
As she turned and left the aisle, I turned to Noah who was riding in the cart and asked if I said something that would cause my lovely bride to become so upset. Now, I know that you should not include your kids in your arguments, but this was different... I am never the calm one and this time, I was... he was my only witness.
Ever the diplomat, young Noah answered, whoever is pushing the cart, that is whose side I am on.
This can only be interpreted one way... I was pushing the cart... so I won.
Point Mark!
We eventually purchased all the parts and we began the project. I installed the tracks and began to line up the rods. After I had everything just right, Cheryl poked her head in and said that I needed to move the track over a few inches. I unscrewed the track and moved it over a few inches. She then poked her head in again and said that I had moved it over too far.
I moved it four inches.
I know. I said move it a few inches!
Four inches is a few inches.
Four inches is too far.
I don't see how four does not qualify as a few. Unfortunately, Noah was not around to settle this argument, so I cannot declare myself the winner.
Draw!
We finished the project, but there was still some lingering tension.
Last Saturday, Cheryl took Noah to his CCD class and met a friend for breakfast. She had a great time. So, this past Saturday, I though it would be nice if she and I took Noah to CCD, and then the two of us could go to breakfast. I seem to recall that people refer to these one on one encounters as dates.
Five minutes into our date, the topic of my coaching basketball came up. In the past, Cheryl has mentioned that she thinks that I yell too much. I point out that half of my team thinks we are playing offense when we are on defense, so I feel there is a need to yell. She feels that they must get confused because I yell. It is the age old "chicken or the egg" argument.
How did the date end, Chuck? Not so hot.
We barely spoke through most of the meal. I cannot imagine that she and her friend sat there in silence and stared at their plates. What went wrong? We were so happy to be out without the kids... I was going to eat my entire meal without sharing with some bratty kid... and she was going to only cut up the sausages on her own plate. It started out with such great promise... we had both chuckled when we told the hostess, table for TWO please!
I had to know what went wrong. So that following Monday, while getting ready for work, I questioned what she and her friend had discussed on their "date." Cheryl responded by asking me what my friends and I talk about.
Who knows? We talk for hours and don't talk about anything!
Well, there are things that I can talk about with her, that I can't talk about with you.
Really, like what?
You don't take criticism very well.
Do your friends take criticism well? You go out with friends so you can criticize them?
No, I don't criticize them.
Sooo, who do you criticize... Me?
I don't criticize anyone. We didn't even talk about you.
So why bring it up when I ask what you talked about.
I don't know. I was just pointing out that you do not take criticism very well. Like the other day at breakfast.
For the record, I agreed with her... I agreed with her because I am of the opinion that nobody, and I mean nobody, takes criticism well. To prove my point, I did an experiment right then and there... I criticized Cheryl. Guess what... she did not take it very well.
Point Mark!
I thought that things had settled down a bit by Thursday, but then I got on Facebook and saw a post from a friend of ours that read as follows:
Advice to young married couples: never hang wallpaper together. It only ends one way, in tears and screaming. Your wife may get upset too.
Imagine my shock and horror when I read the following comment from my wife:
Forget Pre Cana... Just assign the poor schlubs the task of renovating a closet, and see if they still want to get married on Monday.
I am pretty sure that was directed at me, and I won't lie, that stings a bit.
So now, I have the task of piecing together a tattered marriage. Perhaps we can repeat our vows. Of course we may have to alter them a bit. Perhaps.....
I Mark, take you Cheryl to be my lawfully wedded wife. Whenever I'm right and whenever you're wrong... my love for you will always be strong... I will love you more than you will ever know... despite your yelling at the Home Depot... I promise to laugh and never be grim... even when my team shoots at the wrong rim... It's you that I'll love like a bright shining star... I'll move mountains for you... is four inches too far?
I am hopeful that this works... I kind of like being married. Plus, we need to re-do the hardwood floors.
I uttered these words more than twenty years ago and have not regretted them since... until maybe this past month.
You see, on New Years Eve, Cheryl and I decided to re-organize my closet. We started off by measuring the closet space so that we could purchase the appropriate parts at Home Depot. It was right there in the closet organizing section of Home Depot where twenty years of a blissful marriage began to unravel.
Cheryl was thinking out loud and talking her way through the math. I was listening and felt that she was making an error in the way she had measured. I interrupted her to ask if she were starting from the correct corner. She ignored me and continued to plow ahead aloud with her incorrect premise. I plowed ahead with my attempts to correct her.
After my second attempt to right the wrong, Cheryl uncharacteristically snapped at me. I felt that this was not necessary and instead of arguing, I said we would do this a different day. I was uncharacteristically calm. Cheryl did not like the idea of coming back on a different day, so we actually began to argue in the store. This is the first time that I was thankful that you can never find a Home Depot employee anywhere in Home Depot.
As she turned and left the aisle, I turned to Noah who was riding in the cart and asked if I said something that would cause my lovely bride to become so upset. Now, I know that you should not include your kids in your arguments, but this was different... I am never the calm one and this time, I was... he was my only witness.
Ever the diplomat, young Noah answered, whoever is pushing the cart, that is whose side I am on.
This can only be interpreted one way... I was pushing the cart... so I won.
Point Mark!
We eventually purchased all the parts and we began the project. I installed the tracks and began to line up the rods. After I had everything just right, Cheryl poked her head in and said that I needed to move the track over a few inches. I unscrewed the track and moved it over a few inches. She then poked her head in again and said that I had moved it over too far.
I moved it four inches.
I know. I said move it a few inches!
Four inches is a few inches.
Four inches is too far.
I don't see how four does not qualify as a few. Unfortunately, Noah was not around to settle this argument, so I cannot declare myself the winner.
Draw!
We finished the project, but there was still some lingering tension.
Last Saturday, Cheryl took Noah to his CCD class and met a friend for breakfast. She had a great time. So, this past Saturday, I though it would be nice if she and I took Noah to CCD, and then the two of us could go to breakfast. I seem to recall that people refer to these one on one encounters as dates.
Five minutes into our date, the topic of my coaching basketball came up. In the past, Cheryl has mentioned that she thinks that I yell too much. I point out that half of my team thinks we are playing offense when we are on defense, so I feel there is a need to yell. She feels that they must get confused because I yell. It is the age old "chicken or the egg" argument.
How did the date end, Chuck? Not so hot.
We barely spoke through most of the meal. I cannot imagine that she and her friend sat there in silence and stared at their plates. What went wrong? We were so happy to be out without the kids... I was going to eat my entire meal without sharing with some bratty kid... and she was going to only cut up the sausages on her own plate. It started out with such great promise... we had both chuckled when we told the hostess, table for TWO please!
I had to know what went wrong. So that following Monday, while getting ready for work, I questioned what she and her friend had discussed on their "date." Cheryl responded by asking me what my friends and I talk about.
Who knows? We talk for hours and don't talk about anything!
Well, there are things that I can talk about with her, that I can't talk about with you.
Really, like what?
You don't take criticism very well.
Do your friends take criticism well? You go out with friends so you can criticize them?
No, I don't criticize them.
Sooo, who do you criticize... Me?
I don't criticize anyone. We didn't even talk about you.
So why bring it up when I ask what you talked about.
I don't know. I was just pointing out that you do not take criticism very well. Like the other day at breakfast.
For the record, I agreed with her... I agreed with her because I am of the opinion that nobody, and I mean nobody, takes criticism well. To prove my point, I did an experiment right then and there... I criticized Cheryl. Guess what... she did not take it very well.
Point Mark!
I thought that things had settled down a bit by Thursday, but then I got on Facebook and saw a post from a friend of ours that read as follows:
Advice to young married couples: never hang wallpaper together. It only ends one way, in tears and screaming. Your wife may get upset too.
Imagine my shock and horror when I read the following comment from my wife:
Forget Pre Cana... Just assign the poor schlubs the task of renovating a closet, and see if they still want to get married on Monday.
I am pretty sure that was directed at me, and I won't lie, that stings a bit.
So now, I have the task of piecing together a tattered marriage. Perhaps we can repeat our vows. Of course we may have to alter them a bit. Perhaps.....
I Mark, take you Cheryl to be my lawfully wedded wife. Whenever I'm right and whenever you're wrong... my love for you will always be strong... I will love you more than you will ever know... despite your yelling at the Home Depot... I promise to laugh and never be grim... even when my team shoots at the wrong rim... It's you that I'll love like a bright shining star... I'll move mountains for you... is four inches too far?
I am hopeful that this works... I kind of like being married. Plus, we need to re-do the hardwood floors.
Friday, January 18, 2013
Funny Guy Friday... Shave and a haircut... two shekels?
Funny Guy Friday is written each week by my husband Mark. So... I married a funny guy...
When I was a kid, my hairstyle was closely monitored by my father. He had pretty strict requirements for our hair. When we went to the barber shop, he alone told the barber how long my hair should be. I had no say in the matter. I could not wait to get old enough to go to the barber without the Hair Tyrant.
That day finally came when I got my license. Dad still required regular trips to the barber, but at least I could drive myself... and I had the control. Or so I thought.
Just a trim please... tapered in the back... and I would still like it to hang over my ears.
As I settled back in my chair grinning, I gave the last instruction: Just clean it up a bit, no big deal! I swear, if I could have cracked open a can of beer I would have... I was the man!
So how is your dad?
He's fine. He's cool... no problems with him. Is he here?
No, just asking.
Okay... remember just a little trim.
No problem.
Twenty minutes later, I had a regular boys hair cut... well above the ears, and not the little trim that I ordered up.
Hey, what's the big idea?
Your dad would never let you leave here with the haircut you wanted... plus, he called before you came.
The Hair Nazi strikes again.
I know what you are thinking. Why go to the same barber shop? Actually, as grown up as I was at sixteen, I never even knew there were more than one barber shop in Bowie.
Today, I, like my father before me, monitor my boys' hair.
They like it short, but they do have their specific styles. Matthew swears he has trained his hair to have a little swoop across the front. I don't have the heart to tell him he has a cowlick that is going to haunt him for the rest of his life. Noah likes it short on the sides, with a little spike in the front. He spends hours getting it juuuuust right. It's "kind of a big deal."
We have our regular barber shop where two Korean gals take good care of us. One is named Sun and the other has a name I can never remember, so I just call her Moon. This particular shop is old school, just like the one my dad used to take us to. Sun and Moon see us about once a month, but we are not above trying other shops.
This past Sunday was one of those days that we decided to change things up a bit, and we went to a new barber shop owned by a high school friend in Crofton.
From the minute we stepped into the shop my boys were a bit surprised. It is kind of hip and modern, with pictures of iconic musicians, actors and cars. There was even a computer set up for customer use. My boys had confused looks on their faces and asked... Are you sure a friend of yours owns this place?
Yes, I am sure. Why?
It seems like a place for young people.
How old do you think that I am?
Pretty old, Dad.
Hmmm.
We were seated pretty quickly, with three different "stylists" working on us.
Noah was in the chair next to mine. His stylist commented about his beautiful eyes... hazel with touches of copper and green. Very cool looking eyes. This led my stylist to comment that Noah's eyes were just like mine... except that your eyes are all brown, she said.
Why yes... Noah's multi-colored eyes are just like my brown eyes... we both have two of them... we both see out of them... and we both blink... yeah, we both blink... a lot.
Two pretty girls talking about his beautiful eyes prompted Noah to flirt with himself in the mirror. He narrowed his eyes into a steely gaze. He opened them wide, and then he winked. Then... the coup de gras... he gave the smolder look. The girls ate that one up. In fact, one of them asked him to come back in about ten years so they could date.
My stylist was very nice and struck up a conversation. In the course of the conversation, she mentioned that she grew up in Israel. When I heard that, I wanted to ask her if she spoke Israeli. That's right, I wanted to ask if she spoke Israeli.
Luckily, I caught myself and recognized that people from Israel do not speak Israeli. So I asked, Do you speak the language? The language... that covers it.
I asked if she had been back there to visit. She advised that she indeed had, and that her favorite thing about Israel was the food.
I mentioned that it would be fascinating to go to places that you've read about in the Bible. She agreed, and then mentioned that she visited the church where Jesus was buried.
I didn't say anything, but I may have raised my eyebrows. Then I worried that she would think I was trying to do that smolder thing that Noah was doing. Anyway, my reaction might have tipped her off that she may not have had the facts quite right... but she was sure that Jesus had had something to do with it. I can accept that. I am sure that He did have something to do with it.
At this point I noticed that Matthew was off on his own, several chairs away. His stylist was discussing "product" with him. There is no way Sun or Moon would ever discuss product with the boy. Whenever they cut his hair, the only product they ever discuss is the lollipop that they'll send him home with.
All in all, we had a great haircut experience. And get this, after each of us received a great hair cut, we got an added bonus... a short vibrating massage. Watching Noah giggle the whole time the machine was on his back was worth the price of admission.
When we got home, I did what I always do whenever we all get our hair cut... I asked Cheryl to pick her favorite one... and she's not allowed to say it's a tie. I never win this, but I keep trying.
As I retold the story of our time at the new "hair salon," I told Grace and Cheryl that my girl told me that I will never go bald. I was very satisfied that a hair care professional had diagnosed that I will never go bald.
Matthew burst my bubble when he asked whether this was the same girl that visited the church where Jesus was buried.
I am confident that my girl is correct about my hair. After all, she said it in plain English. I think she also said it in Israeli.
When I was a kid, my hairstyle was closely monitored by my father. He had pretty strict requirements for our hair. When we went to the barber shop, he alone told the barber how long my hair should be. I had no say in the matter. I could not wait to get old enough to go to the barber without the Hair Tyrant.
That day finally came when I got my license. Dad still required regular trips to the barber, but at least I could drive myself... and I had the control. Or so I thought.
Just a trim please... tapered in the back... and I would still like it to hang over my ears.
As I settled back in my chair grinning, I gave the last instruction: Just clean it up a bit, no big deal! I swear, if I could have cracked open a can of beer I would have... I was the man!
So how is your dad?
He's fine. He's cool... no problems with him. Is he here?
No, just asking.
Okay... remember just a little trim.
No problem.
Twenty minutes later, I had a regular boys hair cut... well above the ears, and not the little trim that I ordered up.
Hey, what's the big idea?
Your dad would never let you leave here with the haircut you wanted... plus, he called before you came.
The Hair Nazi strikes again.
I know what you are thinking. Why go to the same barber shop? Actually, as grown up as I was at sixteen, I never even knew there were more than one barber shop in Bowie.
Today, I, like my father before me, monitor my boys' hair.
They like it short, but they do have their specific styles. Matthew swears he has trained his hair to have a little swoop across the front. I don't have the heart to tell him he has a cowlick that is going to haunt him for the rest of his life. Noah likes it short on the sides, with a little spike in the front. He spends hours getting it juuuuust right. It's "kind of a big deal."
We have our regular barber shop where two Korean gals take good care of us. One is named Sun and the other has a name I can never remember, so I just call her Moon. This particular shop is old school, just like the one my dad used to take us to. Sun and Moon see us about once a month, but we are not above trying other shops.
This past Sunday was one of those days that we decided to change things up a bit, and we went to a new barber shop owned by a high school friend in Crofton.
From the minute we stepped into the shop my boys were a bit surprised. It is kind of hip and modern, with pictures of iconic musicians, actors and cars. There was even a computer set up for customer use. My boys had confused looks on their faces and asked... Are you sure a friend of yours owns this place?
Yes, I am sure. Why?
It seems like a place for young people.
How old do you think that I am?
Pretty old, Dad.
Hmmm.
We were seated pretty quickly, with three different "stylists" working on us.
Noah was in the chair next to mine. His stylist commented about his beautiful eyes... hazel with touches of copper and green. Very cool looking eyes. This led my stylist to comment that Noah's eyes were just like mine... except that your eyes are all brown, she said.
Why yes... Noah's multi-colored eyes are just like my brown eyes... we both have two of them... we both see out of them... and we both blink... yeah, we both blink... a lot.
Two pretty girls talking about his beautiful eyes prompted Noah to flirt with himself in the mirror. He narrowed his eyes into a steely gaze. He opened them wide, and then he winked. Then... the coup de gras... he gave the smolder look. The girls ate that one up. In fact, one of them asked him to come back in about ten years so they could date.
My stylist was very nice and struck up a conversation. In the course of the conversation, she mentioned that she grew up in Israel. When I heard that, I wanted to ask her if she spoke Israeli. That's right, I wanted to ask if she spoke Israeli.
Luckily, I caught myself and recognized that people from Israel do not speak Israeli. So I asked, Do you speak the language? The language... that covers it.
I asked if she had been back there to visit. She advised that she indeed had, and that her favorite thing about Israel was the food.
I mentioned that it would be fascinating to go to places that you've read about in the Bible. She agreed, and then mentioned that she visited the church where Jesus was buried.
I didn't say anything, but I may have raised my eyebrows. Then I worried that she would think I was trying to do that smolder thing that Noah was doing. Anyway, my reaction might have tipped her off that she may not have had the facts quite right... but she was sure that Jesus had had something to do with it. I can accept that. I am sure that He did have something to do with it.
At this point I noticed that Matthew was off on his own, several chairs away. His stylist was discussing "product" with him. There is no way Sun or Moon would ever discuss product with the boy. Whenever they cut his hair, the only product they ever discuss is the lollipop that they'll send him home with.
All in all, we had a great haircut experience. And get this, after each of us received a great hair cut, we got an added bonus... a short vibrating massage. Watching Noah giggle the whole time the machine was on his back was worth the price of admission.
When we got home, I did what I always do whenever we all get our hair cut... I asked Cheryl to pick her favorite one... and she's not allowed to say it's a tie. I never win this, but I keep trying.
As I retold the story of our time at the new "hair salon," I told Grace and Cheryl that my girl told me that I will never go bald. I was very satisfied that a hair care professional had diagnosed that I will never go bald.
Matthew burst my bubble when he asked whether this was the same girl that visited the church where Jesus was buried.
I am confident that my girl is correct about my hair. After all, she said it in plain English. I think she also said it in Israeli.
Friday, January 11, 2013
Funny Guy Friday… And the band played on...
Funny Guy Friday is written each week by my husband Mark. So… I married a funny Guy...
Let me begin this week by pointing out that I love the music during Mass. In fact, I owe my marriage to the nine o'clock folk group at Saint Pius Church.
You see, about twenty-two years ago, I decided to become a Catholic and went through the RCIA program at Saint Pius. My RCIA group was assigned to go to the 9:00 Mass every Sunday. The 9:00 Mass had a folk group that was led by my soon-to-be mother-in-law.
Every Sunday, I sat in the front row near the group, and every Sunday I would see this beautiful curly haired girl sneak in the side door, always a few minutes late. I was pretty sure that I went to Junior High School and Senior High School with her, but I had never spoken with her. She would sing and play instruments like the tambourine and my personal favorite, the bongos. I remember thinking, she has great bongos... er, uh... I mean... she plays great bongos.
You know something: it has never occurred to me until just now, that my wife has never once even mentioned the bongos since that time. I know my wife pretty well and I can see her arriving late to rehearsal, interrupting a conversation about who in the group might be able to play the bongos. Despite never having played the bongos in her life, she probably walked in and said, I'll do it! without any hesitation. Even today, she volunteers for stuff like that all the time. The only difference now is that I am the one who actually does the work that she volunteers to do.
Anyway, I watched her in the folk group every Sunday and knew that I was going to marry her before we ever went out. I mean, seriously, who could resist the late arriving bongo chick?
I tell you all of this because of what happened at church this past weekend.
Sunday was Epiphany and we arrived at our usual 10 a.m. Mass. As is our custom, I dropped the family off at the door and went to park… no sense in all of us being late. As I approached the door, I could hear the music and it was louder than ever.
Now, our current church does not have a regular music schedule, so we never know which music group we will get on any given Sunday. We do have six musical options that include no music at all, a cantor, two separate folk groups, the traditional choir and the children's choir. Each brings something special to the table, and each has its own effect on the length of the Mass. Obviously, no music at all is the winner. Typically, these Masses last about forty-five to fifty minutes. The regular choir brings up the rear with a seventy to seventy-five minute range.
When I refer to the Masses as being winners or losers, I am not implying that a short
Mass is a winner and a long Mass is a loser. I am just saying that there are some Sundays when I feel like a winner when Mass is short and there are some Sundays when I feel like a loser when the Mass is long. I am sure the reverse has also occurred, I just don't ever remember it happening that way.
As I approached the church entrance, the music was blaring. As I entered the church, it became crystal clear as to why the music was so loud… all five groups were participating in the Mass. When I took my seat, I told Matthew to hunker down, we are staring straight down the barrel of a ninety-minuter.
The music was beautiful, but if you have five groups, each group has to have a specific role. Each role will be a little longer than normal so that particular group does not feel snubbed. Do you remember the song, We are the World? A long collaborative song that mixed all kinds of music. This was our church's version of that song.
The first collaboration was the Gloria. Sometimes this is read by the congregation. It is four paragraphs long and takes about forty seconds to read. Typically, it is sung and depending on the music group, it will take a minute or two to sing. On this particular Sunday, the children's choir sang the first paragraph (or stanza for all you music freaks out there). These kids are so cute with their little angel-like voices. Then the regular choir kicked in and the poor children were never heard from again. I mentioned to Matthew that it was as if the men in the choir ate all the cute little children. Then they kept repeating the first stanza after singing the second, third and fourth stanzas.
I have been told that this is called repeating the refrain. Next time, I hope they would refrain from repeating it.
After the third time of hearing stanza one, I turned to Matthew and whispered, this is like hearing A Hundred Bottles of Beer on the Wall, for crying out loud.
You will notice that I whispered a lot of stuff to Matthew during this particular Mass. There are two reasons for this. First, Grace is out of town, and she usually likes to sit next to me during Mass. I will make an occasional observation that will keep her entertained. Since she is gone, Matthew was by my side and provided a fine audience.
The second reason is that I can never say this stuff directly to Cheryl because she will reprimand me right there in the middle of Mass. However, I do like to include her in our little reindeer games, so I told Matthew to tell Mom about my keen observations… but make her think it is your keen observation… and that I yelled at you when you told me. I think that this gives me plausible deniability when she looks a me and rolls her eyes. I raise my hands and give her a confused look and just for good measure, I might rap poor Matthew in the back of the head. Cheryl is tough, so once we enter through the church doors, it is every man for himself.
Back to the concert... I mean the Mass. They broke out the trumpet. That is when you know it is a big deal. I must admit that I liked the trumpet solo. It was very well done: it was short, and it was an effective ending to a very nice Mass… did I mention that it was short?
As much as I liked the trumpet, it was nothing compared to Cheryl's reaction to the whole Mass. As the trumpet was playing, I looked over at her and she had her eyes closed and was swaying back and forth. If there were bongos in our pew, she would have been all over them. I swear, it would not have surprised me if she had taken a lighter out of her purse and held it over her head calling for an encore.
Look, I will repeat, I love music at Mass. In fact, I think that the music enhances the whole celebration, and I miss it when it is not there. I have seen first hand how hard the folks work to put the music together when my mother-in-law was running the folk group over at St. Pius. But I am reminded of the time I went to see Bruce Springsteen in concert. I loved Bruce, but his concert lasted for more than four hours. Enough already, I was ready to go home after two. Sing Born to Run and I am on my way.
On a completely separate note, how cool is it that I married a girl from the band!
Let me begin this week by pointing out that I love the music during Mass. In fact, I owe my marriage to the nine o'clock folk group at Saint Pius Church.
You see, about twenty-two years ago, I decided to become a Catholic and went through the RCIA program at Saint Pius. My RCIA group was assigned to go to the 9:00 Mass every Sunday. The 9:00 Mass had a folk group that was led by my soon-to-be mother-in-law.
Every Sunday, I sat in the front row near the group, and every Sunday I would see this beautiful curly haired girl sneak in the side door, always a few minutes late. I was pretty sure that I went to Junior High School and Senior High School with her, but I had never spoken with her. She would sing and play instruments like the tambourine and my personal favorite, the bongos. I remember thinking, she has great bongos... er, uh... I mean... she plays great bongos.
You know something: it has never occurred to me until just now, that my wife has never once even mentioned the bongos since that time. I know my wife pretty well and I can see her arriving late to rehearsal, interrupting a conversation about who in the group might be able to play the bongos. Despite never having played the bongos in her life, she probably walked in and said, I'll do it! without any hesitation. Even today, she volunteers for stuff like that all the time. The only difference now is that I am the one who actually does the work that she volunteers to do.
Anyway, I watched her in the folk group every Sunday and knew that I was going to marry her before we ever went out. I mean, seriously, who could resist the late arriving bongo chick?
I tell you all of this because of what happened at church this past weekend.
Sunday was Epiphany and we arrived at our usual 10 a.m. Mass. As is our custom, I dropped the family off at the door and went to park… no sense in all of us being late. As I approached the door, I could hear the music and it was louder than ever.
Now, our current church does not have a regular music schedule, so we never know which music group we will get on any given Sunday. We do have six musical options that include no music at all, a cantor, two separate folk groups, the traditional choir and the children's choir. Each brings something special to the table, and each has its own effect on the length of the Mass. Obviously, no music at all is the winner. Typically, these Masses last about forty-five to fifty minutes. The regular choir brings up the rear with a seventy to seventy-five minute range.
When I refer to the Masses as being winners or losers, I am not implying that a short
Mass is a winner and a long Mass is a loser. I am just saying that there are some Sundays when I feel like a winner when Mass is short and there are some Sundays when I feel like a loser when the Mass is long. I am sure the reverse has also occurred, I just don't ever remember it happening that way.
As I approached the church entrance, the music was blaring. As I entered the church, it became crystal clear as to why the music was so loud… all five groups were participating in the Mass. When I took my seat, I told Matthew to hunker down, we are staring straight down the barrel of a ninety-minuter.
The music was beautiful, but if you have five groups, each group has to have a specific role. Each role will be a little longer than normal so that particular group does not feel snubbed. Do you remember the song, We are the World? A long collaborative song that mixed all kinds of music. This was our church's version of that song.
The first collaboration was the Gloria. Sometimes this is read by the congregation. It is four paragraphs long and takes about forty seconds to read. Typically, it is sung and depending on the music group, it will take a minute or two to sing. On this particular Sunday, the children's choir sang the first paragraph (or stanza for all you music freaks out there). These kids are so cute with their little angel-like voices. Then the regular choir kicked in and the poor children were never heard from again. I mentioned to Matthew that it was as if the men in the choir ate all the cute little children. Then they kept repeating the first stanza after singing the second, third and fourth stanzas.
I have been told that this is called repeating the refrain. Next time, I hope they would refrain from repeating it.
After the third time of hearing stanza one, I turned to Matthew and whispered, this is like hearing A Hundred Bottles of Beer on the Wall, for crying out loud.
You will notice that I whispered a lot of stuff to Matthew during this particular Mass. There are two reasons for this. First, Grace is out of town, and she usually likes to sit next to me during Mass. I will make an occasional observation that will keep her entertained. Since she is gone, Matthew was by my side and provided a fine audience.
The second reason is that I can never say this stuff directly to Cheryl because she will reprimand me right there in the middle of Mass. However, I do like to include her in our little reindeer games, so I told Matthew to tell Mom about my keen observations… but make her think it is your keen observation… and that I yelled at you when you told me. I think that this gives me plausible deniability when she looks a me and rolls her eyes. I raise my hands and give her a confused look and just for good measure, I might rap poor Matthew in the back of the head. Cheryl is tough, so once we enter through the church doors, it is every man for himself.
Back to the concert... I mean the Mass. They broke out the trumpet. That is when you know it is a big deal. I must admit that I liked the trumpet solo. It was very well done: it was short, and it was an effective ending to a very nice Mass… did I mention that it was short?
As much as I liked the trumpet, it was nothing compared to Cheryl's reaction to the whole Mass. As the trumpet was playing, I looked over at her and she had her eyes closed and was swaying back and forth. If there were bongos in our pew, she would have been all over them. I swear, it would not have surprised me if she had taken a lighter out of her purse and held it over her head calling for an encore.
Look, I will repeat, I love music at Mass. In fact, I think that the music enhances the whole celebration, and I miss it when it is not there. I have seen first hand how hard the folks work to put the music together when my mother-in-law was running the folk group over at St. Pius. But I am reminded of the time I went to see Bruce Springsteen in concert. I loved Bruce, but his concert lasted for more than four hours. Enough already, I was ready to go home after two. Sing Born to Run and I am on my way.
On a completely separate note, how cool is it that I married a girl from the band!
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