Big Bad Wolf

I'll never forget taking my first dog I adopted as an adult to an obedience class. The instructor informed us in no uncertain terms that we have taken wolves into our homes and we should expect them to be...wolves. Not human babies. As strong as the temptation is to want to "humanize" our pets, it's the worst thing we can do, because of course, they don't think the same, they don't "feel" the same, and, well...their genetic makeup is fully canine.

He was right. 

Now that I've had several dogs, both my own and fosters, come through my home, I've come more and more to understand what he was talking about. Especially now.

A couple weeks ago I took in another foster, a mix of a couple of the most beloved breeds, and things were going well - until I took him in to the groomer. His nails were terribly overgrown and he was clearly in pain so I insisted we get this taken care of as soon as possible, and certainly before a pending adoption.

Unfortunately, the grooming didn't go well. I'd warned the groomer that he was sensitive about his nails and she was ready for him. She gave him a chance, he snapped at her so she went to get the muzzle. The groomer approached him with the muzzle, didn't even touch him when, without any warning whatsoever, the dog  lunged and bit her, drawing blood.

She's fine, but the dog's future is in question. I got him into the Rescue's vet this last week to get his nails trimmed, but because of the bite risk, the appointment was nearly as traumatic for me as it was for the dog. Both the dog's placement coordinator and I were careful to caution the staff not even to approach him with a muzzle or someone would be bitten. They prepped the sedatives and took even more precautions to ensure he wouldn't bite when the needle went in. (I think he's fine with needles but when a dog has bitten the logical thing is to ensure it doesn't happen again, especially when the dog is already stressed.)

My foster had to be given drugs twice and STILL had fight in him when it came to the muzzle. He was completely out...but when the muzzle approached he leapt into action. Actually bit the Vet Tech once, forcing him to have to get the "cat gloves" and the hapless (and brave!) VT would have been totally torn up without them by the time they were finally successful.

Indeed, the dog's nails were finally clipped, and the good Veterinarian did indeed deem it to be "medically necessary", even prescribed painkillers for what may be an arthritic knee. She was able to do a good exam while he was out cold (and muzzled), and I'm thankful - because he almost bit me a couple days later when I barely and unintentionally brushed against his bad knee.

So as it goes, my foster, whom I am calling "Aslan" because he has a huge mane and, well, isn't a "tame lion, you know", has a behavioral evaluation tomorrow. All the rescues are temperament tested before they go to a foster, but when problems are identified, they get more intense scrutiny.

Life in the Balance

I grew up hearing from our Mom that if our dog ever bit anyone, she would be "put down". No question. My Mom was raised on a farm and it was unacceptable for a family pet (usually kept outdoors in their case) to bite a human being. I don't disagree with that standard. However, I have come to realize there is room to allow for hope, and that also comes from the same Christian upbringing. While Jesus did not die for animals, he did give we humans dominion over them and the ability to use reason - and training - to properly steward these creatures.

Sometimes humans do horrible things to animals and cause behaviors the animals themselves would not choose if not completely traumatized. Some of those things CAN be overcome. A dog is not a shark; the taste of blood from a bite does not automatically mean that a dog will start biting indiscriminately. They don't have interest in that; they bite for a REASON. Find the reason and perhaps they can be saved.

That is the case with this dog. I'm sure of what happened to him:  his paws and nails were never handled and were totally neglected for care. When it came time that they HAD to be done, they didn't work with him, decided to muzzle, forced the muzzle on (again without training), took him down and hacked off the talons, probably causing pretty major pain. This probably happened more than once, and NOT by professionals, but by whoever owned the dog.

His aggression triggers seem to be limited to any kind of ongoing pain, his nails, muzzle - and anything that would be painful. This is a scary thing. Right now he can't be trusted; even I won't push him if I'm not sure how he's going to react. I'm careful to watch every bit of his body language so as to avoid setting him off.

Tomorrow, I'm taking this boy to the Rescue's Behaviorist for an evaluation. My understanding is that the Behaviorist will trip "Aslan's" triggers with what we know and I guess, push the envelope in other ways as well. She will determine if we can work to desensitize him and give me instructions as to how to go about it.

Years ago I had a dog who was both fear-aggressive (nonspecific triggers) and had major separation anxiety. While it's nice to have had that experience under my belt, and while that past experience helps me to have no irrational fear about the dog in my care now, I claim no expertise. This is very much a learning experience and as this is not my dog but merely a foster, his LIFE depends upon tomorrow's meeting and what I am able to do, with the Behaviorist and the dog going forward.

So...I realize many people have had bad experiences with dogs and may have grown up just as I did, with the equation of "Bite = Death". Please let me introduce this dog to you in the way I see him every day:

"Aslan" is the perfect gentleman inside the house.  He sits on command, is completely housetrained, stays in my room at night and remains quiet even when my usually-quiet GSD barks at something.  I usually wake up to find "Aslan" lying directly next to my bed waiting to greet me. When I do arise he tries to circle and is only hindered by his girth as he's about 30 pounds overweight. (He should weigh 50 - 60 lbs max but weighs over 91 lbs).

"Aslan" has probably lost a couple pounds since he came to me, and LOVES his walks. In the beginning he struggled with the short ones but now tries to lead the way and I have to keep him from crowding and "herding" me on our regular walks. On bad days, as he has maybe a little arthritis in his knee, he lags and may sit - that's become a cue to me to take him home.  For now he's on anti-inflammatories which hopefully will help and I think already have done so!

"Aslan" defers to my GSD (as Queen Bee of this house!) and prefers the floor to the dog bed but still finds his way to the dog-designated futon when it suits him. He's directable and loveable. He loves attention, wants to be petted, knows how to "shake" and takes treats so perfectly an infant could offer it to him without a mother's moment of worry.

The other day I discovered "Aslan" likes it when I sing, but tonight, I learned his favorite song is "Lil' Red Riding Hood", Amanda Seyfried's version. The very moment I began singing he sat up, after awhile started to vocalize every time I stopped, and when I sat on the floor, still singing, he came over, laid his head in my lap, rolled over so I could rub his (considerable!) belly, and then stood only so that he could turn around and sit in my lap to be petted.

This is a wonderful dog and it breaks my heart that he has been so traumatized that his fear has driven him to draw blood from human beings. "Aslan's" nature is to be someone's buddy. He's protective, he's cuddly, and he's obedient.

And his life is in danger; not because of the Rescue or because of me, but because some people in his past have so traumatized an innocent creature to the degree that we may be unable to un-ring that particular bell.

Comparisons

There are some who think the lives of animals mean nothing, or try to compare the lives of human babies to those of animals. There is no comparison. As a Catholic, I know it is both-and. While I give far more weight to the life of a human child, that does not mean that some of us have not been called to the area of Catholic Social Teaching in the area of Stewardship for Creation. I am not a mother, I do not have children. I am Pro-Life and work professionally with religious organizations that promote the end to abortion and contraception.

But in my personal time, because I am able, I find I can help some animals, I have gifts in this area, and right now there is a life in my care. Some human beings in this dog's past put his life in danger through really horrible abuse, and all the work I do with this I offer in reparation on behalf of those who hurt him. I have hope that this dog will respond to training and hope that tomorrow's evaluation will go well. I am assured of support from the entire Rescue.


Everything I do for animals I do even more for human beings, for every service to the former is ordered to the eternal life of the latter.

And since now I know "Aslan's" favorite song, I will sing it to him as often as necessary to tame the bad wolf within him.

Randomness

Thanks to all of you who continue to follow my blog, in spite of such sporadic and non-specific posts.

Let me give you a little humor.

Today, Tim the Director of Custodial Services, visited my realm. I heard him come in and as I was heading out on another errand met him in our "foyer"

Tim said to me, "I'm looking for a missing broom, wondering if you have it here somewhere."

I told him, "Oh, I took it and rode off on it last night."

He turned to walk away, tossing over his shoulder, "Well, ya shoulda rode it back!"

The Mystery of the Open Door

For the last several days, it seems like every time I've come home from work, I've had a door open that wasn't supposed to be open. Or perhaps a makeshift "baby gate" that has been tipped over by a very guilty-looking German Shepherd.

I'm used to her antics in trying to access some baby-gated areas and usually, no harm done so it's not a huge deal (as long as it's not the kitchen!).  Open doors, though, are a different matter entirely!

I had actually been attributing the recent open rooms to my own failure to properly close the doors, and again, neither the bedroom or bathroom had any damage or obvious disturbance, so I didn't worry. After all, my dog isn't a puppy anymore although she DOES on occasion get into things and make a mess simply because (GSD owners say it with me!) ...she's a GERMAN SHEPHERD!

Until last night, anyway, I'd been attributing open doors to my own failure to close them, and this is the cue that I need to give you a little back story.....

Once upon a time...

Once upon a time, little new homeowner Adoro adopted a German Shepherd, age 1.5 years, from the local Humane Society. The paperwork and the staffer there told Adoro that her new pet was very very smart and had a long history of an uncanny ability to open doors she was not supposed to open.


Adoro learned this very quickly the first time she tried to kennel her dear GSD, only to come home 45 minutes later to find the kennel door ajar and the dog standing outside of it with a happy waggy tail and a big happy doggie grin. 


The next time Adoro left, she reinforced the kennel with flex ties at all points, even the door, thinking that as she would be gone for only about a half hour, this would be a good test of the new "security" system. 


When Adoro came home, the kennel was completely intact! Yay! The door was still closed and tightly tied shut!


Unfortunately, the German Shepherd was AGAIN outside of the kennel, staring at her, doggie-grinning and happy-wagging. 


Hmmm.....


Well, Adoro gave up on the kennel, at that point realizing that to continue might actually cause her dog to be strangled if she was trapped in an escape attempt and Adoro did not arrive home in time to stop the tragedy. So it was that she invested in a baby gate for the kitchen to prevent counter surfing (for some reason the dog did not desire to jump over the gate), and pseudo-gate the steps at the bottom to prevent the dog from going upstairs. 


Over the years this worked, until the German Shepherd did begin leaping the stair gate. In place of that, Adoro closed upstairs doors, especially after an incident in which her dog had injured herself during the day and cost Adoro hundreds in veterinary bills to prevent her dog from bleeding to death when the clotting factors were thrown off by the injury. 


That system worked very very well  unless Adoro forgot to close the door or simply didn't latch it properly. 

Until....now...

And that's where the story continues to the nearly present day.

Keep in mind that the doorknobs in my house are the round sort that tend to need to be GRIPPED in order to turn and unlatch.

Well, I had begun to wonder about the open doors, wondering if in fact, there was a "mechanical" problem with the mechanism - was it not latching properly even though I had pulled and heard the "click"?

Then last night, I came  home to find that my bedroom door was open and a child-size scapular I bought at the Shrine of Our Lady of Guadalupe in Mexico City in 1994 was lying on the ground, the string in shreds and the miraculous medal lying neatly among the mess.

When I stopped to stare at it in confusion, my German Shepherd circled my feet, ears back, tail tucked with the tip wagging as she "apologized".

I picked up the pieces. None were wet so it happened hours ago. The string appeared to have broken through stress. There was no damage to the door or the knob. The dog was playing "guilty" all over the place, especially when I had the evidence in my hand.

Thankfully, only the string was damaged - the two main pieces seemed fine and perhaps can be used again.

You see, this scapular is one that maybe I had worn (I don't remember) but as it is so beautiful and comes from such a place, I put it on my doorknob as an act of devotion - both to preserve it and to remind myself of Our Lady's protection, her intercession, and of course, what it means to be devoted to Christ.

I guess my dog isn't really into sacramentals even though I've done my best to raise her as a Catholic and she seems to enjoy it when I pray the Liturgy of the Hours with her.

But still.- I couldn't figure out what the broken scapular had to do with the open door! And of course, WHY the scapular was broken!

Yesterday a storm had passed through, and as the years have gone on, I've noticed that my dog reacts more and strongly seeks my company when the thunder cracks. I wondered if perhaps she'd nudged the doorknob in hopes of finding me, or maybe to get as close to me (via my scent in my room) as possible during the storm, and the door just happened to be forced open at her insistence, the knob turned just enough.

Today changed that theory, but first a little more to the story: 

You see, a couple years ago my dog wandered into the upstairs bathroom one evening and apparently closed the door on herself. She didn't make a peep, but because she was often in my room staring out the window doing her GSD-thing, it wasn't uncommon for her not to be with me in the main part of the house.

Well, having not seen her for a few hours and wanting to feed her, I called and she did not come. I knew she was not outside (no fenced yard so she was never outside alone). I went upstairs, saw the door to my room closed and recalled doing that. But I knew she wasn't in my room because I'd ushered her out before closing the door. But why was the bathroom door closed?

I opened it and she exited somewhat sheepishly as I greeted her. I remember being confused; the doggie Houdini-extraordinaire hadn't made a peep up there and hadn't torn the door apart in an attempt to get out!

I thought that perhaps she'd forgotten about her door-opening skill after nudging the door closed during routine sniffing and decided to just wait it out.

Well...no. I was wrong. 

She just hadn't had the proper motivation at the time as she was quite content that evening, apparently, to lay down on the rug and take a nap until I'd opened the door.

Today when I came home, once again I found the bedroom door standing ajar and the dog acting guilty in her rush to pass me in hopes I wouldn't notice that, in fact, I didn't actually have to open the door myself.

I stopped, horrified, staring from the floor to the doorknob. Was my only other scapular from that shrine destroyed, too?

No, no...the ground was bare. I looked at the knob. No, there it hung, although it was a bit more tightly wound. I reached out to grasp the "tag" with the embroidered picture of Our Lady of Guadalupe, feeling the gold threads under my fingers. I tugged gently...and saw the knob turn. The string was just taught enough to rub and pull the knob to the side, releasing the latch!

As the door opened, I rose my eyes to my dog, perched at the window, staring outward, ears forward and twitching according to the sounds reverberating against those huge radars. She stood at the window I always left slightly open in fair weather to let the fresh air waft in, and there she could percept, as well, all the sounds of the neighborhood including the dog the neighbors always allow to roam off leash all day long....

Mystery Solved!

CASE CLOSED!

RESOLUTION:

* close window even while gone
* remove scapular from door and leave nothing to act as "doggie pull-chain"
* more interesting toys if actually affordable?  (donations accepted!)
* get a different breed  NEVER! GET BEHIND ME SATAN!  German Shepherds are as close as a canine can get to being human - must continue to nurture in accordance with St. Thomas Aquinas's hierarchy of Creation as this is clearly an animal present with Adam in the Garden! Must learn to be more like the dog whose thought process is very logical!

OK then!

A Tale of Pajama -Clad Girls and a Stolen Goat

For a few days now, I've been giggling about a story out of Mankato.

Two little girls, ages 5 and 7, snuck out of their house on Saturday night, walked a mile to a Farm Park (whatever that is, exactly), and, uh...liberated a goat. They brought a leash with them and just walked the goat back to their home along a busy street, wearing their footie pajamas.

Fortunately, a neighbor saw them and thought it a strange enough sight to call 911, and fortunately, since they did look so odd, being so young, wearing pajamas in public, and leading a goat in the city, it was very easy for the chortling officer to find them.

I don't think it was very easy for the Police Officer to stifle her own laughter as she "assisted" the children and the goat home.

Today a local News channel posted a video of the story, well worth checking out!

2 MN girls pull off the great goat escape!

Now I want a goat! (Well...I've wanted goats for a long time, but I live in the city and I don't think my neighbors would appreciate goats in the garage. Or the yard. Even if they WOULD save on lawn mowing fees!

Just sayin'

Serious Air Force Amazingness!

Seriously, you have GOT to check out the pipes on this Air Force (National Guard?) Staff Sergeant Angie Johnson and the rest of the band, the Sidewinders:



The Intelligence from YouTube gives us the background on this incredible force:

Air Force Staff Sgt. Angie Johnson and Sidewinder perform a cover of "Rolling in the Deep'" by Adele. Sidewinder is part of the 571st Air Force Band, 131st Bomb Wing, Air National Guard. They are deployed as the U.S. Air Forces Central Command Band.

Sidewinder is Capt John Arata - officer in charge, keyboards, fiddle; Tech. Sgt. Kevin Maret - NCO in charge, percussion; Tech. Sgt. John Cavanaugh - operations/logistics, bass; Tech. Sgt. Joseph Castilleja - guitar; Staff Sgt. Tobias Callaway - saxophone; Staff Sgt. Ransom Miller - trumpet; Staff Sgt. Devin LaRue - trombone, guitar, keyboards; Staff Sgt. Brian Owens - vocals; Staff Sgt. Angie Johnson - vocals; Staff Sgt. Sean Navarro - Audio, Trombone

If you're not rockin' out with Sgt. Angie and Sidewinder and company on this, there's something seriously wrong with you.

OK, and really...check out that violin and hit that guitar....absorb those drums and return the echo.

I gotta be honest...I could sing this song and hit the notes, but I couldn't sing it with abandon, the proper vocal tone and hit every  note, every word, and embrace it with the same SOUL Sgt. Johnson hits with with such complete and effortless abandon. That is a true gift from God!

Dang. I'd be honored to sing backup for her, anything to bring out her vocals even MORE.

Is Sgt. Angie and Sidewinder releasing a album any time soon?

If I were dying, my wish would be to sing backup on their cover recording of this song. (No offense to Adele! I just love our Troops!)

** ** **

Um, well, OK then, nothing to see here and stop listening to Adoro [try to] sing in her car, shower, or livingroom! 

Move on..nothing to see here...nothing to hear  here...

Some things are just plain 'way bigger than a blog can contain...

From Hell

Spiders are from Hell. They are demons sent to torture us in small ways. Think about it.

My long-time readers will remember a couple posts on the topic of spiders.

The first was aptly entitled Spiders so I offer this excerpt:

Fast forward to my new townhome. For the first couple years, I lived in holy terror of the bushes. They were COVERED in funnel webs and sheet webs, spiders entered my house through microscopic cracks and I considered purchasing a S&W .45 semi-auto and staking out the doorway in order to blow every creeping spider into oblivion. Or purchase a blow-torch. Or Aqua-Net and a lighter.

Every morning as I stepped outside with the dogs, I feared walking into a web that covered the doorway. As it was, they covered the doorbell and made the bushes look like a horror-movie version of cotton-candy. Vanilla flavored. I idly wondered if I sprayed the bushes with food coloring, could I SELL the webs as a fair treat?

Spiders on a stick.

Read the rest; for once it's not a long post but it has the benefit of big, colorful pictures of spiders. Go ahead. I dare you!

You may be asking yourself, "What prompted this random post about the demonic nature of spiders?"

Well, my Google+ friend (I'm not naming him as I'm not sure if he's public or not) posted a photo of a spider sculpture demonically placed directly across from the Notre Dame Cathedral in Ottawa, Canada. The spider happens to sport a huge egg sac crawling with baby spiders ready to overcome the world. Or at least the square.

Or perhaps it is actually an allegory of an allegory of the dragon discussed in colorful detail in the book of Revelation; the dragon waiting to eat the child of the Lady, forcing her to flee to save him from the spider's dragon's terrible jaws.

I bet if we really look at the original Greek, the term for "dragon" would mean:

 "huge giant gargantuan leviathan sickening drooling snapping aggressive funnel-and-sheet-web-weaving venom-bearing creepy crawling destructive poisonous vindictive rabid syphilic leperous flesh-eating hairy scuttering scaling ebola-and-tetanus-bearing kracken with eight legs building an ecosystem out of nasty rotten cotton spun out of its rear end in order to snare unsuspecting or misdirected innocents in order to entrap them in said cotton (not silk because silk is pretty) in order to suck blood from them for eternity just for sport and to get back at God for stepping on the snake that tempted Eve and suckered Adam."

Yup. That's what "Dragon" means in Revelation. It's all there. Really.

Spiders are creatures straight from Hell.

I once had a dream about it, and sin was the vehicle that carried the spider allegory. It still haunts me, and I STILL dream of spiders and spider-like creatures when I need to go to Confession.

Oh, yes, God knows how to remind me of Hell and how I will be spending it if I continue to reject Him.

I will be spending it with spiders, dead and alive, large and small, and I will NEVER be able to escape them!

The worst part about it, is this: if in life I become comfortable with them, that is the sign that in death, I will suffer eternal separation from God in their huge giant gargantuan leviathan sickening drooling snapping aggressive funnel-and-sheet-web-weaving venom-bearing creepy crawling destructive poisonous vindictive rabid syphilic leperous flesh-eating hairy scuttering scaling ebola-and-tetanus-bearing kracken with eight legs building an ecosystem out of nasty rotten cotton spun out of its rear end in order to snare unsuspecting or misdirected innocents in order to entrap them in said cotton (not silk because silk is pretty) in order to suck blood from them for eternity just for sport and to get back at God for stepping on the snake that tempted Eve and suckered Adam with no hope of ever escaping to a dragon/spider free eternity.

In order to understand this statement, check out my eternally-haunting dream from 2007, Attachments to Sin:

I turned away and went to find my spray bottle, a spider repellant, which I hoped would kill all the spiders that still lived, even unseen, in that terrible thick web. First I went to the garage where I was careful to cover all corners and the entire door with the fine spray. Then I went to the large wall/door in my home and sprayed it down, aiming especially at anything that moved. When done, I put the bottle away then returned to the conglomeration of spider webs, trying to figure out how best to deal with the mess.


Even as I stared at it, I realized that for some reason, I was not as horrified as I should have been; I am complete arachnophobic. I HATE spiders, they freak me out and give me nightmares. (case in point!). Yet I was somewhat disaffected by the overabundance of these horrible creatures and the home they had made in my very house!. I thought this kind of complacency to be odd, even in the dream.

*shudder*

Read the rest. You'll never look at spiders or sin the same way again.

Maybe you're still thinking I'm some sort of crank case.

I ask you this: Why do I think this post makes you think differently than you ever did before?

Yup. I'm a crank case. But that doesn't make me wrong.

Think about it; Spiders are a creation of God designed to reveal the nature of evil and Hell.

1.  Some spiders are *cough choke vomit*  pretty  *choke choke choke Heimlich choke cough* in some twisted way, and attract people...well...who are attracted to that sort of...uh... *choke* beauty *choke..someone give me oxygen* !!  Ugh.  That's all I can say about that or I'll drop dead right here on my own blog.

2. Have you ever seen the morning sun, as it rises, reflect upon the dew droplets innocently caught on the predatory reflecting the new light, the dew droplets like perfect victims pearls, revealing the incredible artistic, ingenious design of the death trap ?

[Note to self: get rid of anything resembling pearls. They now remind me of dew drops being sucked to eternal torture in a demon's lair]

3.  Spiders retreat and set snares for their prey, just like demons. All the creatures who find their violent end in a spider's web or outside his trapdoor have to do is go about their daily business of flitting from flower to flower or shade to shade, only to find the horrific countenance of deformed ickyness pouncing and latching onto them in all their nasty hairy skitteriness only to suck the life from them at leisure. It's a terrible, painful death involving liquefied organs.

No wonder they've spawned so many horror flicks. Just like they spawn their young and take over the planet.

4. Spiders and their lairs spawn and then attract innocent children who are fascinated by their surroundings and see only the pretty colors. Just like sin. Sin is pretty too, but it ensnares the soul and sucks the life out of the human who also mistook it for a shiny bauble.

5. The biggest spiders are found in the hottest places on earth: the tropics, the desert. Arizona, Nevada, New Mexico, Texas, Mexico, Guatemala, etc etc through the Amazon, then Africa, the Middle East, India, Taiwan, Indonesia, Australia, New Zealand....you get the picture.

Hell is HOT. That's why spiders live there on earth, too.

6. There are 6 points, the number of imperfection, ergo: God created spiders, and because every facet and creature of His creation has theological import, it's obvious that spiders were designed to remind us of Hell.

Spiders Demons weave pretty webs but reproduce in astronomical proportions; whatever "beauty" can be attached to a spider is merely an allegory for Satan and his minions and his horrific residence.

Spiders and Demons are the same thing and should be handled in the same way they handle us: violently.

Maybe that's why the Saints said we must "do violence"  to ourselves in order to rid ourselves of sin. After all, demons, by seeking to separate us from God, do violence to us, and spiders are, by nature, bloodthirsty, violent creatures.

I will never again feel guilty about "wasting" ammo on a spider. They're great for target practice.

I just wish the neighbors would relax about it.

What?

Growing Up

Adulthood is never what children perceive it will be.

From a child's perspective, when one finally "grows up", they will be respected, have money to spend, get to sit at the adult's table at family reunions, and not have to go to bed when the best shows are on TV or the best things happening in the neighborhood.

Yeah, from a child's perspective, things in adulthood are all peachy and perfect.

I wish it was really like that. 

You know that some days I sit up and think, "Oh my gosh! I am just a kid! Where is there an adult to go to in order to handle this problem! Help!"  Then I stumble across a a mirror, see the wrinkles and sags, the weight gain and, well...the oldness...and realize there isn't anyone to go to anymore.

And even worse, more and more, I find I am becoming like one or the other of my parents, for better or worse.

The most tragic part of that fact is this: no matter how much I aspire to their greatest virtues, I seem to have made my own their most grievous faults. I have become the sum of the fall of my parents. 

Nobody's Mom and Dad are perfect. Nobody's! No matter how well-to-do or how impoverished, every family, in modern pop-psychology terms, is "dysfunctional".  Welcome to the human race. In ancient times and theology that was called "concupiscence", but in modern times, we poo-pooh that away by labeling it with things such as "dysfunction" and "co-dependence".

Oh, fogeddabodit! Let's just get to the point and recognize we're all a bunch of sinners in need of salvation, and yeah, we've been harmed by the sins of others! So what? How does that make anyone a victim?

Sorry, got off on a rant there for a bit.

Every so often, I fall into the Oprah-victim-pity-pot of interior destruction. Oh, to see her big brown eyes well up with tears for my familial demise....cry me a river. Seriously, is there anyone who DOESN'T deserve to be on now-defunct Oprah?

Tonight I fell into that trap for a short period. I thought about how, as a child, I was bullied. Always, in fact. I always had a hard time fitting in, and I think the reason was two-pronged:  Mom had a difficult time socially for a few reasons, and, well we were poor and from the wrong side of town. Dad was a great guy, everyone loved him, he loved everyone, but let's face it; he wasn't an over-achiever unless he was drunk, and then he was living what he wanted to be but was always denied because of his congenital disability. (My parents were bullied as children and as adults, too. Dad died, but Mom continues to be bullied by her own siblings.)

[I don't care what age you live in, but your social circumstances and family hierarchy dictate how you are treated by others. You cannot legislate that away. Period.] 

So...I was pondering my childhood today, often an exercise in futility. Recently I came across a piece of music and if my piccolo wasn't so in need of repair, if my embouchure wasn't so in need of practice and retraining, if only I could remember how to finger the notes...I think I could pick up either a flute or piccolo and play the piece. In fact I did, in a dream, and it was incredible. If only that had been real life!

It was this that made me ponder so much, for my love of music is often met by the resistance of memories I wish I could forget.

You know the movie "A Christmas Story"? 

Yeah, well, as children my brother and I begged for a piano because we both loved music as did Mom, as did my Dad, whose father was a musician, teacher, and salesman in a music store.

One Christmas we came home to...a two-octave organ, totally mechanical sound (computers do better now...far better, far more realistic), complete with set drum beats, "trumpet" sounds and others that sounded NOTHING like the actual instruments, and after only a few weeks of "piano" lessons that took us far beyond what the limited keyboard allowed, both of us [necessarily] quit lessons and the organ gathered dust until Mom finally managed to pay someone to take it away.

That took years, by the way. It was our fishnet-legged lamp in the window and I'll never forget my disgust. I suspect that's why Mom was so enthusiastic after their divorce, to spring for a flute for me when I was finally able to choose an instrument in 5th grade. (In the US, that's when public schools began musical instruction). Granted it was rented, but she didn't put up a fight with any substitutes like trumpet (which I also took up in high school) or clarinet (which I never wanted, no offense to clarinetists!).

Then there took over the concupiscence, the push-and-pull of child and parent as the child struggles to become herself or himself in the world.

I loved music and began singing. Mom loved the fact that I loved music and encouraged it, but didn't seem to understand the sense of balance. She began to ridicule my successes and my attempts, and this was part of her own disease of bipolar.

One summer, I tried out for Community Theatre, having been a member of our tiny parish youth choir, and so accepted the help of another community-involved parishioner to help me in my audition. I nearly got the lead role, was cast as unofficial understudy with a serious role in the chorus...and had a great time! That same summer, in prep for a talent show at a camp I wanted to attend, my fellow chorus-members, the music director, and musicians helped me to prepare a song and gave me great advice while my Mom waited as an all-too-verbal spectator.

I was trying to sing "Memory" from the musical "CATS", a song I knew my Mom loved, so my offering had a lot to do with her own influence. As I learned the piece and sang it with accompaniment, as the experienced musicians and teachers encouraged, taught, and helped me to make it my own, I heard only one voice, that of my mother, speaking above them all,  "You're no Barbara Streisand."

I cowered in shame and listened to that litany all summer. "You're no Barbara Streisand."

I still remember the musicians and one of the actors exchanging glances, pretending not to notice, then renewing their lessons for me. Knowing I wasn't trying to be great; that I was only trying to have fun in an entertaining way; and that's something I could do.

Over the years, I heard that line a lot. As I soloed in my parish, as I was selected to cantor, as I occasionally auditioned for high school productions, always my mother telling me, "You're no Barbara Streisand."

There was a dichotomy, though, as I practiced my instrumental music, for Mom didn't have a comparison. She wanted me to be a professional musician. When I aspired towards visual art, she shot that down, telling me there was no money in it and I would end up on welfare. As we were already there, that terrified me and yes, I knew she was right about that. I wanted to be an actress; not allowed, and yes, she was right about that!

I nearly joined the Marines after my band teacher handed me a brochure about the Marines Band, something I knew about thanks to my uncle, a proud former Marine! It was a great deal! If I enlisted, I could go to ANY, and I mean ANY Music school I desired, on a full scholarship! Because my brother had been around and around with an Army Recruiter who wouldn't take "no" for an answer, I said nothing about this to my Mom, but did to my band teacher. "What's the catch?"

"Well, you gotta go to boot camp."

"Um...no thanks. Not selling my soul for boot camp."  (Seriously, if only I could have predicted the 2 boot camps I would go through a few years later...lol)

When I pondered colleges, and we went to visit the college I would eventually choose, and while we gathered information regarding various programs, including theatre, Mom informed me once again, "You're no Barbara Streisand."

Finally, I'd had enough. I don't recall when I said it but I do know it was in private - a grace she had never left to me. Finally, finally, I cried out in tears of frustration, anger, and sadness:

"Why do you continue to compare me to BARBARA STREISAND?  I'M NOT HER!!! STOP comparing me!!! I CAN'T SING LIKE HER! I DON'T KNOW HOW!  WHY do you compare me????" 

It was as if I had slapped her; she hadn't realized what she was doing.

The reality is this; her years of comparing my every attempt to the GREATS made me aspire to something more mundane, more average. More people oriented, less arts-and-music oriented.

So it was that I left my music, my art behind. So it was that I majored in Criminal Justice and spent four years defending myself against the extended family trying to tell me that law enforcement wasn't for me.

But at least I didn't have to try to sing like Barbara Streisand anymore.

All Grown Up

It would be easy to blame my Mom for a lot that's wrong in my life, but I can't. If victim-hood is going to come into this particular Diego Rivera mural, it's going to involve everyone, not just my family, not just yours.

We all have our stories, and if we know them, we can take responsibility for them.

Yes, I left music and the arts because of constant and overbearing criticism holding me to a standard I could not meet, but I don't regret the degree I pursued, even though I'm not qualified to work in that field anymore - because of my own choices and career path. Yes, I live in a townhome I can't afford because I bought it back when I had a good job, and left it because...it was time, and now have to pay off grad loans on a salary that pays less than peanuts. That's my choice, not my Mom's.

Every criticism from Mom was an attempt to ground me, to keep me balanced, and to ensure I did not suffer the financial and personal ruin of the poverty in which she raised us. I can blame my Mom and my Dad for a whole lotta things, but as an adult....I truly can't blame them for anything.

All I can do is thank them. 

I thank them for trying to guide me as best they could, even though they suffered so much from the deprivation and abuses thrust upon them long before they brought my brother and I into the world.  I thank them for giving us the opportunities they could, and even if misguided, for criticizing us to try to keep us from being what we all hate. I thank them for being who they are (or in Dad's case, who he WAS, may he rest in peace), so that we could become greater, according to God's calling.

And most of all, I thank them for the life they gave us, with all its trials, all its suffering, all its failures, all its triumphs, for much we experienced together, and much, growing up, made us who we are today.

We may not be much, and we will never be "great" in the eyes of the world, but both my brother and I know who we are, where we came from...and it's gonna be a whole lotta years before we ever really "grow up."

Somehow..I think Mom (And Dad, Eternal rest grant unto him...) would agree.

To all you Moms and Dads out there, I speak to you all...Thank you. 

Eternal Love,  

Your Children

Grimm's Fairy Tales Aren't So Far-Fetched

...in fact...they're usually entirely too tame.

I gotta tellya, folks, sometimes a story is too good NOT to tell.

Once Upon a Time...

..in Adoro's Townhome Association, there lived a bunch of average people with their lives and their pets and their cars and their troubles. Usually they lived together just fine among the rules, but every now and then, there appeared some Trolls who moved into the Kingdom, or Trolls who emerged from those who had always been present even from the beginning.

One winter, there came a-barking a small ferocious creature with teeth, making vicious noises towards the residents of the Kingdom, and although the creature [York Terror] was merely bait for hawks or larger dogs, it had decided, through making its owners submissive to its desires, that it was the ruler of the Kingdom.

The Kingdom {Association}, made up mostly of good, responsible taxpayers in possession of their own fuzzy creatures, gave permissive indulgence to the idiocy of the village idiots {Trolls} in the charge of the York Terror, rolling their eyes upon the group as an unavoidable vacuous monstrosity common to townhome life.

After a time, though, the People of the Kingdom [Association] became annoyed and visited upon the elected Nobility [Association Homeowners' Board] various complaints regarding the small Terror, for fear their toes and ankles might be bitten or at the very least, harassed. As it was, they were fed up with the harassment of their auditory faculties and found need to seek relief through the Association authorities when their own confrontations of the thing's caretakers were fruitless.

Adoro, in her own particular consternation, having in her care a large beast of relatively ferocious countenance, found a need to prevent it from eating the York Terror for fear that should she do so, her own dear pet would be lost to her forever no matter how responsible she was. So it was that when the York Terror came to Adoro's door and pounced upon her own beast, she found herself in a moral dilemma that hadn't much contest at all.

It wouldn't matter that the Troll's lack of control over its own York Terror was at fault, no matter how documented was that lack.

Why?

You see, the York Terror was a protected class, and even though it was without control by its Trolls, and had never in fact been trained to understand humans were dominant over Terrors, it thought it was in charge, and tried to attack anything and anyone in its path. Had Adoro's Creature of Ferocious Countenance successfully sublimated the York Terror permanently, the Ferocious Creature, by laws of the Association and the State above it, would have been killed in order to rid the world of dangerous creatures.

So you see the problem, don't you? 

So it was that Adoro, in response to a timely letter from the Kingdom [Association], reported the offenses, in hopes the Calvary would arrive to put the York Terror and its minions in their respective place, perhaps, even if necessary, banish them to another Kingdom.

Indeed, the Kingdom attempted this, but was met with resistance and in fact, the Trolls outright ignored the Decrees of the Kingdom and allowed the York Terror to run amok throughout, thus annoying and irritating all in its path.

Meanwhile Back at the Guardhouse in the Shadow of the Moat

There was Adoro, innocently imagining her dinner, when there came about, once again, the echo and then the bark and then the growl and then the attack of the dread York Terror.

Adoro, having several times confronted this Terror and several times called upon the Kingdom's authority to banish the Terror and its minions who kept it so uncontrolled, was....finally fed up. She pushed up her sleeves, rolled up her cuffs, and took matters into her own hands; it was time to tame the beast and face the Terror that was so misnamed as to be far to gauche to represent the County of York by its name.

Vigilante Justice

Over the long winter, Adoro had obtained photos, had chased the Terror, had listened to it, had held her own Creature of Ferocious Countenance back from it, and one day, the CFC escaped and dominated the Terror as it gnashed its chops at her very door. Adoro could not hold her own Creature of Ferocious Countenance back from the vicious, unsupervised and unprovoked attack of the York Terror, for the latter would have otherwise encroached her very homestead.

Adoro, though, fearful the CFC would unlawfully damage or kill the Terror without the Kingdom's sanction, intervened at great risk to herself most especially from the Terror, and let the Terror yipe its way in horror back to its home as it realized Adoro's CFC, was, in fact...far more powerful and had far less patience for unmitigated yiping  than did the otherwise permissive human content of the Kingdom.

The next night, Adoro noted that the York Terror had convinced, by its terrified yiping, its Troll Servants-fancying-themselves-as-masters to pretend to contain it by nylon straps, along with its Guardian companion. Neither Adoro nor her Creature of Ferocious Countenance were fooled...they knew this battle wasn't over. The Trolls were only waiting their chance.

So it came....

Meeting the Head Troll

On this very evening, Adoro was busy at her work when she heard the clarion call of the York Terror emerging from its nest. Even though the critter had not encroached Adoro's territory as of yet, its voice was one with which to be reckoned, and Adoro was not pleased when it went on for more than the law allowed. After that time, Adoro left her abode, keeping her own creatures at bay, and approached the York Terror and its fellow canine Guardian, in hopes of taming and quieting the creature(s).

Adoro sat quietly on the curb, the property of the Kingdom, and found that the York Terror was silent but its stablemate and Guardian was, in fact, a mouthpiece with which to be reckoned lest one lose possession of one's ankles!

Little by little, the Guardian calmed, and even approached, and by silence and eye contact and basic presence, Adoro was able to bring dominion to the Terror and his other worthless canine companion. It was sufficient that Adoro be present in order for the small canines to be silent, for Adoro is Alpha dog and will not stand for canine pertinence in any form.

Adoro left the venue, contentedly until she heard that clarion call again not five minutes later... 

She returned, then, to the venue, again sans her own Creature of Ferocious Countenance for she planned to calm the Beast(s) and perhaps finally entice their puppets (owners) out for negotiations.

So it was. 

Finally King Troll emerged from his cave and demanded to know what Adoro wanted. 

Adoro explained that she wanted nothing more than the peace to which she was entitled as a home owner in the Kingdom.

The Troll disagreed and demanded she leave the property at once.

Adoro stood her ground to the bare-chested, pants-falling, white-bearded, nostril-flaring ogre of a Troll, explaining quite candidly that, in fact, she RESIDED there and thus had a right to stand where she was, with an even greater right to be there as she was protesting the sound and presence of the York Terror and his other Canine Guardian, well heard at her own abode far away.

The Troll, sticking to his fly-strip platform,  threatened to call the Kingdom's ultimate Authorities, wherein Adoro found it necessary to cite the very Ordinance and why the creatures allegedly under the Troll's control were, in fact, not, and therefore liable to legal citation while, Adoro was, in fact, not liable to any kind of citation, she being a quiet and legal resident with full property ownership also in full possession of auditory capabilities, thus identifiying the Troll's issues as those contrary to the law.

The Troll, having nothing to say in his own defense, fully confused by actual intelligence and actual citation of actual law, stepped threateningly towards Adoro, even raising his fist to order her off "his land."

Had he been green, Scottish-accented, and more ogre-like, he might have been cute in a Disney-style Ogre-like sorta way, but he was more akin to an anti-Shreck than anything else. And in any case, Adoro was not impressed nor intimidated by the anti-Shreck imitation.

Adoro, understanding that, in fact, the Troll was indeed trying to physically intimidate her, raised her own hand in a "stop" gesture, not breaking the Troll's gaze, growling, "Don't you DARE!"

The Troll, seeing something in Adoro's eyes (for it certainly wasn't in her diminuitive 5'3" in.  stance in his great hulking shadow, nor was she making a fist), stopped, and ordered her to move her "fat arse."

Adoro, not the least bit offended, quite ready to admit that, in fact, she has indeed gained too much weight in recent years (and knows how to use it),  with a glint of mirth, questioned the Troll whose "fat arse" was bigger and therefore less worthy of using that term of attack.

The Troll turned back to Adoro, unable to believe she was still there arguing with his bare-chested, pants-falling, COPS-ready stance, only to find, much to his chagrin, that COPS was not actually filming in the Kingdom at the time. He tried again and again to chase Adoro from "his" property, only to learn that Adoro claimed, rightfully the same place and further, that the City Ordinance was, in fact, on her side and she would not hesitate to use it.

Adoro even tried to make a deal with the Troll;  to move his unruly Terrors into his own cave and keep them quiet and then, as a favor, Adoro would, in fact, go away (as far as she could on their shared property), and would not call the Kingdom's Ultimate Authority (COPS).. Adoro  held out her hand and offered to "shake" on it.

["shake" is a human interaction that binds an agreement between equals]

The Troll turned away, yelling, "(Fbomb), I'm not shaking your (Fbomb) anything!"

Adoro turned away mirthfully, tossing over her shoulder, in place of salt, the adage, "That's OK, I don't shake anything when I don't know where it's been.", wishing only such adage could have been proclaimed in a solid Cockney accent as it would have had far more flavor and pertness to it.

Just the same, it had the proper effect and the Troll fled to his cave, muttering, shocked, defeated, and took the York Terror and its pathetic if loud Guardian in with him, to be kept silent throughout the remaining hours of the night.

Time will only tell until the York Terror will again menace Adoro's door...but when it happens, the Kingdom's Official Guard will be ready, complete with cages and documents, for shelters, foster homes, jail time, court dates, and.....

Wait!

When did Fairy Tales get so heavy on the paperwork?????

*shrug* Well...no matter. It's my story and I'm stickin' to it and may well soon have the police reports to prove it.  ;-)

...And they lived Happily Ever After! ..........

?

Anti-Catholic Bullies Attack the Poor in the Lee of the Basilica

Some things are so illogical they just BEG to be fisked.

I guess some people forget the importance of not messing your own house, spitting in the wind, or peeing on an electric fence.

A certain mislead group in need of our compassion and in this case, pity, and maybe a bit of eyerolling derision, is out there begging people to boycott the annual Basilica Block Party. To those not familiar with our area, the Basilica happens to be the most "gay-friendly" parish around, of those that come even close to orthodoxy, so the real problem here is that some people continue to be shocked that the Catholic Church continues to insist on being...wait for it...CATHOLIC. Pretty anticlimactic conclusion, isn't it?

Here's the entirety of the article, found at KARE11.com:

MINNEAPOLIS -- Jason Wermager said the idea to boycott the Basilica Block Party came to him at a party last weekend, [Mistake #1: Always ignore ideas that come during parties for obvious reasons. Have you learned NOTHING from Cheech and Chong?] as he was telling a friend with tickets he didn't think supporting an event held on church grounds would be in the best interest of a person in full support of same sex marriage. [Mistake #2: Given the fact that the Basilica Block party goes to Art, Historical Preservation and the Social Justice Goal of the Preferential Option for the Poor, isn't "same sex marriage" a bit irrelevant to people you're depriving of true justice and charity?]


"It really, the boycott, was just to bring awareness that discrimination to anyone on any level isn't right," Wermager said. [Mistake #3: So why should your cause trump the poor, who have REAL problems with basic survival?]


Wermager said he felt compelled to start the facebook invite, Boycott the Block Party, after discussing with his partner his discomfort about going to a concert, at a church, that is a member of the Minneapolis-St. Paul Archdiocese led by Archbishop John Nienstedt. [Mistake #4: Hmmm....You seem to misunderstand Ecclesiology]


Nienstedt is very outspoken on his beliefs concerning gay marriage. [Mistake #5: Archbishop John Nienstedt's role as Bishop is that of teacher and defender of the Faith of the Catholic Church as a whole; it is his obligation to preach about Faith and Morals, and in fact, the Church's belief about the sacramental and fruitful character of marriage between one man and one woman belong to the deposit of the faith and therefore are not affected by the "beliefs" of a few random individuals who choose to disagree because the Truth is uncomfortable to them. The Catholic Church is Catholic. Get over it. ]


Nienstedt openly says gay marriage is wrong and last fall sent out 400,000 DVD's to area churches outlining his position on why same sex couples she be denied marriage calling it a dangerous risk to society. [Mistake #6: This was not "Nienstadt's" position, but his articulation of the official position of the Catholic Church with regard to Faith and Morals...never mind science and anthropological and historical facts regarding this topic. Oh, wait...he inconveniently made sure that was part of the DVD. My bad.]


It is because of Archbishop's Nienstedt's statements, those DVD's, and the fact that Minnesota voters will vote on the gay marriage issue in 2012 that led Wermager to the boycott. [Mistake #7: I guess it's inconceivable that anyone could possibly disagree with you and not be bullied into compliance with your own vapid self-popery.]


"I am choosing not to attend this and by doing so I want to bring awareness to these issues," Wermager said. [Mistake #8:  Wait! This is a WIN! The Basilica on behalf of the Poor thank you for the free publicity!]


His partner, Alex Zachary, says he hopes this boycott reaches the ear of Archbishop Nienstedt. [Mistake #9: I can hear him rolling his eyes from here. I can also hear his Hail Marys and Divine Mercies on behalf of your conversion. I hope he's praying as feverently for mine.]


"This is sending a message to the whole archdiocese of Minnesota," Zachary said. [Mistake #10:  Umm...you seem to misunderstand not only Ecclesiology, but Geography and Hierarchy: there is no such thing as the "Archdiocese of Minnesota".]


Now, the block party has been on the Basilica grounds for the past 16 years.


It started with it's main sponsor, Cities 97.


The idea was to make money to restore the Basilica grounds and any other profits would go to an organization that provides meals and assistance to the city's homeless population.


In a statement today a Basilica spokesperson said that remains true and that the archdiocese receives no money from the block party.


BT, from Cities 97, wants to make sure that is known loud and clear.


"This event has no connection whatsoever to the archdiocese, none of the money goes there at all."[!!!!!!!!!!]


BT has been with Cities 97 for every block party over the years and says its mission has always remained the same.


"We want to open our arms to all people and that is what the block party is about. It is about love, inclusion, brotherhood, sisterhood and fellowship," BT said.


"The reason we got involved in the first place and continue to do so is about music, the community and nothing else. There is no political agenda and no religious agenda. It is just about the music and our community coming together," BT added.[!!!!!!!!!!!]


(Copyright 2011 by KARE. All Rights Reserved.)

**     **     **

There ya have it: a single ticket not sold equals a deprivation of the poor.

all those who have joined Wermager's lame FB page hate the Homeless, hate the Arts, and hate Historical Preservation. Even further, they are uninformed sheep following a leader who has no idea what he's talking about.

My friends, if you are interested in purchasing tickets for the Basilica Block Party for this very worthy cause, or interested in supporting it by volunteering  or by donation, visit their web page here.

A few years ago I attended and was able to hear some incredible bands while giving to a great cause. If you're local, do your part! Let's make sure the Basilica Block Party remains profitable especially in the face of activist anti-Catholic bullies!

Encounter

Sometimes one has to write about things not because they are so interesting, but because they are so RARE.

I am up past my bedtime, and knew my dog and my foster both need a final walk. It is a break from my normal routine, and in fact, originally I thought to just stay within my townhome "yard".

Instead, I opted for a short walk with my canine charges, so crossed my driveway, passed the lee of the building next to us, and as we crossed their driveway, we all, almost intuitively stopped...all at once.

It wasn't anything I did, or anything my dogs did. As a unit, we all simply STOPPED. And we looked in the same direction. 

There, standing properly on the sidewalk on the opposite side of a building from us, maybe about 50 feet...reigned a Doe.

She stood there, staring at us, evaluating us even as we evaluated her. The dogs were transfixed, not barking, not lunging, but staring. I could hear the dogs' respirations increasing in proper tempo as they, by instinct, readied for the hunt. Still we stood there. I wished mightily for the camera but knew if I left the Doe would also be gone. It was best to enjoy this very moment as it was.

She turned and fled, and the dogs strained at their leashes, both letting out extended yowls proper to their respective breeds. While the sound of my German Shepherd was loudest, she pulled the least, and while the tones of my Whippet-mix foster dog were diminutive, he was the one who made it clear he would be the one who would capture the prey...if only allowed the freedom.

Instead of freeing dogs I knew I'd never get back if I let them go, I continued our walk, with my own hope of seeing the Doe again. Indeed, she stood in the field, watching us, so we approached, I half-dragged, half-encouraging the dogs. About twenty feet into the field, one of the dogs caught my attention, as he was staring  towards our complex.

It took a moment for my eyes to adjust, but there stood a "pole" where a pole shouldn't be: at the intersection of our street and the main one that passed by, like an extinguished lamp planted dead center in the pavement.

With our attention she tentatively moved. With her movement the dogs shifted their predatory radars, and as she raced to join her companion, I could hear the rhythm of hooves on the pavement, even over the dogs' yowls, in spite of the strength required to reign in the predators who so desperately desired to pursue their prey....

Ahhh..that's not something one sees every day, not just one Doe, but two, and close enough to converse.

Had she been a buck...there might have been a charge involved.

Tonight, while the dogs kick and whine in their sleep, I suspect I may understand a bit more of their dreams.

Say What?!

I'm at work today and a bit fried from everything going on. It's just TOO MUCH!

My schedule is in flux due to all the events and I have a running catalogue in my head of everything that needs to be done yesterday.

So I went down the hallway to speak with one of the teachers about one of our shared events. As we spoke she reminded me of some information I still need to provide to her.

Hmm...when can I get that to her? It has to be before Friday afternoon. 

"Ok, let's see.."  (thinking..)  "Well, I don't think I'm going to be here today."

Just as I said this I looked over and saw her expression and realized that I was, in fact, standing in her classroom, in person, speaking to her.

OK, so I guess I'm in today.

She's still laughing at me. I can hear her all the way down the hallway.....

Meditation on Distraction

This morning, en route to work, I was praying the rosary and specifically meditating upon the Sorrowful Mysteries. At some point though, my mind wandered from Christ's Passion and went through a recipe catalogue somewhere in the depths of my brain. As I prayed Hail Mary's, I imagined seafood salad and came up with an ingredients list then realized how long it's been since I've made that salad.

Suddenly I realized I was praying the last two decades but couldn't recall actually pondering the Crowning of Thorns. The last thing I remembered was the beginning of Jesus being scourged and somewhere after that, the terrible weapons turned into the knives used to slice onions and celery to be added to the chopped seafood.

And I was ashamed. How, exactly, did I go from Our Lord's most Sorrowful Passion to...seafood salad on crackers?

How in the world did I manage to pray Hail Mary's, Pater Nosters (half in Latin, half English), Glory Be's, all in apparent praise of a salad?

I wasn't even hungry!

Oh, sure, Jesus said He would make us "fishers of men" but I'm sure He didn't have a chopped seafood salad in mind when He said that.

*sigh*

I'll let you know how the salad comes out when I make it next. I've got the ingredients.

In the meantime, please pray for me. I'll try to pray for you but I must warn you; I may begin with great intentions but end up prayerfully meditating on summer cole slaw, caprese salad or grilled steak instead.

The Joke's on Me!

Back in 1996, I was in the market for a handgun.

I'd graduated with my B.A. degree, had passed the Police Officers Standards and Training (POST) Boards, and knew that it was only a matter of time before some police department (hopefully) hired me. I needed to be able to practice and I wanted to practice and become intimately familiar with a handgun that wasn't just my own for random range recreation, but something that might be carried as a backup weapon, that of which would also be compatible with my likely duty ammo.

So it was that I demoed an HK .9mm, found it to be far more accurate than the .9mm Glocks we used in training, and decided I'd make it the love of my life (as far as saving it if necessary).  While I'll admit I REALLY wanted the Sig Sauer .45, since I couldn't afford that holy grail of weaponry, the HK was satisfactory enough.

Minnesota State Law required that I apply for a permit to purchase which was good for the period of one year. It was further required that I wait 24 (or was it 48?) hours after submitting the application. So it was that on the prescribed day, I went down to the Law Enforcement Center to pick up my approved permit to purchase the gun on hold for me at the local gun shop.

I went to the window, and as I was a Police Reserve Officer, saw a few Officers I knew who waved at me as they walked by.

Unfortunately, I was on a short schedule and had to return home, but when I arrived a friend asked to see my permit so I pulled it out of my purse to show him. Just before I handed it over, explaining the State Law and the year limit, I saw the date of expiration:  "April 1, 1996".

I burst out laughing as I handed it to my very confused friend for a gander, having finally realized the joke on me. (The next day I returned to the LEC for a replacement permit, and then purchased the gun.)

Given the disposition of my law enforcement career, I find this memory absolutely hilarious, especially as I recall badge number assigned to me when I was sworn in a few months later:  Badge #72.

1. **   **  ** 

For those who need an explanation:

My permit to purchase expired on the day it was issued:  April 1, 1996.  [Sure you can buy a gun - NOT!]

My badge #72, received the day I was sworn in, corresponded to police code #10-72:  DOA.[Dead on Arrival]

APRIL FOOLS! 

Synergy

This afternoon I was in the Adoration chapel at my parish, spending a wee bit o' time in prayer, when some movement on the floor caught my attention. I peered at it for awhile, trying to determine what it was - an elderly box elder bug? No; as it got closer, I saw that it was a spider exploring the area under the pews.

Uh oh. I looked up at Jesus, then back at the floor. Where was it going? I didn't want it crawling on me...or anyone else, either. The chapel was beginning to fill, slowly, as people arrived for Confessions and Mass.

I looked back at the floor and saw that the creepy creature had moved into the aisle. It was close enough to me..I could stand up and step on it, but I wondered if that would be right. Even though I'm terrified of spiders and knew I'd continue to be distracted as long as I saw the thing, I didn't know if I could kill in cold blood right there before Our Lord's True Presence.

So it was, as I had my interior debate, that I was watching the spider as it wandered the aisle, and I glanced periodically up towards the altar, wondering about the morality of murdering a spider in the chapel - a spider which had not yet actively threatened my personal space.

Then a man left the confessional and as he passed before the Blessed Sacrament, he paused and turned to bow, and in so doing, unknowingly stepped on and squished the spider.

Thank you, Jesus!

The Daily Show and Other News

It's been an interesting week, and I have to admit, life is always full of surprises - as well as reminders of our faults!

Yesterday was one of those packed adventures, and several things happened right in a row.

Good GREAT News!

Because I've written of it a few times, I'll share the news now: the friend who was diagnosed with what looked to be terminal brain tumors called me yesterday, almost sounding like himself. He'd been to his neurologist and learned that the tumors are shrinking and there is no evidence of cancer around his spine!  He's overjoyed, calling it a miracle, and thanks everyone for prayers - he knows those prayers have carried him through and continue to do so. I know he is resigned to God's will for him, but he's grateful that, at least for now, God has more work for him to do here on earth.

Merely Good News:

After that I received a few responses to emails and phone calls for a huge project at work, something beginning next week, and I'd begun to fear that it was going to be a total disaster. As it stands now, it looks like we'll have more than enough experts coming in to share their expertise for a small group of very enthusiastic children. Yay!

Surprising News:

And here's a real kicker, one that I admit stopped me in my tracks:  I had an email from Matt Polidoro, producer of The Daily Show with Jon Stewart, who was inviting me to be interviewed for and participate in an upcoming show. I wasn't sure of the reason for this, but finally located an old post of mine. After reviewing it, I saw why he'd contacted me; it really did make me look like a female William Donohue. Although the information in the post is something with which I still agree, it was quite inflammatorily stated - most of it lacking charity. Granted, at the time that's how I was writing, but over the years my tone has greatly changed. Guess I grew up a bit.

So I pondered this and talked it over with friends, pondered some more, and this evening sent an email back to Mr. Polidoro explaining I'd really have nothing to offer him, thanked him for the invitation, but no, not interested. He sent me back a nice response. Done.

How ironic; when I was a child, I wanted to be an actress, I wanted a career on television, I wanted to be "famous". And here an opportunity comes to my very doorstep and what do I do? Say no. Life is funny, isn't it?

Of course, it's not that a single involvement in a popular cable television show would by any means bring me fame, but rather, I recognize how many people are "dying" for such an invitation and would probably be floored that I would turn it down. So, in the words of Eeyore, "Thanks for noticin' me"!  :-)
Y'all....it is a blessing to be Catholic!

Now...if I could just get over this writer's block....

Overheard in Adoro's World - Christmas Edition

I had a wonderful Christmas with my family - lots of fun, lots of laughs. As always, I was blown away by my brother's generosity and of course, friendship, especially as we re-hashed old times! (We didn't always get along....)  ;-)

However, one of the high points, I have to admit, was a simple comedic moment, one of those moments one grasps and savors, wishing it had been captured in all its context and bottled so as to be let out and enjoyed for years to come.

All weekend long, Mom was focused on cranberries and turkey - she was going to make cranberries and had forgotten to purchase them before she'd come to The Cities for Christmas.  As my brother and I had to run out on Thursday to pick up a few items, we put cranberries on the list.  Mom was insistent, for she was going to make cranberries to go with the Turkey soup my brother was going to make from (frozen) leftovers from Thanksgiving.

I was a bit confused as we were not having turkey for Christmas itself, but clearly Mom wanted cranberries, therefore she would have them!

We duly picked them up and assured Mom several times over the next few days that they were in the fridge, awaiting her ministrations in order to serve with the turkey she also apparently desired.

On Sunday evening, Mom suddenly recalled she had been going to make cranberries, and they HAD to be cooked or they would go bad. So it was that instead of getting ready for bed, she was in the kitchen, cooking.  She asked about the turkey and soup, wondering why he hadn't cooked it as originally planned. This became a very big topic as she had been going on about this leftover turkey all weekend yet, it had not emerged from the freezer.

My brother solicitously asked if he should get out the turkey for a late supper; he suggested that if she didn't want to wait for soup, he could heat it up for sandwiches to have with her cranberries.

A conversation ensued regarding the cranberries and turkey, Mom suddenly complaining about having to make the cranberries if we weren't having the turkey after all.

Brother:  "But Mom, I thought you wanted turkey and cranberries?"

Mom:  "No, I don't want turkey. I don't even like turkey!"

In the meantime, I was in the living room overhearing all of this, and at that bombshell of a revelation, nearly experienced wine shooting from my nose. Mom had no idea why my brother's girlfriend and I were laughing so hard.

My brother simply stepped out of the kitchen and approached, smiling, amused at our fits of giggles while Mom stood there, confused, proclaiming how much she hated turkey even though she was only making the cranberries to go with the turkey she so desperately hated.

Ah....family!

Fire PSA and Warning

It's no secret that we here in the Midwest got a whole boatload of snow, everywhere, containing and followed by a whole lot of wind that created a bunch of really interesting drifts.

For the most part, the snow has been moved out of the way by the City or County or State (depending on where you live) but the government is not responsible for your own personal property.

I can't even COUNT the number of houses I have passed on residential streets in my last two weeks of travel about the Twin Cities in Minnesota, that have front doors blocked by those original drifts.

Look, Homeowners, I know what you're thinking:

You only shoveled your garage door or your ailing/elderly/young single mother's driveway because it's all you/they use and is critical to you/them.  I'm the same way...most of my coming and going is through my garage door, or, well, if I had a house with an unattached garage, I'd be using the door off the driveway.

Very few people actually USE their front doors, and as such, that door in a single family home is usually very neglected.

You're risking your life and the lives of your entire family to ignore that door.

Imagine This:

One night you wake up to the sound of your intact smoke alarms, and slowly, you realize the acrid scent being registered in your nostrils, tastebuds, and throat belongs to an actual fire in your castle.

You realize that the fire is coming from a burner left on in the kitchen, and while you don't recall leaving that burner on, nor does your husband/wife or children, there it was, and it has alighted some oil that was not cleaned off the stove, and that heat caught a picture on fire - one your daughter gave you tonight which you planned to hang on the refrigerator in the morning.

Instead, that picture acted as a wick and transferred the rapid oxidation to the curtains over the sink, which set the boxes intended for the Franciscan Friars of the Renewal alight...and their contents...and spread to the other curtains on the other kitchen window, the door, and the rug you purchased in Africa on your honeymoon.

That same fire sends a spark and alights your Christmas tree, blocking your exit through the garage door and/or side door while it sets the other continuous decorations alight.

Your only way out is the front door, and you go about waking and herding your family towards the front door - the only exit.

Yet when you get there, you are faced with a mountain of snow you never bothered to shovel, even though that storm was 2 weeks ago almost to the day, and it's completely blocking the door. You can toss your newborn out through the crack, but is that a GOOD idea when he sinks through the snow and then the heat from the house causes the tip of the drift to collapse upon him, covering him in an avalanche?

In the meantime...

The Fire Department arrives and approaches your house, watching as they hook up the Engine to the closest hydrant, which they have to take several minutes to locate and then dig out since neither you nor your neighbors did so.

It takes them awhile to do this, even as they try to lay a tank line to the most accessible door, including the consideration of the most likely place for survivors.  They look at the side door and lay a line there, but realize that if they open that door, they might actually directly cause the deaths of anyone inside, and of course, can't actually ENTER there....so they look to the front door...which is covered by snow.

They can't hear the cries of the baby you tossed beneath the roar of the consuming fire. They don't know he's there no matter how loudly you scream because they can't hear you either, between the fire, the engines, their turnout gear and the sound of air from their tanks.

Realizing they have no entrance from the plowed area, they try to access the blocked front door,  and the windows...but they can't get there through the drifts and the powerful hose really just turns snow into powerful waves of ice in your front lawn, forming bars against your house while you kneel on the floor, pounding against what you thought was an exit, sinking further and further, trying to protect your children from the encroaching smoke and heat.

You gasp your last breaths as you watch the pulsating blue and red lights glow through the drift you didn't bother to shovel, and that's where you realize your children are now too late to save.

Across the Street

Mr. Neighbor a la Snowblower stands, in shock, watching the Fire Department try to access your home. He's the one who happened to be awake and called at 1:00 am, and he's the same guy you spoke with regarding the snowdrift blocking your front door. He has one to match, because neither of you thought it important since neither of you has EVER used the front door of your home but for an occasional formal event.

Yet Mr. Neighbor stands there, horrified, witnessing this sin of omission as the Fire Department labors through your front lawn to get to a door, a window, and the newborn encapsulated in a drift that should never have been present.

He watches the Fire Department labor through the stuff he could have eliminated, and watches you and your dead family being brought on stretchers through the snow, just as the light comes into the sky, and gives his testimony to the police and to the NEWS...all for want of a little flat tool that would have prevented that mass-family funeral he will attend  a couple days after Christmas.

And none of your family or friends will remember Christmas the same way again, for instead of the birth of Christ, they will remember the drift of snow over the doorway to life and they will forever recall your absence...your stupid, stupid absence.

SHOVEL OUT YOUR FRONT DOORS, PEOPLE! 

Exercises in Humility

Sometimes God throws curve balls, not just to keep us on our toes, but also to remind us Who is really in charge, and to teach us to depend a little more on him. These experiences, although often painful, sometimes embarrassing, sometimes humorous (or all three) have other side effects, if you will:  gratitude, fortitude and of course...wisdom. 

This morning as I got ready for work, I was planning my day. I have a lot to accomplish with an event this weekend, and since I'm off tomorrow I need to be certain all my ducks are in a row so that I don't walk into a disaster on Saturday morning.

As I left my house, I grabbed a couple things to have for lunch, considered getting an oil change (I'm way overdue) and realized that I had to stop and get gas - not something I could put off any longer.

I locked  up, got into my car, set my bag of stuff on the seat next to me and as the car came on, so did the radio, tuned to Classic NPR and playing my favorite flute concerto. Normally I begin praying the rosary as I leave my driveway, and if I have to get gas, I get it from the station around the corner. But this morning, because that music was playing, I decided not to stop for gas. I evaluated the gauge and judged that I probably had enough juice to get me to a gas station near my work. That left me free to enjoy the incredible music.

Exercist  #1:   I wasn't free

All the way to work, I kept staring at the gas gauge, wondering if I should get off this or that exit to a nearby gas station. I began to "plan" what to do if it dropped lower than I expected. Surely enough, as I neared my possible exits closest to work, the gauge dropped and I "knew" the gas light was going to come on at any moment. That was the first time I began to pray since I'd entered the car.

"Please, God, just let me get to the gas station...give me enough to get there."   I watched the gauge bob up a little bit, as if a little injection were just given. I drove conservatively, doing all I knew to preserve what I had.

My prayer did not cease until I turned into the gas station lot and pulled up to one of the pumps. I turned off my car, breathed a sigh of relief and turned off the car.

Exercise #2:   Poverty

That's when I turned to my bag and reached in for my purse - which wasn't there. 

I stared into the bag, seeing my Liturgy of the Hours, a binder, my work keys, my lunch - but no purse.

It was slowly dawning on me that I had no money, no cell phone, and....no gas.

Uh oh!

I looked at my watch. I knew my supervisor was going to a meeting, one I had decided not to attend because of things I needed to accomplish in the office.

I was going to call her, but then recalled that without my cell, I didn't have her phone numbmer.

Uh oh!

What to do?

Exercise #3:  Humility

Taking a deep breath, I walked into the gas station and got in line. I had only a little change, not enough for the pay phone and certainly not enough for multiple calls.

I explained to the clerk that I had a bit of a weird problem and needed assistance. No purse, no money, no cell, no gas. She called her manager to the front and I explained the predicament to him, greatly embarrassed.

Although I grew up poor, I'm not sure I ever "felt" our poverty so much as I did in that very moment. I was walking into a business I had intended to patronize only to hold out my hand and ask for spare change.

I explained where I worked and that I just needed to use the phone to contact them to ask for help both to reach my supervisor's cell, or to ask one of them in the office to come help me.  I tried to hide my interior cringe, realizing how far this little episode was already spreading.

Thankfully he was very helpful, gave me the store's cordless phone and stood by while I called 411 at his direction (they didn't have a phone book that had my work city in it & I don't have the main number memorized!). 

I called the front desk, explained to the receptionist my strandedness and poorness, and she gave me my supervisor's cell number, but also told me to call her back if I couldn't reach her. She said that someone in the office would be able to help. I thanked her and tried twice to reach my boss - no luck, and it's not as if she could reach me where I was! I did explain the "back-up" plan and told her not to worry if we didn't connect, just said I'd try later. Which I did - no luck.

I called the parish office back and told the receptionist I was still stranded. She transferred me to the business administrator who said he'd come to the gas station to release me from gas station purgatory. (My words, not his). 

I handed the phone to the clerk and thanked her for their help and said my assistance was on the way.

Upon returning to my car, I continued to stare at my bag, wondering how I could possibly NOT have my purse? How could that be? How did I leave it home? WHERE WAS IT?

*sigh*

My "savior" soon arrived, filled my tank and told me to just write him a check when I next returned to work (ostensibly with my purse this time). He said that he'd been in a similar boat before and thought it nothing to offer a little assistance.

When I arrived at work, I had a message from my boss who had called the parish office and learned I was already being assisted. She told me that she was going to start sending me messages to remember my stuff every day. (Yesterday I left my work keys home).

Yes, that's life.

Obviously God judged that I was in need of humility today. But because of that lesson, I'm also incredibly grateful that I have people in my life so willing to come to my assistance, that I didn't run out of gas on the freeway with no ability to call for help along with the money to pay for it, and that, well, I have a job, for even though I am poor, at least I (usually) have enough for what I need without having to beg every day.

Thank you, Lord.

Stop laughing!