Oh, the Humanity!

Crystal's comment to my last post about navigating the marble stairs in heels brought back a painful memory. Crystal, you are so very, very cruel.

A few years ago, I bought these really hot black ankle boots at Marshall's on clearance for $15. $15!!! Of course, it was the end of the season, so I couldn't wear them immediately, but I wasn't about to leave them on the rack for that price. So I waited and waited all summer and fall to break them out. They had about a 3" heel, and the added height made me look at least 10 pounds thinner (or so I told myself). So when the moment was right, I broke them out and put them on under a pair of long, gray trousers. It snowed a little that day, so I parked near the door to the main Capitol building. The boots were hot, but they weren't practical -- I didn't want to risk slipping in the parking lot on the ice and breaking my neck! I gingerly crept up the walkway to the door, wiped my feet on the rug, and stepped out into the marble hallway. I walked about 30 or 40 feet down the cold, hard floor and even managed to navigate 3 steps before I stepped in a little spot of water. My heel -- all 3" of it -- slipped out from under me, and my arms started flailing around in an awkward attempt to regain my balance. To my relief, I didn't fall backwards...but then, to my horror, I fell forward. As I slid down the polished marble hallway on my stomach for about 6 or 8 feet (oh, yes, it's true), my lipstick and a couple of other personal effects popped out of my purse. I got to my feet as quickly as possible, not even stopping to make sure I hadn't broken anything. Without making eye contact, I assessed the humiliation factor and determined that at least 3 people had seen my little display of grace. I quickly picked up my bags as a lady retrieved my lipstick for me. She said, "Are you OK, honey?" I laughed half-heartedly and said, "Oh, I'm fine. Just fine. Stupid boots! Heh...heh...huuuuuuuuuuh." I would've loved to sprint to the safety of the elevator, but who could run in those stupid, cheap, hooker heels! Needless to say, I never wore them again.

Sure...OK...

I have this pet peeve -- I hate it when people get on the elevator on the first floor at the Capitol (or is it Capital, I never know) and then only ride to the second floor. Seriously? They can't just walk one little flight of stairs? I'm going all the way to the top, and I'm usually running late in the mornings, so I cannot afford the extra stop! And I'm sorry, but unless you're (a) physically disabled or have some other mobility problem, (b) ill, or (c) suffering from cardiac or respiratory distress, then there is no good reason for you to ride the elevator one floor! I really hate it when some young, spry, physically fit person pushes that "2" button.

Well, one spring, I had the misfortune of riding the elevator nearly every morning with some bubbly, hippy-dippy girl who wore hats every day and only ever rode to the second floor. She was about my age (29 at the time) and seemed perfectly fit. I bet she did pilates even! So why -- why -- could she not walk one little flight of stairs? I couldn't help myself, and one day, after she pushed the "2" button, I said, "You know, I don't understand why people don't just walk the steps if they're only going to the second floor. Are people really that lazy?" (OK, maybe I was a tad bit PMS'y that day.) She looked at me as if the reason were perfectly clear and said, "But it's raining outside today." I was so confused and flabbergasted by her response that I just stood there, staring at her as she stepped through the doors and into the ether of the second floor.

Bliss, Revisited

I have always been a sort of anxious person. Whether it's waiting for my sister at the airport or waiting for something to arrive in the mail or waiting for the light to turn green -- I was just anxious. All the time. I think it was always a fear of the unknown. What if the plane doesn't land? What if the letter I'm waiting for contains bad news? What if I get creamed pulling through the intersection? That's not to say that I consciously thought about any of those things. I didn't. But there was this little twisty knot in the pit of my stomach -- this cynicism, this aching negativity that there may be something bad waiting around the corner. Worrying about it brought on the anxiety. So I always thought, It would be better just to know what the future holds. And if you had asked me a year ago if I would like to know what was in store, I would've quickly said "yes." It's better to know, right? Then there are no surprises. You know what to expect, and you can prepare yourself.

I was thinking today, though, about Mike. I was thinking about family vacations and baseball games in the field and just everyday memories; and I thought, We had no idea. It never, ever crossed any of our minds -- least of all Mike's -- that it would all be over before he ever saw his 45th birthday. I wondered if it would have been better to know. Maybe we could have lived our lives with more meaning somehow. Maybe we would have said things that we didn't say. Maybe we would have loved each other more. Never once did it cross my mind that we might have prevented his death. I guess somewhere deep down I know it was just meant to be, I don't know. But after thinking about it all, what I do know, without any doubt, is that it would not have been better to know what lay ahead. Had I known, had he known, had anybody known, we wouldn't have been able to enjoy any of those moments. They would have all been tinged with melancholy and grief. Maybe we would have said or done something different, but we absolutely would not have lived life with Mike any more fully than we did. Ignorance was bliss. We just lived for the moment. And I am so thankful that I didn't know because I was able to enjoy every moment of every day up until the last year, and I have 32 years of bliss to look back on and help me get through.

So I don't want to know anymore. I'm still anxious and afraid, but I would rather not know and just enjoy whatever time any of us have left. I guess that's one of the gifts that Michael left me.

My Turn

I was tagged by the Law Chick. How did that clever girl know that I needed the distraction?

Four Jobs I have had:
A. bank teller
B. resident assistant
C. waitress
D. law clerk

4 places I’ve been:
A. Beaver Creek, CO
B. Italy
C. Disney World
D. Niagara Falls

4 movies I’ve watched over and over:
A. Sleepless in Seattle
B. My Best Friend's Wedding
C. The Last of the Mohicans
D. Pretty Woman

4 shows I watch:
A. Chuck
B. Pushing Daisies
C. Project Runway
D. Lost (4 straight episodes tonight!)

4 places I’d rather be right now:
A. my mom's house
B. Florence, Italy
C. Boston
D. back in 1984

4 favorite things to eat:
A. Boo's from-scratch chocolate cake with peanut butter frosting
B. Rocco's lobster ravioli
C. Hibachi's General Tso's chicken
D. Rocco's triple layer cake (Italian creme, chocolate mocha, and mandarin orange)

4 places I’ve lived:
A. Kingwood, WV
B. Bridgewater, VA
C. Morgantown, WV
D. Huntington, WV

4 things I look forward to this new year:
A. paying down debt
B. going to Boston
C. spring
D. WVU football (186 days!)

Let's see...I tag Kim, Susie, Janice, and Janie.

Isn't It Romantic?

You may have heard of a certain "It Girl" named Katherine Heigl. Unless you've been living under a rock for the last two years, you'd probably recognize her as Izzy from ABC's "Grey's Anatomy" and more recently as Jane from "27 Dresses." She's a lovely if not slightly unpolished ingenue who has a bad habit of sticking her foot in her mouth (attacking the boorish chauvinism of "Knocked Up"...in which she starred), but who is always forgiven because of her bright smile and sunny personality. Anyway, you may have heard that she recently married pop singer Josh Kelley, whom she met while starring in the video for his one and only hit, "Only You." Awwww...how romantic, right? WRONG!

Have you ever really listened to the lyrics to "Only You"? Well, I have. And it's not romantic! At first it's kind of cheesy: "I'm reeling in/I gotcha on my line/You won't swim away this time." Maybe being compared to a trout is kind of endearing...if you're an outdoorsy sort of girl. But then he starts belting out such lines as "You know the game/You're wearing it/And you make the rules/I'm breaking out/And it's feeling good/For sure, you can't deny" and "Cause you started it/And you seem into it/Don't you dare act surprised" followed by a reference to sex, ending with the admonition, "So don't go act all sweetness/'Cause honey that's not right/C'mon you know what is on my mind." Are you getting from this what I'm getting from this? It's totally about date rape! What he's saying is, "Hey, you're dressed like 'ho and you're dancing all up in my grill, so now you have to put out." Nothing about date rape is romantic. Katherine, what were you thinking?

P.S. If you're a reader of my old myspace blog, then, no, you're not crazy. I've written about this before.

P.P.S. Youtube strikes again! As much as I love KH, girlfriend can't dance. Was she even listening to this song when they were filming her dance scenes?

What the Junk -- Baby Names Edition

There is nothing I hate more than when people take perfectly normal and boringly traditional names and give them some sort of funky spelling, like Emalee or Cinndee or something equally goofy. I mean, come on. If you really want your child to have a unique name that badly, then don't name her Emily or Cindy. But for the love of all things good and holy, don't ruin a perfectly good name like Mary or Suzy or Amy.

Of course, it's equally annoying when, in an attempt to be cutesy, someone names their child Apple (Gweneth Paltrow!) or Reign Beau (Ving Rhames!) or Chardonnay. Chardonnay??? Really? I think if you name your baby girl Chardonnay, you've pre-determined her career as a pole dancer. (And, no, I'm not making that one up. I actually know of a little girl named Chardonnay.)

So what's worse than Chardonnay? Try this one on for size: Azrael...as in Gargamel's cat...you know, from the Smurfs! OK, so maybe the child wasn't named after Gargamel's cat. After all, there is another famous Azrael -- the Angel of Death! So you tell me what's worse -- being named after a cartoon cat or being named after the Grim Reaper?

[Don't forget to vote in my celebrity baby name poll to the left!]

Random Picture Memories

This is a picture of my parents, Boo, and me at my aunt and uncle's 50th wedding anniversary party in July. It was hot as Hades that day -- my red wine was practically boiling in its glass! (Summer refreshment tip: Don't drink red wine in extreme heat.) Anyway, while we look like perfect little stair-steps, we are actually standing on a sloping bank. My nephew, Clay, pointed out the other day that we look like we're posing for an AT&T wireless commercial.

P.S. Boo's hair was perfectly straight when we started out that day!

That Takes a Lot of Nerve!

So guess who sent me a text message asking where I was last night? Yep, the guy from Hank's. He acted as though he had never stood me up at all, complimenting me as "witty and clever" and saying, "I'll really have to step up my game to keep up with you." In the privacy of my own bedroom, I said aloud, "You won't even get the chance to 'step up your game,' buddy!" but I typed simply, "You have no idea." I'm going up to Morgantown today, so I won't have to run into this weekend, but I'm sure I will eventually. When I do, I'll probably say something about how he stood me up. I just didn't care enough last night. It was late, and I was tired, and he was being nice so I didn't want to seem bitchy.

Honestly, I don't care that much anyway. While he's very nice, he's not really my type. He's recently divorced, has two kids (8 and 12), apparently rides a motorcycle without a helmet (which is illegal in WV), seems to drink beer like its water, and is good friends with this pot head I went to law school with who drives me batty. On top of all of that, he's a Marshall fan and said that he wants to "convert" me. Not gonna happen, my friend.

I was trying to keep an open mind because I don't really know him, so I know I shouldn't rush to judgment; but then he stood me up, and that says a lot. Cheryl said, "Maybe he just had so much to drink Tuesday night that he forgot he asked you out." And that's better how??? No, I'm pretty sure my superficial assessment that he's not my type is pretty accurate this time.

Two Months

I can hardly believe that it's been two months since Mikey passed away. At this point, I feel as though time has stopped completely. It doesn't feel like it was just yesterday, but it doesn't feel like it was ages ago either. It just...was.

I've discovered that the grief process -- for me anyway -- is a very up-and-down experience. I don't feel like I'm going through stages so much as waves. For the first several weeks, I would think about the fact that Mikey was gone every night when I laid down and had nothing else to occupy my mind. I would think about how I would never see him on this earth again, about how much I missed him. Then for a couple of weeks, I felt like I had come to terms with his passing. I didn't think about it every night, and I could talk about him openly and not feel any sort of pang, not cry. I even consciously thought about how I had apparently skipped over all the painful in-between stages of grief and found my way to acceptance. I hate to say it, but I was relieved to have moved on so quickly.

But then last week, the next wave began to surge. It started when my mom mentioned that she and my dad had had a couple of bad days. I started to think again about the loss of Michael, but now my thoughts are focused on the last days and hours -- details that are so intensely personal and painful that I could never record them here. There are parts of me that are so glad that Mikey's struggle is over, and there were moments when I prayed that it wouldn't go on. But there are bigger parts of me that wonder why he had to struggle at all. Why did it have to be this way? Why?

* * * * * * * * * *

One thing that I have been struggling with is the new reality that I only have sisters now. It isn't as though I don't love my sisters or that I love them any less than I love Michael, but there was something different and special about my only brother and my love for him. I can't explain it. There are a million things that make it different: The adoration that you can only have for an older brother, the adoration that only an older brother can have for you, the way a brother sees the world differently than his sisters, the way a brother can tease you that your sisters never could, the way a brother can protect you that your sisters never could, the way a brother can teach you that your sisters never could. But those are just the things that I can put my finger on. There are a million others that I can't put my finger on. It's just different.

And Mikey was just very different than any of my sisters. His personality, his sense of humor, his outlook on life -- it was just very...Mike. Of course, we're all very different; I know that. But Mikey was more different. He was unique. He was the only boy.

* * * * * * * * * *

I have always rolled my eyes when someone would say, "Oh, So-and-so passed away." I always thought, Why not just say that they "died"? I couldn't see any reason to sugar coat it; it is what it is. So-and-so is dead. But now I'm one of those people who says, "Michael passed away in December." I have a hard time bringing myself to say the words "died" or "dead." I would never write it, never memorialize the harsh reality of it all in black and white. Sometimes I accidentally say those words out loud, before I have a chance to catch myself; and when I do, a knot forms in my stomach. It feels disrespectful and crude to say those words. It feels hurtful and harsh. So I say that he "passed away" instead. I don't suppose it really matters how I phrase it. In the end...well, it still is what it is. But "it" seems slightly easier to accept if I soften "it" up a little.

Nothing to See Here, Folks!

The guy I met at Hank's? Sorry to disappoint, but there's not much to tell. I met him a couple of weeks ago -- a friend of a friend. He's really very nice and rather clever, but I doubt anything will come of it. I've met him out a few times now -- most recently Tuesday night -- and we were supposed to get together last night, but then I didn't hear from him. That was actually fine by me because I desperately needed to do laundry...and watch more "Lost." Still, if you make a point to ask someone out and then tell them that you'll call the next day to firm up the plans, you ought to at least call and say there's been a change in plans. It isn't as though I sat around waiting for him to call (I only waited 5 minutes after he was supposed to call to change into my sweats, warm up some leftovers, and settle onto the couch with Episode 10), so I'm not mad, but it's just common courtesy to call. So that's probably the end of that. Unless he comes up with some really dramatic excuse as for why he didn't call -- say, that he was struck on the head by a piece of that satellite the Navy blew out of the sky last night -- then I don't think I'll be going out with him any time soon.

What the Junk -- President's Day Edition

Hello to all my sad-sack friends in the corporate world who are slaving away right now while I enjoy this lovely little state holiday! Of course, today hasn't been all fun and games for me. I did have to get up excruciatingly early (8am) to go and get my hair cut. What a chore that was! And now I'm in the middle of a "Lost" marathon, and anyone who has ever seen that show knows how intense it is. Why, just laying there on the couch watching TV, I got a little crick in my neck and my head aches from thinking about it all so much -- Jack, the monster in the jungle, Locke's miracle. It's been positively strenuous. So I decided to take a little break from it all and post this President's Day Edition of "What the Junk?!"

Yesterday evening, I was in the middle of Episode 3 of "Lost" when a guy I met out last Saturday called to see if I wanted to meet him at Hank's for a drink. He's a federal employee, so he has the day off, too, and thought we might as well pretend like it was a Saturday...you know, since we had the day off and all. And didn't have to go to work. Because it's a holiday. What? I'm not rubbing anything in!

So anyway, I was driving downtown to meet him, and my route took me right past the local police station. Standing outside was a security guard, the rent-a-cop kind. I literally did a double-take to make sure my eyes weren't deceiving me, but they weren't. There he was, small and wiry and not the least bit intimidating, wearing a light blue shirt bearing a patch with the name of some security provider. You're thinking what I'm thinking, right? Why do the police need security??? All of a sudden, I don't feel so safe in this town...

Happy Valentine's Day...or Something...

So you're wondering why I didn't do some cheery little "Happy Valentine's Day!" post, right? Hi, have we met? I'm Lara, and I'm cynical. And I don't do Valentine's Day. Because I'm cynical. See how that works?

Why am I cynical? Let's review, shall we: Crappy college boyfriend, crappy law school boyfriend, crappy post-law school fiance, crappy dates ever since. That pretty much takes care of the being cynical.

I don't want to be cynical. Really. I want to believe that there's a Marlboro Man or a Chris or a Matt Damon out there for me, but it's really hard to find him in this little town. And when you're 27...ish...the dating pool gets really shallow. Is it so much to ask for a never-been-married, college graduate, WVU fan who is at least 6' tall? Really? I mean, it isn't as though I'm asking for world peace here. I'm just asking to find a man who (a) hasn't already been married twice, (b) doesn't have a prison record, and (c) doesn't use the term "has went." *Sigh* Maybe I am asking for too much. In the meantime, I'm going to watch the Little River Band clip I posted earlier, and then I'm going to bed...alone. On Valentine's Day.

No, you're right...I should end on an up note: At least I don't have to share the covers.

So Wrong, But So Funny!

And because I'm feeling particularly apolitical today, here's one from the other side of the aisle.

Reminiscing

The other day I was driving downtown, and while scanning the stations, I found one playing that song, "Reminiscing" by Graeham Goble and the Little River Band. What do you mean you've never heard it? Of course you have. It's a 70s soft rock classic, and if I sang it to you, you would recognize it right away. Of course, (a) this is the internet, so I can't sing it to you and (b) you wouldn't want me to sing. Believe me.

Anyway, it starts, "Friday night, it was late/I was walkin' you home, we got down to the gate/and I was dreaming of the night/would it turn out right?" Remember it yet? OK, maybe not. Here's the hook: "Hurry, don't be late/I can hardly wait/I said to myself when we're old .../we'll go dancing in the dark/walking through the park and reminiscing." Tell me you don't remember it now. Fine, then here's the video (I love youtube):



Alright, I'll grant you, it's not the best 70s soft rock song ever produced. In fact, it's pretty cheesy. Still, I had to stop and listen to it because it always makes me chuckle. See, when I was a kid, I thought the line was, "We'll go dancing in the dark/walking through the park and WRITE AN ESSAY." As a kid, I always thought, Well, that doesn't sound very romantic, and I wondered if my older sisters and brother wrote essays on their dates. I was pretty sure they didn't.

Tank McNamara

Hmmm...I wonder who this could be:


You're not really sure? Well, here, let me clear it up for you:


Guess WVU fans aren't the only people who think Richy Rich's "simple requests" were more like unreasonable demands.

Lesson Learned: Don't Be Smug

I have always hated winter in this town. It doesn't really ever snow very much, but any little bit of snow that does fall paralyzes the whole city. Having grown up in a place where it snows most of the winter through, I have always considered myself to be a good winter driver, and I have always been aggravated by the nervous nellies around here who find themselves out on the roads in the snow. Heavy sighs, dramatic eye rolls, grumbling under my breath...I've always been an impatient driver in inclement weather. I am a winter driving pro. If it were an Olympic sport, I would be a gold medalist. These people should take winter driving lessons from me. Apparently, God was watching and listening, and He decided that I needed to be humbled...

Tonight I had my first real car accident...and it was due to snow. Oh, the cruel irony of it all! Just 2 blocks from my house, I lost control of my car coming down a hill and around a curve. The back end fishtailed on the snow and ice. I slid out into the other lane, then tried to pull it back into my lane; but that only made me slide more. The back end slid around completely, and I was facing back uphill, and sliding down the street. (Hey, at least I was in the correct lane at that point, albeit the opposite lane from where I had started.) I saw a utility pole come into view, but I managed somehow to avoid hitting it. I finally stopped when I slammed into a bank with a low retaining wall. It felt like a huge impact, and I was sure that my back end was going to be completely smashed up, but (in the dark anyway), the damage seems to be fairly minor. I suppose everything seems worse in the instant that it happens than it really is. Thank God for that. I think the wheel is bent, though, and I won't be surprised if I wake up to a flat tire tomorrow. At least I wasn't hurt, and no one else was involved. I would've felt really bad if someone else had been injured because of my smugness.

Oh Happy Day!

A couple of years ago, Boo bought me a honkin' bottle of Nielsen-Massey pure vanilla extract as part of my birthday gift (or maybe it was Christmas), and I loved it. I noticed a huge difference in my brownies, which I make from scratch using the Hershey's cocoa recipe. As far as I was concerned, it was liquid gold in a bottle. But I had to use it very judiciously because it came from Williams-Sonoma, and the closest store is in Lexington. Even doling it out as carefully as I did, though, I still polished off the bottle this summer. Not to worry because I bought another bottle when I went to visit Boo in D.C. this summer. However, I didn't buy the "honkin' bottle" because it was $19!!! I bought the smaller, much less expensive bottle...and now I'm nearly out! A small measure of panic overtook me the last time I baked cookies (you know, when I almost burned the house down) and realized that I was a mere 2 batches of brownies away from being empty.

Those greedy little bastards at Williams-Sonoma sell only the "honkin' bottle" online, plus they charge $6.50 for shipping and handling! [Insert overly dramatic, hair-pulling scream here.] What am I going to do?! As much as I love the stuff, the bargain shopper in me just cannot pay $25.50 for vanilla extract, liquid gold or not. But I can't possibly go back to McCormick brand now! [Cue the heavenly choirs.] But wait! I have just learned that you can buy the nectar of the gods (fka, Nielsen-Massey pure vanilla extract) at the Drug Emporium at the local mall and at Le Cook Store downtown! Crisis averted. A little price comparison, and I'll be back in brownie-baking form before you know it. It really is the little things in life that can make you the happiest sometimes.

Random Picture Memories

I have hundreds and hundreds of pictures on my computer, so I thought it might be fun to pick one out every once in a while and tell the story of that picture or of some memory that picture recalls. Here's the first installment...


This used to be my house. Brian and I lived here together from August 2003 till July 2004. Between working in Charleston, Junior League obligations, and spending my weekends in Morgantown for football games, I just didn't have time to meet any of the neighbors until Halloween. Of course, that night, we were all sitting outside on our porches waiting for the trick-or-treaters, so it was a perfect opportunity to meet everyone. The first person to come and introduce herself was Mrs. McAlmont from across the street. As soon as she saw me, she came right over, carrying her big bowl of candy. Our first meeting went something like this:

Mrs. McA: Well, you must be Lara. I'm Mrs. McAlmont. I live right over there.
Me: Hi! It's so nice to meet you!
Mrs. McA: Well, and you, too, honey. So your hus--, I mean boyfriend, told me that you work out-of-town. I guess that's why I never see you.
Me: Yeah, well that and volunteer commitments and trips home. I stay pretty busy.
Mrs. McA: Now your hus--, I mean boyfriend, tells me that you're a lawyer, too. What do you practice?
Me: I don't actually "practice;" I'm a lawyer for the State.
Mrs. McA: Oh, that's nice. That's why you work in Charleston then, I guess. So your hus--, I mean boyfriend, is from Kentucky. Are you?
Me: Mrs. McAlmont, Brian and I aren't married yet, but we fully intend to get married. I just want to make that clear.
Mrs. McA: Oh, no, honey. I'm not concerned about that. None of my business.

Yeah, right! Every time she said "boyfriend," it was dripping with judgment and accompanied with an eye roll! I just smiled politely through my gritted teeth and carried on. We talked about her husband, who had passed away a few years before; about her granddaughter at the University of South Carolina; and about one of her sons and his wife, who had only recently had their first child at 45 "because they were too selfish to have kids before that -- career-driven, you know."

We stood there for a good hour or more. Mrs. McAlmont told me all about the scandals in the neighborhood, about whether I should convert from my pagan Catholic ways to her Episcopalian faith, and about her opinions on everything from mixed marriages to local politics. I was mildly appalled at most of what she said, and when I finally made it back inside and told Brian about the conversation, he said, "Why do you think I was hiding out in here?" I vowed to avoid that woman like the plague...but I couldn't.

Over the next 11 months, she called me over several times: to help her fix her computer, to see her Christmas decorations, to have wine and cookies (the adult version of milk and cookies, I guess), to pick up a jar of spaghetti sauce. As it turns out, she was just a lonely old widow who needed a little company, and I grew to appreciate her frankness. I really did. I became genuinely fond of the old bat. When Brian and I broke up, and I moved out, I couldn't bear to tell her goodbye. I still miss her, but I see her everyone once in a great while, and she always bends my ear about Brian's comings and goings or about the neighbors. Same old Mrs. McAlmont!

Happy Ash Wednesday!

Today is Ash Wednesday, the first day of Lent. If you are a Catholic, today is a holy day of obligation. People who you don't see at Mass any other time of the year file into the church -- heads hung low with shame and with hope that the priest doesn't ask where they've been all year -- to take their place in line to receive ashes on their foreheads. Traditionally, the ashes were produced from the burned palm fronds from the previous year's Palm Sunday. Of course, I'm sure that in this day and age of convenience, the priest probably orders them from a catalog now, but who am I to judge? I ate a fish sandwich and an order of fries the very first chance I got after Mass, prematurely breaking my Lenten fast. Anyway, the priest marks each parishioner's head with an ashen cross while saying, "Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return." It is a symbol of our Christian faith and reminds us that we are to reflect for the next 40 days on the sacrifice that Jesus made for us.

For the most part, it used to be "a Catholic thing." Protestant churches didn't really do it. However, now a lot of Protestant churches celebrate Ash Wednesday in the same way. That's why I am so amazed and tremendously annoyed when I go out into the world with my ashes on my forehead only to have someone say, "Uh, you have a little something...on your, um...on your head there." Yeah, I know. Thanks for the heads up, Billy Bob! It happens every year. I could overlook it to a degree when I lived in Virginia. There was only one Catholic church in town, and we were markedly outnumbered by Baptists, Methodists, Mennonites (yes, Mennonites), and other Protestant affiliations. But this town of 45,000 has 4 Catholic churches and 3 Catholic schools. You can't sneeze on the street without spreading your germs on a Catholic. So how is it that there are people out there who haven't caught on to the whole Ash Wednesday thing? Having someone gesture awkwardly at my forehead while scrunching up their face really challenges my annual Lenten promise to be a better Christian and a more pleasant person.

Gravel Who?

I'm all for rockin' the vote. I have voted in every major election since I turned 18. I even voted by absentee ballot when I was away in college in Virginia. Hey, I appreciate the sacrifices that were made to ensure my rights! But I have to say, I'm a little less than inspired this year. Still, up until last week, I had decided to vote for John Edwards in the May primary. I like John. Maybe he pays more for his haircuts than I paid for my car. Maybe he is a little on the pretty side. Maybe he is a plaintiff's lawyer (I didn't say ambulance chaser). BUT I truly believe that he believes in every word that he utters, and I find that sort of sincerity both comforting and increasingly rare. So I was just about to track down one of his campaign buttons when he abruptly withdrew from the race. That essentially left with me with a choice of either Hillary Clinton or Barack Obama.

The only thing I like about ol' Hill is her husband. (Can I vote for Bill again?) And while Barack seems like a nice enough guy, he's a little short on experience...and he has garnered the endorsement of Oprah Winfrey, who I believe to be a bigger threat to American society than even Tom Cruise and Scientology. I mean, hello! A year and a half ago, she was forcing James Frey down our throats, telling us what an extraordinary man he was. So pardon me if I find that her endorsement of Obama strips him of any appearance of integrity or virtue.

OK, so now what? I mean, I can't not vote. I have to vote. It's my duty as an American. So I took no less than 5 of those online vote-guiding "quizzes" that seem to be everywhere these days. Of those 5 quizzes, 4 told me to vote for this man:


Yeah, I know, right? Who the heck is he??? Ladies and gentlemen, meet Mike Gravel. Apparently, he's a former United States Senator from Alaska, having left the Senate in 1981...1981! No wonder I don't recognize him -- I was only 6 back then! Nonetheless, he is apparently my political soul mate, and so I am compelled to vote for him. The quizzes told me so. But, hey, guess what...ol' Mike isn't on the ballot in West Virginia. Sorry, Mike. I'm convinced you're probably the best man for the job (the quizzes told me so), but you didn't file in time.

So I'm back to square one. Hill and Barack were neck-and-neck for the runner up spot, but still, I just don't think I can do it. I just don't think I can bring myself to vote for either one of them. But wait...won't my boy, John, still be on the ballot in West Virginia? I can still vote for him! OK, so it won't really count for anything, but at least I won't have to compromise my principles or my vote.

More Brutal Honesty from Tyler

I went home to see Tyler this weekend. The poor little guy looked so tiny and thin in his adult-sized hospital bed. He had only just been allowed to eat real food again on Thursday (it had been 6 days), so of course he was thin. Saturday the doctor gave him the green light to finally get out of bed. He started off slowly, sitting in a chair for a 30 minutes or so. Then later in the afternoon, the nurse came to take him for a walk around the PICU. His little legs were like jelly, and I think she pretty much had to hold him up the whole way. Still, she said that if he felt up to it, he could go play in the playroom. So off we went to the playroom -- Tyler, his granddad (Cherie's dad), his grandma (Cherie's mom), and me.

There were tons of toys, but nothing really held his attention. He was both overwhelmed and tired I think. His granddad patiently helped him from one area of toys to the next. He finally sat down on a little rug in front of a set of shelves filled with toys and, pointing randomly, said to his grandma, "Can you get me that?" "This?" she asked, pointing to a truck. "Noooo! Not that, that." Pointing to a car, she asked, "This one?" "Noooo! *huff* Not that one! I want to see that one!" His grandma, ever loving and kind, said, "OK, I'm sorry. Is it this one?" Tyler turned to me and said with perfect exasperation, "The nicer she is to me, the madder I get!" I tried not to laugh at his 6-year-old logic, partly because I didn't want to further aggravate him and partly because I really wanted to scold him for being so mean to his grandma. In the end, I didn't say anything. I guess it's true that we only hurt the ones we love.

Tyler got to go home the next day, by the way. He'll be down for several weeks, and I'm still not convinced that they won't eventually have to go back and remove his spleen, but for now he's doing well. Thank you for your prayers!

How Did I Not Burn the House Down???

So last Monday night, I got one of those cookie cravings. Actually, it was a cookie dough craving, but somehow that sounds less dignified than saying I had a cookie craving. Luckily, I had all of the essential ingredients for chocolate chip cookies, so I whipped them right up, ate about half the cookie dough before it even hit the cookie sheet, then baked the rest off tout de suite. (Don't be impressed -- that's about all I remember from my high school French.) See, I have this handy little double oven thing going on in my kitchen, so I can bake two trays at once. Love it. LOVE...IT. Less than 45 minutes after I started my little sugar-filled endeavor, I pulled the last tray out of the top oven, and then turned it off like any responsible homeowner would remember to do. That was Monday.

Wednesday morning, I was standing at the bar in the kitchen fixing my lunch when I heard this little click. It sounded like the click the heating element in the stove makes, but I knew it couldn't be that. I hadn't used the stove the night before. I must have imagined it. So I went back to making my sandwich. And then it hit me -- the oven! Sure enough, the bottom oven was still turned to 350 degrees! It had been on since Monday night! Stupid double ovens. I mean, who needs two ovens anyway?