Just a simple blog of a Secular Franciscan trying to live with a Franciscan focus. (And one of these days I'll fix the template and add a Search feature. :-P)
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If they were good enough for John Belushi, they're good enough for me
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EMBROIDERED DANDELIONS! Or, Reason #201,954 Why My Mom-In-Law Is Awesome
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After sharing my second successful attempt at baking sugar cookies using a recipe from my mom-in-law ♥ -- and being asked for the recipe from my knows-how-to-cook sis-in-law ♥ -- I figgered I might as well post it here so that others can use it, too.
The first time I made them, I didn't change any of the ingredients. The second time, I wondered how it'd work if I substituted coconut oil for the vegetable oil, and I think that they came out even better! It's a very subtle difference, really -- Husband Mike couldn't even tell -- but I think it kicked things up from "good" to "great". :-D
Also, while the recipe says to form the dough into small balls, I instead used heart-shaped cookie cutters (also from my mom-in-law ♥), which worked out splendidly! So, I've noted both ways in the following instructions.
As to the name: The recipe itself is actually from one of my mom-in-law's former neighbors, Audrey. :-D
If you give this a try, please lemme know what ya think!
Audrey's Awesome Sugar Cookies Makes about 4 1/2 dozen cookies.
Cream together:
1 cup powdered sugar 1 cup granulated sugar 1 cup vegetable shortening 1 cup vegetable OR coconut oil
In a separate bowl, mix together the following:
4 cups PLUS 4 tablespoons flour 1 teaspoon salt 1 teaspoon baking soda 1 teaspoon cream of tartar
To the creamed mixture, add:
2 eggs, beaten flour mix from Step 2
Chill the dough for at least 2 hours.
Preheat the oven to 350°F.
With the chilled dough, do one of the following:
Form the dough into small balls, and then place them on an ungreased baking sheet. Dip a glass into sugar, and then flatten the balls. (I personally didn't use this method.)
Flatten the dough with a rolling pin, and then use cookie cutters on the dough. Use a thin metal spatula to transfer the cut-out shapes to an ungreased baking sheet.
NOTE: I noticed that when I used the coconut oil, the chilled dough was much more rock-like than the previous batch using vegetable oil. I had to chip away at the dough with a butter knife, and then break apart the chunks into smaller chunks. Once I'd done that, I was able to gather and then mash down the smaller chunks with a rolling pin. So, the next time I make these, I think I'll first roll out the dough, then chill it.
Bake the cookies at 350°F for 10 minutes.
Let the cookies cool before removing them from the baking sheet. If you used cookie cutters in Step 6, you can ice them once they've cooled, which is what I did.
Thanksgiving 2014: Munchkins, Turkey, and World Domination
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BAKE ALL THE COOKIES! Or, Reason #109,638 Why My Mom-In-Law Is Awesome
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I've been meaning for years to share my story of how I came back to the Catholic Church. It's a long, rather convoluted one, and putting it into a semblance of order has felt like combing through spaghetti ... one-handed ... with a toothpick.
But, here we go, beginning at ... The Beginning.
Indifference
Baptized and raised as a cultural Catholic: attended CCD (Confraternity of Christian Doctrine) classes, went to Sunday Mass, got all the sacraments because That's Just What You Do And Don't Ask Why. The faith wasn't discussed, explained, or lived at home.
Then things took a sharp detour through hell when I was about 9, when my childhood pretty much ended. It's enough to say that family life became, and stayed, Seriously F'd Up Wrong.
Timeline highlights:
First Blip: Something -- the weird thing is that I can't remember what -- caused me to totally flip out in relation to CCD classes, and I became terrified of going back. I'm talking bawling, yelling, wanting-to-hide freaked out.
When asked, I couldn't give my parents a coherent reason why. They didn't know what to do -- didn't want me to completely ditch classes, because if I didn't go to CCD, I wouldn't make my First Communion. But they also didn't want me to pass out from terror every Sunday. So, they arranged for me to attend CCD over the summer.
A boy and I were the only ones in the class, taught by a kindly, grandmotherly woman. That I loved. And she gave us these wonderful prayer booklets that I've treasured to this day. Even through my Raging-Feminist-I-Hate-The-Evil-Bad-Patriarchal-Church days, I held onto it.
My beloved blue booklet, produced by the Daughters of St. Paul. Sisters, I love you.
Second Blip: After finding a bunch of Rosaries tucked away in the family China cabinet, I taught myself to pray the Rosary using my prayer booklet.
Defiance
When I was 12 or 13 and studying for Confirmation, my attitude turned difficult. I became increasingly annoyed at going to Mass every Sunday instead of sleeping in, especially since I never got a good answer as to why I should go; my mom would only reply, "Because!"
So, I gritted my teeth, memorized the sacraments, and marked time until I "made" the sacrament. After which, I flat-out refused to attend Mass anymore, insisting that I'd graduated.
Timeline highlight:
Even though this period is marked mostly by angry defiance, bits of faith flashed in and out. Example: On a date with a guy that I wasn't into, when he asked me what I wanted to be in adulthood, I blurted out, "A nun!" Honestly, no clue where that came from.
But it solved the problem of future dates with him.
Wandering
After Confirmation and deciding that the Church was just one lame option among many, I began attending a friend's Lutheran church. Now, you've got to understand this crucial thing: back then, I had a serious -- serious -- follower personality, and she was very much a "follow meeee!" person. She was also a self-proclaimed Jesus Freak.
So Imitator Me decided, "Well, OK, I'll be one, too!" Guess which one of us was relentlessly picked on for it? Hint: not her. (As if life wasn't painful enough, that was an additional excruciating element of my high school years.)
About a year later, another friend began attending an Assemblies of God church and invited me to join her, where I went for another year.
After which I slid into ...
Apathy
Off to college. Left my faith behind like so much childhood baggage. New, fresh start! I was finally free! (See: Crapulent childhood.) No more thinking about the faith ... until, that is, I met then-Friend Mike, who became Husband Mike.
Timeline highlight:
Our freshman year, we were friends for awhile before actually dating. When he asked me to go to Sunday vigil Mass with him, I went. Because I was seriously hoping he'd become Boyfriend Mike. He wasn't super-into the faith then, but felt that, because he was Catholic, he should at least go to Mass every so often.
... Aaand then things very quickly zinged into ...
The Raging-Feminist-I-Hate-The-Evil-Bad-Patriarchal-Church Era (Also Known As "The College Years")
Coming from the family situation I did, I had a lot of anger, especially towards men in general. Not individual guys, who were OK. The idea of manhood. Plus, I was your typical, know-it-all college freshman. So when I one day read a magazine special dedicated entirely to feminism, I wholeheartedly latched on. Feminism had all the answers! Yes, I'm a feminist! Men sure have dorked up the world ... except for I-Hope-He'll-Be-Boyfriend-Mike. But the rest of the lot ...
I flung myself into every single Women's Studies-related class that I could take. Worked in the campus' Women's Studies Center as the student co-director. Mourned the inability to declare a double-major in Women's Studies as it was only available as a minor.
Savored the religion class in which we poured over liberation and feminist theology. Nurtured an active hatred towards the hideously out-of-date, repressive Catholic Church, source of all that was wrong through history. Declared myself an atheist just to tick off my mom.
And amazingly, I-Hope-He'll-Be-Boyfriend-Mike did become Boyfriend Mike just as this feminist whirlwind kicked in. Don't know how or why he managed to avoid being corrupted by my mindset and worldview, but he thankfully avoided it.
Honestly, if it wasn't for him, I probably would've joined a feminist commune where we ate granola, ran around naked, sang to trees, and bitched incessantly about those horrible men dorking up Life, The Universe, And Everything.
Yeah, that would've been me.
Timeline highlight:
Faith still blipped in occasionally, at odd times: went on a retreat with a bunch of of Women's Studies minors and like-minded students at a place run by (highly heterodox) Dominican sisters. I wandered around their bookstore, idly looking at the titles, and felt the first stirrings of being called to something, though clueless as to what in hell that something could be.
I was firmly set on staying with Boyfriend Mike, who I really hoped would turn into Fiancé Mike. So, my old blurt-outedness of "I want to be a nun!" wouldn't come to pass. But, what would?
Eh ... stuff it.
Latent Hate, But Mostly Meh
After graduating college, my flaming feminist indignation simmered down. Husband Mike and I continued dating, and we didn't talk much about the faith so as to avoid arguments. After briefly pondering whether or not to investigate Unitarian-Universalism as it most aligned with my morally relativistic, feminist beliefs, I flopped into a "Well, God is probably there, but meh" attitude. Otherwise known as, "Hey, I'm supremely intellectually lazy!"
When Boyfriend Mike became Fiancé Mike, I figured if we were gonna have a wedding Mass -- because in my gut, it wouldn't have felt real any other way, and he also insisted -- I'd better resume attending Sunday Mass. (I also, strangely, had to have a papal blessing.) Didn't wanna be one of those shallow, only-here-for-the-wedding people.
Went to Mass throughout our engagement and early marriage. Even subscribed to a few Catholic-related email newsletters. And I still suffered from ongoing, mysterious, low-grade pangs of being called to something.
Then I read Dakota: A Spiritual Geography by Kathleen Norris. Which blew my mind, because she talked about her vocation as a Benedictine oblate. That was the first I'd ever heard of laity being able to associate with religious orders. Light bulb! Now the pangs had a bit of coherence, and I immediately investigated the Benedictines ... and quickly discovered that no, I wasn't called there.
At the time, I was completely unaware of other third/secular orders, so I dropped further investigation. The subject somehow came up with a former coworker who knew of the Secular Franciscan Order and who suggested I investigate it. But in my grumpy ignorance, I assumed they were the same as the Benedictines. And if the Benedictines weren't for me, then neither were the Franciscans, right?
After that, another slide into lazy apathy: I ignored the Catholic-related newsletters I'd subscribed to and stopped going to Mass. Husband Mike kept going because, again, it's what you do -- still nominal in faith, but stubborn. So I could never completely forget what I wasn't doing. Plus I drove past a parish on my way to and from work ... another reminder.
Two years of not-going-to-Mass passed. Then things got a bit scary.
Dances With Ledges
I'd been hanging out in a cat forum with a range of folks including pagans and wiccans and other whatnots. They were all friendly, warm, and funny, and I enjoyed chatting with them. It also piqued my interest: what do they actually believe? And why? To the library for investigation!
I announced my curiosity to Husband Mike. He wasn't thrilled. I started with Native American spirituality, which he uncomfortably let slide. When I said my next library trip would be for wiccan books, he completely flipped out.
Said in NO uncertain terms was I allowed to bring anything even remotely wiccan into our house. There may have been some swearing on his part. There was sulking on mine.
That closed-minded poophead, always holding me back!
Seeing me dancing on the ledge drove him, out of sheer desperation, to start intensely praying for my conversion, which I learned about years later. That's the only thing that can explain what happened next.
Home
At this point, I was thinking, "Hey self, we don't need to go to Mass. We're doing just fine without it! High five!" I mention this to illustrate how completely I was not interested in the Church.
One day when driving home from work, as I passed That-Parish-Over-There, out of nowhere, it hit me that, for over two years, I'd been intentionally missing Mass. That I was being an ass. That the ledge-dancing was going to cause serious harm. That I was heading in a seriously, deeply wrong direction, and I had to make amends and change. Immediately.
I was keelhauled and gobsmacked and contrite and profoundly humbled.
Thankfully, I wasn't struck blind. Wouldn't have been good while driving.
All I could think was, "I have to go to Confession", over and over, for the rest of the way home. And where'd that thought come from? I'd completely forgotten about Confession since making my last one just before Confirmation all those years ago.
When I walked through the front door, Husband Mike was on the couch.
Me: ::flinging aside my backpack:: "I have to go to Confession!"
Husband Mike: ::jaw drop + wide eyes:: "Ummm ... what?"
Me: "Confession! I must go!"
I looked up Confession times at our parish, announced I was going that Saturday, and Husband Mike -- still dazed -- said he'd come along. He didn't plan on going in himself, but after I exited the confessional, he abruptly changed his mind and popped in, too. After also not having gone since his Confirmation.
I resumed attending Sunday Mass, and added in daily Mass as a small attempt to make up for my years of dumbassitude. Began praying the Rosary regularly, turning to my beloved blue booklet for assistance. Started making Rosaries.
Began going to Adoration out of humility. Tuned in to Relevant Radio to learn what the Church actually taught and why. Shut up, listened, and let go of my arrogance and presumption and anger.
The Franciscans
Also resumed paying attention to the Catholic-related newsletters I'd been ignoring. One day, one included a book review of The Sun & Moon Over Assisi: A Personal Encounter With Francis & Clare. I was fascinated by what I read there of St. Francis, and of the author's spiritual journey. Then I saw the bit about the author being a Secular Franciscan.
The lurking low-grade pangs coalesced and flattened me with the mother of all sucker punches. This time, I got the message. Franciscans weren't identical to Benedictines, and I needed to learn more about them, because that was where I was being led. Finally, in 2006, I made my Profession in the Secular Franciscan Order.
Ooooh, the Franciscans! Got it.
The extra cool thing is that through it all, Husband Mike and I have grown -- and keep growing -- in the faith, together.
She had a host of chronic medical and psychological issues that culminated in her being admitted to the hospital at the end of January for breathing problems. A week later, she was transferred to a rehabilitation facility to work on her mobility and respiratory issues.
She was supposed to go home tomorrow.
Twice during her stay in rehab, she was transferred back to the hospital for pneumonia, then intestinal pain. As we were visiting her during the first transfer back, suddenly, the first few bars of Brahms' Lullaby chimed over the PA system. Mom said they played that whenever a baby was born. At first it irritated her, she said, since it was an unexpected sound blast (though gentle) that disturbed her rest. But then she came to appreciate its whimsical heralding of new life and actually got a kick out of it.
When they called us this morning just after 5 a.m. to say she was going back to the hospital yet again, we didn't panic -- been there, done that. This time, she was having shortness of breath, and so the ambulance was on its way to pick her up and take her to the hospital a few blocks away.
An hour later, another call. While in the ambulance, Mom went into cardiac arrest. They started CPR and continued resuscitation attempts at the ER. They were unsuccessful.
...
As we stood over her small, frail body, waiting for the priest to arrive, Brahms' Lullaby gently sounded over the PA system.
"Lullaby, and good night,
in the skies stars are bright.
May the moon's silvery beams,
bring you sweet dreams.
Close your eyes now and rest,
may these hours be blessed.
Till the sky's bright with dawn,
when you wake with a yawn."
(Lyrics based on Brahms' Lullaby, Jewel)
Ah, the Rosary. A fragrant offering of prayer, an oasis of contemplation, and a sacrifice of praises to God.
Well, not always.
Some time ago, while Husband Mike and I were praying the Rosary together 'afore bed, we had the following exchange. Background Note: I was suffering from a severe cold at the time that included coughing, a nonstop runny nose, and a Gigumbous Amount of postnasal drippage that had the unfortunate side effect of, ah ... triggering lots of burping. (Am I the only one who belches because of that? Please tell me I'm not alone.)
Husband Mike: "Hail Mary, full of grace, blessed art thou amongst women --"
HM: "-- Blessed art thou amongst women, and blessed --"
Me:(reaching for the tissues) "Hooooooooonnnnnnnnnk." (pause, during which Husband Mike made an attempt to continue) "Hooooooonnnk."
HM: "Are you finished?"
Me:(nodding)
Repeat preceding exchange several times throughout the decades, accompanied by a growing pile of tissues.
HM: "... Thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven."
Me:(taking a breath before starting my part) "BRAAAAAAAAPPPPPPPPP!"
After a split-second of shocked silence, we burst into laughter.
HM: "The Sorrowful Mysteries!" (gasping) "We're supposed to be meditating on Christ's suffering and death!"
Me: "I know, I know!"
We were both laughing so hard we were crying. Which, in my case, caused my nose to stuff up even more, triggering more honking and a flurry of tissues.
After several false starts, we pulled ourselves together and resumed praying. Then, into the last decade ...
HM: "... The fifth Sorrowful Mystery: Jesus is crucified and dies. Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be Thy name. Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven." (waiting for me to respond)
Me:(lost in thought imagining the pain of the nails as they're pounded into Christ's hands)
HM:(elbows my side)
Me:(jumping) "What?!" (lightbulb) "Oh! Give us this day our daily bread ..."
As we both burst into laughter again, Husband Mike wheezed, "Christ is dying, here!"
"I KNOW! I was thinking about the nails!" I wailed. "Nails!"
Me:(walking into room where Husband Mike's on the computer) "OK, my saddlebags an' I are heading out for a run."
Husband Mike:(eyeing said saddlebags) "Hey, are those like camel humps where they retain water for long periods of time?"
No, I didn't hit him.
* * *
Hey, so it's been ages since I last posted, and as you may have picked up in the vignette above, I've finally gotten back into runnin' and working out. (Have lost over 20 lbs. since the end of January, woohoo!) That means the bulk o' my free time has been spent doing aerobics, strength training, and runnin' (hope to do a 5k fun run in July), and less so with writing and fiddlin' around online.
Also, thanks to my pal, Jasmine, when I am on the 'puter, I've kinda' sorta' gotten addicted to playing Bejeweled Blitz. (Curse you, Jasmine! ::shakes fist in air::) :-P Aaaand, quite frankly, I'm lazy. I've got plenty of posting ideas bouncin' around in my noggin, I'm just too lazy to cobble them all together into coherent posts here. Will try to be better about this, but no promises. :-D
Me:(entering a room from which Husband Mike had just left) "Ewww! Hey! Why didn't you warn me about the cat puke in here?! I just stepped in it!"
Husband Mike: "What? What cat puke?" (wanders back into room and examines the puke, which is more like spittle) "Oh, that's nothing. It's just a prelude to a hairball." (moves around the room, looking in corners) "Ah! Here's the hairball, over by this cord."
When joyfully making your wedding vows, you never imagine conversations like that in your future.
[On the wedding night, Sarah] got up, and [she and Tobiah] started to pray and beg that deliverance might be theirs. He began with these words: "Blessed are you, O God of our fathers; praised be your name forever and ever. Let the heavens and all your creation praise you forever.
"You made Adam and you gave him his wife Eve to be his help and support; and from these two the human race descended. You said, 'It is not good for the man to be alone; let us make him a partner like himself.'
"Now, Lord, you know that I take this wife of mine not because of lust, but for a noble purpose. Call down your mercy on me and on her, and allow us to live together to a happy old age." (Tobit 8:57; the First Reading at our Wedding Mass)
Ten years ago today, Husband Mike and I were joined together in the Sacrament of Holy Matrimony. Pretty astonishing to think that this makes a full decade ... 10 years' worth of serious and silly arguments. Sicknesses, surgeries, and stress. Scintillating conversations with topics like, "Why Are There Toenail Clippings All Over The Bathroom Floor?!", "It's Your Turn To Clean The Cat Litter", "What Do You Think, Are Those Leaves In That Hairball?", and "Wake Up, The Cat Just Puked In The Bed".
Silent treatments. Slapstick hilarity at 3 a.m. Funerals, weddings, baptisms, and First Communions. Anxious hours spent in emergency animal clinics with ill cats. Vacations, car purchases, joint tax refunds. Midnight pharmacy runs to soothe each others' coughing misery. Struggles to communicate. Lugging out the recyclables. Laundry. Snuggling close on cold nights.
Ten years ... what brought us this far, especially through the times of harrowing marital "dark nights of the soul"? The graces received from the Sacrament of Matrimony itself, obviously. But I also wonder if our Papal Blessing (see above picture) played a part ...
Ten years ago, I had only recently moved out of my Raging-Feminist-I-Hate-The-Evil-Bad-Patriarchal-Church mindset and back into the faith as a (then, not now!) semi-cranky, Cafeteria Catholic. Why I took to the idea of having the Holy Father bless our wedding, I don't know; my history certainly didn't explain it. And nobody in either of our families had ever had or heard of them. All I know is that when I read about the blessings in some planning-your-Catholic-wedding-type book, I immediately knew we had to have one.
And so, after mailing off the form, and lots and lots of waiting, we got our blessing. Since then, not a day has passed without me looking at it hanging there on the wall and thinking (however briefly) about how our marriage has something more surrounding it than just our love.
Now, I know that the Holy Father didn't personally have us in mind with the blessing; I'm sure it was part of a general blessing to cover a multitude of occasions and people. Still, I suspect his pledge of "divine graces and protection" to us has counted for something.
As part of my fraternity's monthly gathering, the professed brothers and sisters participate in Ongoing Formation. The way each fraternity handles Ongoing Formation varies; ours involves reading a chapter in a formation textbook, then discussing one of the associated questions for reflection.
This month's question was, "What does 'fraternity' mean to you?"
For me, it means being part of a bonus "Domestic Church" -- just as the family is the basic unit of society, the fraternity "becomes the basic unit of the whole Order and a visible sign of the Church, the community of love. This should be the privileged place for developing a sense of Church and the Franciscan vocation and for enlivening the apostolic life of its members." (Rule, Article 22) In other words, it's family, second only to my blood/marriage one.
And since we're family, that's how I refer to my fellow seculars. For example, when speaking about my Franciscan brothers or sisters, I don't say, "I'm going to Mass tomorrow with a friend." "Friend" doesn't do the relationship justice -- it just doesn't quite fit. Something's lacking and imprecise. When I first entered the Order, I tried that and the word always felt wrong, somehow.
Instead, I'll say, "I'm going to Mass tomorrow with one of my Franciscan sisters." Because that's the truth of it. And the beauty.
Most folks, upon seeing a spidery houseguest, will immediately and unhesitatingly smash said arachnid. In our home, though, we have a "catch and release" system, 'cause we really don't cotton to the idea of killing a critter just 'cause it happened to get into our abode. (Only Exception: Roachy-type buggers. Sorry, God, I know all things are fearfully and wonderfully made 'n' all, but we draw the line at the roach-esque.)
So, earlier this evening, Husband Mike noticed a spider on the wall, thus activating the Spider Relocation Protocol:
Person who sees spider stares at it (little fellas seem to stay in place as long as they know you're watching 'em) and hollers at other person (Assistant) to fetch a glass and whatever index card sized piece o' paper happens to be on hand.
Assistant delivers glass and paper to Spider Starer.
Spider Starer places glass over spider, then slowly slides paper underneath glass in order to safely trap the spider inside.
While #3 is in progress, Assistant heads over to the sliding balcony doors and a) pulls aside the blinds, b) unlocks and slides open door, and c) turns on balcony light (if it's dark out).
Spider Starer, who is now the Spider Transporter, holds paper on top of glass and heads out onto the balcony. Once there, Spider Transporter gently shakes the spider out of the glass, then returns inside. Relocation Complete!
At least, that's how it's supposed to work.
However, we had a bit of a snafu during Step 5 tonight. As Husband Mike was walking towards the balcony, he suddenly let out a gigumbous "AAAUUUGGGHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!", leapt backwards, fell on his butt, and sent the Glass With Spider a-flyin' through the air. Which, of course, knocked the spider outta the glass and off who-knows-where.
What the bloody heck happened?!
Apparently, Husband Mike saw some sort of floating bit of fluff in the air Right In Front Of His Face, somehow thought the spider had gotten out of the glass (it hadn't), and immediately Freaked Out at thinking the spider was swinging at him.
So, now we have a seriously shaken-up spider on the lam somewhere. And Husband Mike has a slightly bruised toe. (Landed funny and somehow mashed it.)
Life's a thrill a minute 'round these here parts. :-P
As Husband Mike will readily attest, I'm about as far away from an Early Bird as you could possibly get without leaving the Milky Way galaxy. Worms have never been threatened by me; heck, every morning they could dance a raucous conga line across my bed completely unscathed.
This means that I never get up early unless I absolutely, positively have to. Unfortunately, today was one of those days due to an early *%&$! meeting at the office.
Much bleary-eyed bumbling around ensued as I got ready this morning, but no major goofs -- didn't put my bra on backwards (yes, it's happened), avoided dribbling toothpaste down my shirt, and no cats were stepped on or tripped over.
So, when I arrived at the office, I congratulated myself on Successfully Arriving Early until I looked around the car and realized ... no purse.
I'd driven all the way to work without my purse, which contained my wallet, which meant that my driver's license within said wallet was at home.
I stomped up to my cubicle and immediately called Husband Mike.
Husband Mike: "Hello?"
Me: "Bring me my purse."
HM: "Uh ... what? I thought I saw you leave with it."
Me: "Nope, not in car. Forgot it."
HM: "You idiot."
He dutifully drove over to hand-deliver my purse, which (silver lining) gave me an excuse to end this morning's meeting a few minutes early. ("Oh, pardon me, my husband's in the lobby with my purse. Yeah, I forgot it.")
In the lobby, the receptionist smirked when Husband Mike held out my purse. My large, Bright Pink, plastered-with-a-kitten purse.
Last night, as we were settling in to sleep, The B began kneading my stomach. Cats often knead as a way of expressing contentment, and The B's preferred spot is my stomach.
Husband Mike, watching The B's paws mooshing said stomach, observed, "It's like you're a gigantic stress ball toy. Only thing missing is your eyes bugging out."
Yeah. You know you're Way Long Past the newlywed stage when yer spouse says stuff like that.
So, I finally used some of my vacation time and took this past week off. Husband Mike and I didn't have any set plans; we were just gonna play things by ear, take things easy.
And then he started sniffling and sneezing last Sunday. And had a fever on Monday. Then came the aches, lack of appetite, painful chest congestion, and coughing. All. Week. Long. I swear, I haven't made as much chicken soup during these last few days as I have over the past 5 years!
Yeah, I could've gone out and done things on my own this week, but with Husband Mike hackin' up his lungs and looking miserable, my interest in doing anything productive or vacationy completely shriveled up. All I could do was rub his aches, plump pillows, cook batches of chicken soup, and run out to the store for ginger ale, Jell-O, and Mucinex.
I awkwardly tried to figure out how best to help him, because Husband Mike's a Stoic Iron Man who always soldiers on, stiff upper lip and all that, and has never been one to complain about or admit to any physical discomfort when ill. Your typical "It's just a flesh wound" guy. (I, on the other hand, turn into a ginormous baby when sick.) I curled up next to him whenever he tried to sleep and, when awake, I ping-ponged between the extremes of hovering around him uselessly, then attempting to give him space by banishing myself from being in the same room as him.
So, I guess you could say this week was a complete bust. No swimming, walking, or bird-watching. No short day trips. No ambitious chores done, no books read, no Rosaries knotted, no great things accomplished. A complete waste of my vacation.
:::sigh:::
Or ... perhaps ... it was exactly how I was meant to spend my time.
My mom died at 5:48 a.m. today of a heart attack.
