Financial Mysteries of Faith

Way back in 2004, after my Dad bonked his head, we moved my folks to New Jersey to keep an eye on them.  The boys were small, and I kept a strict schedule of meals, naps and playtime.  I rather enjoyed taking my parents to their appointments - doctor visits, grocery shopping, and the bank.  Mom combed the Yellow Pages for places to explore together!  She found a diabetic sock boutique in Clifton that I always considered a bit indulgent, but other than that, we got into a nice groove.  Like a devoted Golden Retriever, Gene Dall was just along for the ride.

My mother signed up for clubs that she tired of easily - yoga, bingo and teaching CCD at St. Mary's.  She took Driver's Ed classes from a Jewish gentleman who had problems urinating.  Despite Howie's embarrassing medical condition which distracted them both, she got her license and bought a car when she was 74 years old.

Having her own wheels was very liberating!  Mom relished the freedom of showing up for church whenever she wanted (as opposed to on time). She chose neighborhood routes that highlighted her ability to make right turns with confidence.  She beeped the horn in front of my house while my children were sleeping, and I came out.  I liked to lay down in the backseat of the Honda, the three of us eating Flying Saucers she secured from the Ice Cream Station down the block.  She kept her promise to stay off the streets at rush hour and when the kids got out of school, for the well-being of the community.

Both my folks loved their trips to the bank.  Mom had a crush on Bill, the branch manager.  He was a nice enough guy, one of her many boyfriends.  I always got the impression that Bill would have been much happier had he married a nice man instead of a lady, but the photographs on his desk indicated that he and his wife were doing the best they could, given his predilections for wearing eyeliner and dressing like Dracula at various family functions.

One evening last week, Dad called to let me know he'd received a check for $20.00, and he wanted me to take him to the bank.  I reminded him that his pension checks are direct-deposited right into his account, explaining that this procedure makes things easier for customers like himself; dudes who enjoy active, satisfying lifestyles, whose spouses have died and no longer leave them in the hot car while they go buy cold cuts.  This detail generally satisfies any curiosity he has with regard to his financial status.

Still, I was curious who'd be sending my father unsolicited sums of money; he told me the check was from the Federal Reserve.  I suggested he put it aside, and I'd take a look at it when I came by to police up his dirty laundry.

Sometimes I forget about my Dad's delicate mental state.  He has come a very long way, as far as living independently and remaining injury-free on a daily basis.  I wish he changed his underwear more often, but freedom comes at a price.  Here's the check, by the way.  I've said it before, and I'll say it again - God loves Gene Dall!

Emotional Jeopardy

My blog and I are going through a rough patch.  Of course, it's my fault.  I'm a filthy, dirty cheater.  I've been seeing Facebook on the side, and Little Big Top has had enough of my philandering ways.  Sure, it didn't feel like infidelity.  Facebook is friendly to everybody!  So fun and accessible!  It's not difficult to understand how I could be led astray, but that doesn't make it right.  Sure, I know that FB will never be mine exclusively, but I didn't care.  Even this stark realization didn't stop me from carrying on indiscriminately.

I don't want to lose LBT, my faithful on-line journal.  I've got to rebuild her trust, before she archives all my clever posts and locks me out of my own account, once and for all.  I can't say that I blame her; I behaved shamelessly, dumping all the kids photos and videos onto my Facebook page.  Quipping and yucking it up with all of my on-line pals, nary a care in the world!

Little Big Top, I am so sorry.  I hope our relationship can survive this affair.  Writing is hard work, and it takes a tremendous amount of effort.  I know that now.  I promise to commit myself to repairing the damage I've caused and reconnect with you, if it's the last thing I do!  Right after I update my status...

Hey, I never said it would be easy.

Mummies

I can't stress this enough. Mummies are disgusting. Too many secrets about the mummies are being revealed to us! Mummies have been around for thousands of years, doing nothing; waiting for their moment to become rock stars. Now they travel the mummy circuit, suitcases filled with artifacts and ancient pieces of broken things. When these dusty mummies come to town, the people line up from everywhere to see them! Why? I don't really know. Desmond saw the commercial on TV, so we went to Discovery Place, to view them in their spooky, decrepit splendor.

Mummies are very delicate and sensitive; you cannot take their photograph or call your friends on the cell phone while you're viewing them. They get pissed! No coffee or soda, either. I guess they can't handle the caffeine.

Mummies come in many varieties: Egyptian mummies, bog mummies, Siberian Ice maidens. Naked mummies; ugh, they are the worst! I feel virtually no emotional connection with primitive man, especially skeleton-style. But there they are, laying around everywhere; under glass, in tombs, on slabs. Some are curled up like college students at Penn Station, waiting for the train to West Islip. Key words: Hair, teeth, fingernails. Yuck and gross! I formulate some questions, to try and connect with my ancestors. Are you a lady? Where are your clothes? And that's about as far as I got. If forced to live in a world without clothing, I would surely die of embarrassment.

I cannot relate to these mummies, no matter how hard I try!

Scientists would like me to believe I need to know more details about the mummification process. Scientists do this to me all the time! I'm good, without this information. I was just fine thinking that if you stepped on a mummy's bandage, nothing would be left when he was done unravelling.

Rory Malcolm, Love Sponge

When you like somebody, it's smart to find out as much as you can about that person. This way, you can see what kind of things you both have in common. It's also a nice way to let the Object of Your Affection think you're paying attention to what she has to say, even if you're wondering what your mom packed in your lunch.

Maybe Bachelorette #1 is really shy or thinks you are stupid. Don't be discouraged! There are still ways to get to know each other, and hopefully change her mind so she can get to liking you as soon as possible.

In order to sustain a long-lasting relationship, it's almost a necessity that you have the same favorite color. If you like Blue and she likes Yellow, things are probably not gonna work out. If you both love Turquoise, start planning the wedding immediately!

Do NOT discuss Farts. It's that simple.

Find out if your Love Interest has any food allergies, but this can be a tricky one. A word to the wise... Don't suggest slipping a mini Snicker's Bar into her Valentine treat bag, if she is allergic to peanuts. This bold tactic won't garner the attention you are hoping for. It will, however, earn you a visit to the Assistant Principal's office to discuss potential health risks and other good intentions gone terribly awry.

Talk about Sponge Bob instead. He's harmless; everybody loves him. And remember the immortal words of Mr. Krabs to Sponge Bob in Episode #130, "Questions are a danger to you and a burden to others."

The Girl of 100 Lists

I am the girl of 100 lists.
Fom what shall I wear to who I have kissed.
Check patterns off, let nothing be missed.
Sing I to myself and my 100 lists.



Like many girls my age, I learned everything I needed to know about life from Belinda Carlisle. Take fabulous vacations! Waterski! Learn to lip-synch better! Those irrepressible Go-Go's; they got so much done in a day! And you know why, don't you? Because they made lists.

I do declare... I am the Girl of 100 Lists! Every morning to help me get crackin', I drink some wonderful coffee and prepare the List Du Jour. Lists help me stay organized and feel successful. I like to use paper that has lines and a comfortable pen. Sometimes I try to match my little pen to my coffee cup, even though it's very distracting and counterproductive to getting actual things accomplished. Still, it's fun and extremely adorable.

Sure, there are days when the list can be pretty tedious. Other days, challenges are everywhere! Occasionally, I put stuff on my list that is already happening, so I get to cross it off right away. When I make my lists, it's like I'm saying to the world, "Hey, World, look at me! I am MAKING a list!" It's THAT powerful a feeling.

Lots of successful people make lists. Santa Claus. Led Zeppelin. God. And me!

Look! On the Horizon, the Ginger Zebra!

Hey, remember when this used to be an art blog? I know, I barely do either. And that's just a shame, because I make cool stuff when I set my mind to it. Uckh! I disgust myself! Well, not really, but I do need to be tougher on my creative side. There's at least five projects upstairs that I have no issues with; I should finish them. Here's three oldies, but goodies that deserve a second chance.
1. Swingin', Smokin' 2. Fairy Girl 3. Pilfering Pooch There's also a new guy; he's pretty big and super sweet (30" x 40").
4. Ginger Zebra Now that they're up on the blog, I really should address their completion. There, I feel better already!

Clinker!

It has been 2012 for a little more than a week now. The new year fits so nice and snug, thus far, like a glove. I have some practical goals; they are quite reasonable. Grow hair, check! Make new friends, check! Keep up with old friends, check! Continue being excellent, check! Remind Dad to shave regularly, check! Get Dave to paint stuff and make home improvements, check! Let's see, what else can I do? Hmm. Something bossy that involves the kids...

I've got it! Piano lessons! What a great idea. I will pay good money to a brilliant musical mentor who can help the boys develop some creative talent. Hopefully, they can learn at the feet of a chain-smoking master, as I did. I wonder where in the Queen City I can find that unique individual who not only provides piano instruction, but also fixes broken stoves and small appliances in the basement of his modest two-family home... I know, it's a tall order. The Bronx is pretty far away, and so is the past. Tommy Carr's shop is long gone from Crosby Avenue, I bet. But hey, we still love music. And we do have that piano. By jove, I will teach them myself!

Sure, learning how to play an instrument is torturous monotony for children, but so is almost everything when you're young (and definitely, when you're Desmond). Of course, there will be lots of yelling and sobbing. No big deal. There's plenty of that most days, anyway. Might as well do something productive while we're making all that racket!

No Need to Be Coy, Roy...

Boy, Christmas break lasts a long time in these here parts. Sixteen days and evenings of festive delicacies (pigs-in-blankets for breakfast, yay!), holiday films and family fun.

Well, thank God that's over! We usually start pretty strong; I'm always gung-ho for the mother and child reunion. They're just a couple of sweet kids, after all. But two weeks? C'mon! If you're smart, you'll start squirrelling away some monies for Summer Camp, post haste. Don't be caught short, come the end of May. It's in your own best interest that you enlist the assistance of some professional camp counselling teenagers to help stave off those icky summertime blues. Life is long, especially in July.

So let's everybody start off this brand new year on the right foot, and get back on that bus!

I'm a Believer!

I think these boys are just about done believing in Santa Claus. Sniff. We did have a nice long run, though. Desmond jumped ship sometime during the year, when I botched a critical tooth fairy event. Now, he is much more of a realist. And at least, he's not trying to bum the other guy out. Rory's playing it pretty close to the vest, as well. That's always the safe bet. He saw a sign in the neighborhood for Cookies with Santa - December 18. He asked if we could go; he does love cookies. I told him I thought it was something geared more toward the younger kids - a photo opportunity with a professional stunt Santa. His face looked sad, like he already knew too much. But he took it well. They still cobbled their lists together, and we mailed them to the North Pole. The letters themselves were more clinical and straightforward than in previous years. Less chatty, no artwork.

Dave did threaten to call Santa on his cell phone a couple weeks back. Neither of them even flinched. That tactic used to work wonders when they were toddlers! They'd be all tearful and blotchy, begging for just one more chance to straighten up. I felt so bad for my husband. The moment he said it, we both realized that his power was gone, and I may never look at him in the same way.

So, I guess this year is more for David and myself. We still hide the gifts in a closet and wrap them when the boys have gone to sleep. I'll arrange them under the tree on Christmas Eve and fill the stockings. Then I'll stage the break-in. I like to leave a few little things at the foot of their beds, suggesting that Santa actually came upstairs to check on them in the night. (Tracking mud through my house with his work boots, right.) I'll nervously nibble on two cookies and half of a carrot, crumple up the napkin and pour the milk down the sink.

We always have alot of great things to be thankful for; this year, especially. We haven't been able to figure out the fireplace in this new house yet, but who cares? It's 70 degrees, most days. I truly love the holidays, more now than I ever did when I was a kid. Merry Christmas, everybody!

And In This Corner...

Rory Malcolm has never been the type to back down from a fight, but some stuff just ain't worth it. Take the altercation he had on Tuesday morning with some troublesome school furniture. Everybody was lining up for lunch, minding their own business, our man included. From out of nowhere comes this student desk chair. Clearly a superior opponent, all chrome and sharp edges. Especially for a tomato can like RM. Leading with the face, as usual. Ouch! After they revived him, some volunteers brought the injured party and his cream cheese sandwich into the nurse's office. It must have really hurt; he was crying all over his baggie filled with ice cubes when I signed him out for the rest of the day. A brief leave of absence, due to an unsightly shiner and mild to mid-level embarrassment. Talk about getting your bell rung.