Grumble

I was sitting on the floor, surrounded by stuff. T-shirts, skirts, books, shoes, electronic gizmos and gadgets were piled around me. On my lap was my backpack. My other bag was already full and I was hoping and praying all of my stuff would fit. That's all it is. Stuff. I folded, arranged, put in, pulled out again, fussed and fumbled.

I also grumbled.

This is not an unfamiliar story. I have too much stuff. In the hurry of finals week I didn't have the time or energy to pack properly. I packed up my backpack one day, believing that I would remember what I put in it. I didn't. Having no time to unpack it to look, I just threw a few more things in the other bag, hoping against hope that I wasn't over-packing. When I arrived home, I realized that hope was in vain.

I grumbled some more.

Then Christmas happened. More stuff. Gift giving and receiving is a nice tradition, but when you already have stuff out the wazoo, the last thing you need is more of it. It's just STUFF. Everywhere. Squished into bags that I'll have to lug around a train station and then unpack tomorrow.

See? I'm still grumbling.

The gray sky outside is very reflective of my mood. I don't want to be grumpy. But not wanting to be grumpy only makes it worse, because you get grumpier at yourself for being grumpy.

Help.

St. John's head

Out at HOJAM for dinner last night, we were discussing relics and the possession of them. Steve was explaining to Eric that they could not be bought, but rather an individual must petition Rome requesting a transfer of custodianship. Reasons must be given and after review, permission is either given or not. He jokingly added, "Maybe we should petition to get John Eudes' neck to go with his head," indicating an approximately head-sized, locked, black box on the bottom shelf of the bookcase in the corner. Incredulous, I exclaimed, "You have St. John's HEAD? In a BOX? On the floor??" Catching the glint in his eye, I realized my ridiculous gullibility. My brother wasn't so lucky. He thought they really had his head. Playing along with him, Steve very solemnly brought the box to the table and very slowly and even more solemnly opened it up. It was empty.

Despite my realization of the absurdity of the situation and the impossibility of them possessing the saint's head, let alone leaving it in a box on the bottom shelf of a corner bookcase, I was still relieved to see that it was empty.

laughing out loud

My brother is full of rib-cracking surprises.

He is, apparently, watching his figure

He thought that the movie was called "The Six Cents" rather than "The Sixth Sense" and was always puzzled as to how a movie about coins could be scary

He spelled phonics "fonix"

Remembered many surprising details about a young lady that he met at my school (curly brown hair, wanted to be struck by lightening after confession, he was reading Mother Angelica's book when he was talking to her, very pretty, associates her with apples, etc.), but could not remember her name

Oh my

Loose Ends

When an individual is only home for relatively short periods of time, there are certain things that absolutely, imperatively, necessarily must be done during those stints. Doctors and dentists must be visited, as well as the hair dresser. I got a whopping three inches of my hair chopped off yesterday and the dentist declared my teeth to be "perfect" this morning. The afternoon was filled with the hospital's radiology department, which always includes incessant questioning about the possibility of pregnancy. I wish there were a more witty way of saying "no". It gets so boring after a while.

Four Loves

New book. Awesome.

"Our Gift-loves are really God-like; and among our Gift-loves those are most God-like which are most boundless and unwearied in giving. All the things the poets say about them are true. Their joy, their energy, their patience, their readiness to forgive, their desire for the good of the beloved - all this is a real and all but adorable image of the Divine life." ~Clive Staples Lewis

NOT a culinary genius

I debated for a couple of minutes. Should I try to cook dinner, or should I let my brother do it? Last time I had checked, he was fairly hopeless in the kitchen, but I've been gone for a few months... maybe he's experienced some recent growth in the kitchen expertise department. I flip-flopped for a couple of minutes, weighing the dangers involved on either side. After all, it hasn't really been my day. Deciding that it was easier just to do it myself (albeit carefully) than sit and supervise him, I set to work.

I put the pot on the stove and turned it on. I opened the package of noodles, snapped them all in half, and placed them in a bowl. Then I sat down at the kitchen table, very conscientiously not watching the heating pot. A couple of minutes later, I become aware of my brother, picking up handfuls of the dry noodles.

me: "What are you doing?"
lil' bro, looking at the fistfuls of pasta: "Trying to see how much there is to eat."
me: "It expands when you cook it, you know."
lil' bro, relief spreading across his face: "Oh, really. That's good."

I think I'll keep cooking while I wait for his culinary light-bulb to turn on...

Discombobulated

I woke up with a pounding headache this morning. After pep talking myself out of bed and down the stairs, I begin perusing the cabinet for pain killers. I find some, remove the bottle from the cabinet and try to unscrew the cap. Several seconds passed without success, I reassessed my approach. Muttering "righty tighty, lefty loosy," I tried again, turning the cap the correct direction this time. Laughing at my stupidity, I walked over to the sink, grabbing my cup along the way. Cup in one hand, pills in the other, I turned on the faucet. I then proceeded to fill the hand with the pills with water and try swallowing the cup. Whoa.

As a remedy for this mental absence, I thought breakfast was in order. I began cooking the eggs and it was going just fine. Until, for some unbeknown reason, I went and sat down and completely forgot about the fact that I had left the stove on with eggs cooking. After about a minute, I remembered. Up I sprang with a small squeal, scurried back to the kitchen, and found my eggs quite contentedly cooking. No harm done.

But today is definitely not a day to operate heavy machinery. Or wield large knives. Or do anything remotely, possibly, or approaching dangerous.

A Brand New Year

This year was full of lots of stuff. I use such a non-descriptive word because there is no one word that could possibly encompass all of the different sorts of things that happened this year.

There were tears: happy and sad.

There was tension: anticipation and apprehension.

There was joy, sorrow, excitement, fear.... any emotion you can think of and/or name probably occured.

That was Two Thousand Ten. I have no doubt that Two Thousand Eleven will be entirely similar, but altogether different...

Deo Gratias!!!