Finally...Here She Is

She had me wrapped around her finger within the first five minutes. She's laid back, she sleeps, she eats, and she sleeps some more.

She also has reflux and is taking Zantac for her acid indigestion. And, at one time, she even liked me. A lot. Not so much right now though. She looks at me and cries. But really, even that melts my heart.

Thoughts on Christmas Past

Cups of cold coffee and stale bread and cookies are just a few reminders of things left undone over the Christmas season. How depressing this is, especially for someone who strives to get the most out of the most joyous and blessed and beautiful seasons of the year.

A few months ago I realized why I loved this time of year so much. The cold embrace of the shorter days makes our world a little smaller. We search for warmth that can only be found in small places such as a warm bed or a wool sweater or a heavy jacket that weighs heavy on the shoulders.

In the summer we shed our clothes and reach out our arms as if to touch the blue horizon above the ocean’s ripples. The world is larger; not so comfortable. But the winter finds us reaching our hands into our pockets and squeezing our arms tight around our bodies to hold in the warmth. It’s my favorite time of year not only because of the promise it holds as it approaches, but also because of the wonderful memories I hold from childhood.

The end of daylight savings time, for me, ushers in the beginning of the best time of year. As many others lament the loss of sunlight, I look forward to the chill in the air and the crackling of dried leaves under my feet. Frankly, I grasp at anything that reminds me even remotely of the many winters I spent in Colorado – years that remain vivid in my mind and tug harder and harder on my heart with each passing year.

I also hold within an ideal about that time of year that never quits reaches its physical might. The Christmas tree dries out too early and strings of lights won’t light. The chocolate chip cookies are flat and chewy and the turkey is dry because the thermometer didn’t work. The baby cries because of reflux and the toddler doesn’t show gratitude for the presents that weren’t toy trains.

But what struck me most this year was that, as I was taking the 1600 lights off the ten-foot tree, I realized that I never really contemplated the baby in the manger. With a new baby in the house, this Christmas was hectic and tiring and the bible was barely used and Advent was barely a thought in my mind. Only one candle in the Advent wreath was ever lit and, while we made it to Mass, it felt as if nothing stuck. I contemplated the baby in my arms, not the one who came to shed our sins.

Needless to say, while I certainly counted all my blessings, I was sad to see the season end. As our days get longer, the smallness of our world will slowly be swallowed up in the long summer days. And then we get to do it all over again.

Not So Old, But Cranky

I bit down on a Ranch Doritos the other day and for the very first time I got a chip stuck between my teeth and the roof of my mouth. My gums and teeth are getting tender.

I have had to start applying Bag Balm to my foot like a grandma in her seventies because the heel of my right foot is dry and cracked. It looks like I've walked bare-foot for 60 years.

My left eyeball dries out at work and seriously impairs my ability to see my computer monitor from two feet away. My eyes water and feel heavy and tired and they get blurry until I have to squint and take eye breaks to make them feel better. I even use eye drops.

The small of my back on the left side aches as if my left kidney is failing. Either that or I am experiencing lower back pain.

I did some research to see if kidney failure was connected to feeling more tired because I have been more tired than any other time in my entire life. I'm like a senior citizen who needs a nap after lunch just to get through the day.

And when I get up from my chair my spine cracks and twists back into position.

It isn't lost on me that I just turned 31. It isn't lost on me at all.

I've got pinched nerves and tight shoulders. I've started to really enjoy music without lyrics and I think my knees ache when the weather is changing.

I realized on the day of my birthday that, although I thought I liked Buttercream Icing for 30 years, the truth of the matter is that I have never liked it at all. It's too sweet and I just figured that the bakery kept getting the frosting wrong. Turns out that I like whipped cream frosting and asked for Buttercream because I thought Buttercream was Whipped Cream. I was getting what I asked for every time.

I cough probably 340 days a year. And my intestines are never happy.

I ordered a sandwich at Lawry’s a while back and it had Dijon mustard, which made me seriously angry. It was the wrong sandwich. I requested ranch dressing and they wanted to charge me for it. I said, “Here’s the deal, I can bring the ENTIRE plate back up here and ask for a refund because the sandwich is horrible, or you can give me some ranch dressing.” I got the dressing for free. Don’t mess with my food.

I'm a 75-year-old in a thirty-one-year-old's body.

And to tell you the truth, I'm cranky about it.

On Behaving Well

Little Bruiser -the inquisitor- is my shadow. We do everything together. He even calls me up in the morning when I’m at the office and let’s me know that he “is coming up so we can make some popcorn and coffee.” And believe me, he shows up.

We mow the lawn. We fix sprinklers. We hang window coverings. We water. We make waffles and we make coffee.

“When baby sissy comes we’ll walk around the car and wash it together and we’ll play outside,” and he huffs as if he got tired just thinking about the days that’ll be just packed with stuff to do.

He looks most forward to mowing the lawn except that he actually hates the lawnmower and covers his ears and runs if I even remotely point it in his direction. I remind him that I won’t run him over but he doesn’t care. He runs while covering his ears.

And then we water.

I cleaned the fridge out last evening. I found some REALLY old carrots – all moldy and growing major roots. So I decided to throw them out back instead of wasting them down the drain. Besides, the stupid rabbits’ll eat them.

Why you throwing the carrots out back?

Because they are bad.

Why are they bad?

Because we didn’t eat them.

Why we didn’t eat them?

Because we forgot they were in there.

Why we forget?

We just did.

What are you doing dada?

Throwing carrots out back.

Why you throwing carrots out back?

And it continues in this fashion as the shadow-inquisitor takes me on many round trips. I get this questioning for everything we do. Everything.

And I try not to sound impatient.

He is my little shadow, which means that I really have to be aware of my every move and how they might be perceived. Talk about being an example – anything he sees me do he thinks is okay.

I have to watch my attitude around others. I have to watch my language and watch how Ms. Lovechunk and I joke around – what we know as being all in fun, he can take very seriously.

In all honesty, I should control the tone and tenor of all of the gas that exits my body.

I’d be humiliated if he let one rip and then proudly exclaimed, “That was a Big Toot!” in the middle of preschool.

Confession is an everyday occurrence now: I’m sorry for this and please forgive me for that and “dad shouldn’t have done that.”

Do as I say and not as I do does not work for a two-and-a-half-year-old.

It’s already a scary thing and then he reminds me that a certain “baby sissy” is on the way.

It’s then that I realize that I will be under even more scrutiny because there will be a little girl who will take her cues about how guys should behave based on how her dad and big brother behave.

I think it’s time for a little “Good Behavior Boot Camp” for daddy and soon-to-be-big-brother.

Some Nights We All Sleep Alone

There are some nights when I am forced to sleep alone. Mostly these nights come about when Ms. Lovechunk finds out what embarrassing and/or outrageous thing I have done.

One day this week I changed into my running clothes in my office. Only when I finished did I realize that I did not have my running shoes with me. I left them in the car, which was fine because I wasn't running until I got to my parents' house.

But I did have to get to my car, which is across the street and up four flights of stairs.

I was going to leave my office barefoot until a work colleague told me not to. She implored me to wear shoes. So I did.

As I bolted across the street in a jay-walking sort of fashion I realized that I should be REALLY careful. If a car happened to hit me and a family member needed to identify the body I did not want them to find me in this get-up.

I have never driven so carefully and so slowly in my life, but I did not want to get in an accident and have to pull over to the side of the freeway to share information with a total stranger in this get-up.

Which got me thinking: My mom and most moms always tell us to wear clean underwear in case we are in an accident. This is lousy advice.

If I know I am wearing holy underwear, complete with nicotine stained skid marks, there is a higher likelihood that I will drive safely and NOT end up in an accident.

Whereas, if I am wearing bright, white, brand new unders, there is a good chance that I am going to drive a little more recklessly, like JoJo the Idiot Circus Boy and His Pretty New Unders.

Good thing I wasn't dressed like this above...

And here's me and my guitar (I can't play yet) singing the blues about how I am sleeping alone because Ms. Lovechunk was so embarrassed and disgusted by my shoes.

She actually told me that I should have gone barefoot.

Of course, after she saw what's behind the jump...

Green Worm, on my Shoulder, Makes me Crabby

Because you’ve done this, you’re cursed
cursed beyond all cattle and wild animals,
Cursed to slink on your belly
and eat dirt all your life.
I’m declaring war between you and the Woman,
between your offspring and hers.
He’ll wound your head,
you’ll wound his feet.

Somewhere between the bathroom and the second pew for the mass of the Solemnity of the Assumption I ended up with a green worm on my right shoulder.

I sat down and looked down and there it was just squirming about.

What in the heck am I going to do with that? I thought. I can’t kill it because we’re in church and I’m pretty sure that’ll be frowned upon by The Almighty.

I couldn’t get up because we were already in the first reading, Then the dragon stood before the woman about to give birth, to devour her child when she gave birth. She gave birth to a son, a male child, destined to rule all nations…

I nudged Ms. Lovechunk and showed her and said in my best church whisper, What am I going to do?

She did not have an answer. She just kept staring at it to make sure it didn’t end up on her.

I took my St. Joseph Holy Card, the one I use to mark my place in my Magnificat, and I tried to get the worm onto the card.

There was no way I was going to touch it because the minute it would have moved in my hand I would have screamed like a white woman.

So I gently nudged the worm onto the holy card and moved it to the arm of the pew in front of me as no one was there. I decided I would leave the worm there until after mass and then I would relocate him outside.

“A bug,” however, doesn’t escape from the peripheral vision of Little Bruiser and, somewhere between the Psalm and the beginning of the second reading, Little Green Worm was writhing in pain, folded in half on the arm of the pew in front of me.

Great, I thought. I killed the worm anyway.

Before Little Bruiser noticed that the worm was doing all sorts of spastic muscle spasms, I knocked the worm to the floor. The second reading was being recited, …when he has destroyed every sovereignty and every authority and power. For he must reign until he has put all his enemies under his feet.

And I squished the worm under my shoe because then at least it would be out of its misery.

Then I felt guilty for advocating a type of euthanasia instead of letting the worm die with dignity.

Did I really hear Mass last night? I think not.

I was conflicted about the green worm and what to do with it as well as the fact that I knew I couldn’t very well kill it in the sanctuary. Then I turn around and euthanize the stupid thing.

How odd, I think, in light of the readings.

There must be a lesson. But what is it?

He’ll wound your head
You’ll wound his feet.

Recognition

As I was driving home tonight commercials were all over the radio and I switched around until I found my way to NPR. It’s time for their fundraiser (when are they not fundraising) and to get people to donate they were going to raffle off an Apple Mac book or whatever. I couldn’t help but think about how much cooler this is than the time I donated to the public broadcasting station in Wilkes-Barre, PA. At the time they were fundraising their big idea was to say the name and city of every person who made a donation.

Oh, I could just hear my name going out over the airwaves: Thanks to Ryan LastName from Wapwallopen who just donated $25.

Oh, finally I would get some recognition for my contributions. Finally my name would be shouted from the rooftops. Who cares if I had to pay to make it happen? It was going to be so worth it.

So I called up and I slapped my twenty-five bucks down (actually I told them to bill me). Then I waited with a kind of anticipation that I remember from when I was young and I would get permission to pick out a toy at the grocery store. Oh, I would get so excited. And then I would have to pee.

They finally said my name. Ryan LastName from Wapwallopen just donated $25.

And that was it. Three seconds and it was over. What a depressing denouement. That was it, I thought to myself.

Then I thought some more: I don’t even know anyone who would be listening to public radio. My parents don’t even listen to public radio. Twenty-five bucks for three lousy seconds. I felt cheated and ripped off.

So tonight, on the drive home, as they announced their raffle of the Apple Mac Book (or whatever it was) I thought for one second that maybe this was it. Maybe this was my time. Maybe this was the recognition for my contribution that I was looking for.

Then I thought better of it. I’m not falling in that trap again.

Besides, I never paid up the last time and they're probably still looking for me.

The Battle of Bedtime

We begin this process around eight with a bath and a Peanuts cartoon and warm milk and two stories and prayers…

Well, let me back up a little. I begin this process with a beer. Then we do the bath and the stories and the prayers and the brushing of the teeth and the “I need water” and the “ I need more water” and the I forgot to kiss baby sissie” (in mommy's tummy) and the “I didn’t give you a hug”…

Don’t get me wrong, it’s not as bad as it sounds. Bruiser was asleep by 9:45 tonight. It used to be much worse. This is a blessing.

It’s just that this constant vigil in the hall, while we wait for him to sleep, starts to grate on me. So now I head upstairs with a pad of paper and a pen and I think and I write, which isn’t so great either because I think about everything going on in this world.

My son drifts off to sleep and he looks so fragile and innocent.

And the darkness outside tries to push into his world.

I think about the song I love to sing to him: "St. Judy’s Comet."

Won't you run come see St. Judy's Comet
Roll across the skies
And leave a spray of diamonds
In its wake
I long to see St. Judy's Comet
Sparkle in your eyes
When you awake

The darkness outside Bruiser’s bedroom window threatens to take the sparkle from his eyes and, frankly, this bothers me. A lot.

We saw Paul Simon in concert a few weeks ago. I have always loved his lyrics and his music so I was excited to see him live. There’s no doubt that he writes from a political perspective that is different from my own, but what I have always loved about his lyrics is that he isn’t blatantly political -- he doesn’t write with or from anger or hatred. His music captures a sense of longing and an awareness of the beauty around us. His music has always felt warm and comforting to me and no matter when I listen to Simon & Garfunkel I am reminded of the crisp, gray days in Colorado when I could hear nothing but the snow fall as it covered the dirty world with a blanket of white.

"Father and Daughter" is a great song from his new album and, as Ms. Lovechunk stated as he was singing this song, it is the perfect song to sing to my daughter, who will be here sometime around November 2. Not only does it express a father’s love for his daughter, but the lyrics express so many feelings and worries a dad has for his daughter and all of his children:

If you leap awake
In the mirror of a bad dream
And for a fraction of a second
You can’t remember where you are
Just open your window
And follow your memory upstream
To the meadow in the mountain
Where we counted every falling star

I believe the light that shines on you
Will shine on you forever
And though I can’t guarantee
There’s nothing scary hiding under your bed
I’m gonna stand guard
Like a postcard of a Golden Retriever
And never leave till I leave you
With a sweet dream in your head

When bedtime comes we kneel by the side of the bed and thank God for the day and for our safety and we pray for everyone in the Middle East and for the men and women and their families in the military. We are so lucky.

I look upon my son as he sleeps and I think of all the children who can’t rest for fear. I think of all the kids who can’t rest like my son because they have no window to keep the darkness out.

I’ll make no political statements about this because I think that everyone knows where I stand in this battle. But as a father I wonder where we went wrong.

“Wartime Prayers” is another song on Paul Simon’s new album. The lyrics are perfect for the world in which we live and I can’t help but think about how certain lines speak directly to the state of politics in this country – left AND right:

Prayers offered in times of peace are silent conversations,
Appeals for love or loves release, private invocations.

Wartime prayers, wartime prayers
In every language spoken,
For every family scattered and broken.

It ends like this:

I’m trying to tap into some wisdom,
Even a little drop would do.
I want to rid my heart of envy
And cleanse my soul of rage
Before I’m through.

A mother murmurs in twilight sleep
And draws her babies closer.
With hush-a-byes for sleepy eyes,
And kisses on the shoulder.
To drive away despair
She sends a wartime prayer.

I hope everyone I know sends wartime prayers.

Leaning on the Saints

I don't know if I ever told you about how I saved St. Joseph from a Thursday morning garbage pickup. We passed him by and I asked Ms. Lovechunk to turn the car around so I could go back and get him. He was all alone. Next to some trash cans by the curb.

I picked him up and sat him on my lap. Before long, I began to itch. St. Joseph was full of ants. And so was I.

I have always felt a special connection to St. Joseph. The bible doesn't say much about him, but we know that he was "just" man who went to great lengths to protect his family and provide for them.

I dug a hole in the yard of our condo and buried St. Joseph today. Not the same one that I rescued sometime back. No, this St. Joseph was made especially to serve as a "Home Sale Practice," in the hopes that we can get our condo rented and stop paying two mortgages every month.

I'll admit that this was a bit odd to me. I'm not a cradle Catholic and the communion of saints is not something I grew up with. So I thought about the physical act of faith connected to actually burying St. Joseph for quite awhile. That and three months of paying two mortgages pushed me into action.

I think many people who don't live out their faith in the Catholic tradition don't understand the physical acts Catholics perform to represent their spiritual faith.

Confession is a great example. Certainly we can confess our sins to God as much as the next person and surely we are forgiven by God as we confess directly to him. This was my form of confession for nearly 25 years. I can tell you that such confession is easy -- it's easy to confess our sins and actions silently in the dark of night in prayer.

Try confessing your sins out loud for your own ears to hear. Better yet, sit next to a Priest and tell him your sins and weaknesses and sources of shame. Yeah. That's what I thought. I can tell you, one is (or should be) a little more accountable for their actions when you gotta look someone in the eyes and tell them what you've done. I still get nervous.

There is a connection between the spiritual and the physical. It's sort of like where the rubber of your faith meets the road. It's one thing to "think" something. It's quite another thing to perform a spiritual act of faith.

I've talked to St. Joseph many times since I've been Catholic. I believe, as scripture says, "And as for the resurrection of the dead, have you not read what was said to you by God, 'I am the God of Abraham, and the God of Isaac, and the God of Jacob?' He is not the God of the dead, but of the living." (Matthew 22:31-32) I believe the saints in heaven are not dead. I believe that we are all one body and we drink of one Spirit. I believe that, just as our friends on earth pray for us, so do our friends in heaven.

So the rubber met the road today. I buried St. Joseph and I prayed for God's help and St. Joseph's intercession.

God can use the natural world to bring out supernatural results.

Painting and Crying - A Country Song

I'm over at the condo painting the master bedroom so maybe somebody will actually move in and pay us rent and I have my iPod plugged in and I am just painting away. It's set to my "Good Stuff" playlist and let me tell you, when I make a Good Stuff playlist, I mean Good Stuff.

But then I think because of the paint fumes and the pregnancy hormones and because I am tired there are certain songs on this playlist that I can't listen to right now. They make me all sappy and wobbly-chinned and teary-eyed. It's a disgusting sight to behold and I actually make myself throw up a little in my mouth when I realize that I'm behaving like a total girl.

Ms. Lovechunk, observing my "issue" on a previous occasion said, "just don't listen to that song." She doesn't like hearing it either because it makes her sad.

Two songs that I can't hear right now:

Then They Do, by Trace Adkins and There Goes My Life, by Kenny Chesney.

So I painted, I cried and I lamented the fact that one day my children will grow up. It's already happening so quickly with Little Bruiser. The two of us just finished "Parent & Me" swimming classes. He's two-and-a-half and it's gone so fast...

Lyrics to Then They Do:

In the early rush of morning,
Trying to get the kids to school:
One's hanging on my shirt-tail,
Another's locked up in her room.
And I'm yelling up the stairs:
"Stop worrying 'bout your hair, you look fine."

Then they're fightin' in the backseat,
And I'm playing referee.
Now someone's gotta go,
The moment that we leave.
And everybody's late,
I swear that I can't wait till they grow up.

Then they do, and that's how it is.
It's just quiet in the mornin',
Can't believe how much you miss,
All they do and all they did.
You want all the dreams they dreamed of to come true:
Then they do.

Now the youngest is starting college,
She'll be leavin' in the Fall.
And Brianna's latest boyfriend,
Called to ask if we could talk.
And I got the impression,
That he's about to pop the question any day.

I look over at their pictures,
Sittin' in their frames.
I see them as babies:
I guess that'll never change.
You pray all their lives,
That someday they will find happiness.

Then they do, and that's how it is.
It's just quiet in the mornin',
Can't believe how much you miss,
All they do and all they did.
You want all the dreams they dreamed of to come true:
Then they do.

No more Monday PTA's,
No carpools, or soccer games.
Your work is done.
Now you've got time that's all your own.
You've been waitin' for so long,
For those days to come.

Then they do, and that's how it is.
It's just quiet in the mornin',
Can't believe how much you miss,
All they do and all they did.
You want all the dreams they dreamed of to come true:
Then they do.

Ah, then they do.

Sweet Summertime

The Yard

Rabbits used to be cute.
Now I hate them.
They eat my grass and they leave their little droppings behind which in turn kills the grass.
They make me angry and they make me say foul things under my breath.

Grass: used to love it.
Hate it.
It gets worms and it dies from rabbits and it’s generally ill-tempered and high maintenance.

Our new yard is still really a love-hate thing with me. The idea of having a yard is great. The idea of a garden is great. The idea of beautiful flowers in full bloom is great. But like many other visions of grandeur, one just never quite gets there.

My pot of lavender was looking better than ever. I could stand inside and stare at it for hours and take great pride in finally finding the perfect mix of sun and water and food to make it bloom and grow. Then I got over zealous with the fertilizer and burned it. Then God got over zealous with ten days of hundred-plus heat and burned it a little more. I had to cut it back.

Now it’s stubby. And angry. And it taunts me once again.

My rosemary didn’t grow an inch until we moved here. It’s still doing fantastic, actually. But I walk by and glance at it with a burdened hesitance of a feeling that I’ll lose it at any moment.

There are weeds everywhere and dead spots in the grass and something always has to be watered. I ignore it for a while, but every window holds a view of something left undone. Every glance holds a taunt and a little bit of guilt and I still haven’t figured out how to add this just-one-more-thing into my day.

Writing suffers. Reading suffers. Life seems to suffer except that there is beauty found in the clean lines of a yard well tended. There is beauty in the lavender and the rosemary and the hydrangea when they get the care they need. There is beauty in the green grass and the reaching trees and the grasping vines of ivy up the house.

There is no beauty in the rabbits, though. I spit on the rabbits.

The Night Shift

I have been meaning to get back here for quite awhile. However, I have had a few new nightly duties to attend to, which has meant that writing is starved for attention. As you will see, though, sometimes it is necessary to suffer for your writing in order to write.

My latest and greatest nighttime role involves providing perimeter security for a two-year-old and his bedroom. Looking for “hamsters” (meaning monsters), fires and large dogs, I keep watch for a tired and shifty-eyed child with a great imagination. “Hamsters” started showing up after an episode involving Thomas the Train and his friend Emily. No matter how many times we try to explain that the “hamsters” were really just a family of seals and that Emily was no longer afraid, well, it doesn’t matter. “Hamsters are coming so please sit down daddy.”

And fire. We still aren’t sure exactly where he got the scariness of fire in his head. We have several friends of the family who serve as firefighters, but we don’t discuss scary events around Little Bruiser. We don’t watch the news. We barely watch regular TV. We watch Peanuts DVD’s, Thomas the Train, and Small One.

And large dogs. I guess this is a given. Dogs are scary and, apparently, coming up the stairs at night. So I sit and wait. And little Bruiser tosses and turns and sighs and grunts and get comfortable and tucks the covers in and pats them down around him and then does it all over again. And again.

He closes his eyes and then opens them to make sure his security guard isn’t slacking off – that his security guard hasn’t walked off the job. That for one more night his room will be free from dangerous hamsters, fires and large animals.

His imagination is wonderful and amazing. His imagination is a joy and a curse. Believe me this.

He is extremely creative making cookies and pancakes and hamburgers and chicken and sauce and whip cream out of air or dirt or sand or whatever is in front of him. In an instant he can be on the Monorail in Disneyland. He’s driving, of course. He talks about meeting Mickey and Donald and Pluto and Minnie.

He’ll sit on Rosco (the very real dog) and “drive his monorail. He’ll sit on a chair or on his little fire truck or on the floor or in Grandma’s car and he will tell you to sit down and let you know that you are on his monorail and you are going to Disneyland.

And he’ll make you coffee from an espresso machine and add milk and whipped cream and let you know that “it’s a little bit hot.”

But then there are also hamsters and fires and large dogs coming up the stairs and I remember the many nights I spent in the dark afraid that the guy from The Shining was going to smash an ax through my bedroom door.

I remember how I wouldn’t swim in the deep-end of our pool by myself because of Jaws. If I was alone in the pool, I stayed in the shallow end. Even now I can panic in deep water, even in a pool, if I can’t see the bottom. Jaws people! Jaws. He comes out of nowhere and he lifts you out of the water and then pulls you down.

Later the coroner finds your keys and your chapstick and the metal pieces of your swimsuit in the belly of the Great White. Along with a license plate and an old spoon.

I hated, HATED the dark. If it wasn’t that disgustingly sweaty guy from The Shining it was the clown from It or the Pea Soup girl.

As I’ve gotten older my imagination has evolved into much more sophisticated efforts. Because I know that The Shining and the Pea Soup girl aren’t real (sorry I can’t get over Jaws) I now concoct diseases and mental disorders in my head that I am always sure will result in my ultimate demise.

We’ve talked about this before – I had to throw out my Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders because at one time or another I swear I had most of the symptoms of one of more of the disorders. I can’t really read medical books either. Especially when I am ailing from something because before you know it the ingrown hair on my arm is malignant melanoma that has spread from the bottom of my foot because I can’t see the bottom of my foot without much effort and so I missed it and let it go and not only is it in my arm but it’s in the layer between my skull and my brain and that is why I am having the headaches.

One day it’s hamsters and fire and large dogs and before you know it it’s bipolar disorder and schizophrenia and cancerous growths and the worms. That’s why I take this night duty so seriously.

Providing security for the next generation: It’s a dangerous and nasty job, but somebody has to do it.

Your Typical? Morning

It’s 0730. I have been to Mass and am now sitting on the train heading to work.

I’m reading The Devil and How to Resist Him and I have just finished underlining an important passage: “The hungry sheep look up and are not fed.” This book is a great book and I find myself increasingly impressed by the author because of his knowledge of Scripture as well as English literature. He just quoted a line from John Milton’s Lycidas. For English majors and nerds like me, you get extra points for quoting great English masterpieces.

My cell phone rings. It’s Ms. Lovechunk.

Me: Good Morning Ms. Lovechunk.

LC: What are you doing?

Me: I’m sitting on the train.

LC: What time is it?

Me: It’s 7:30.

LC: Oh, that’s good.

Me: What are you doing?

LC: Your son’s head is wedged underneath the bed.

ME!: What!? Is he stuck? Did you get him out!?

LC: No. I can’t lift the bed so he’s still there.

Me: Ok. Where are you? What are you doing?

LC: I’m in the bedroom waiting for my mom.

Me: I don’t hear any crying? Is he ok?

LC: He’s fine. He’s calm.

Me: Yah. Apparently.

LC: Well, my mom’s here so I’ll call you back.

I called a few minutes later after processing all of the information and thinking about the bizarre world in which I live. My son’s head was stuck underneath our bed and he was totally calm. The kind of peace and calm which might cause one to would presume that this type of thing happens frequently and therefore instead of panicking my son is resigned to the fact: “Sigh…well, my head’s stuck again. Nana will be over soon to get me out…”

Ms. Lovechunk would have called 911 if her mom wasn't home...

I often wonder what goes on in our home during the day. Maybe I don’t really want to know.

The Last Supper

Tonight Ms. Lovechunk and I attended Holy Thursday Mass commemorating Passover and the Last Supper, which is rather ominous and ironic given last night's blog entry appalling lack of judgment in writing.

Being the most gracious and forgiving Ms. Lovechunk that she is, however, means that I am not banished to a dog house in an undisclosed location. Rather, I am writing in my comfortable house next to the couch I will be sleeping on tonight. (Ha Ha. That's a joke). Maybe.

I am getting ready to burn some incense and say Night Prayers so I will close with some verses from one of my new favorite Christian artists, Aaron Shust. His song, More Wonderful, expresses exactly how I feel when I look at my family, my life, my friend and, most importantly, our Lord on the cross:

You've been more wonderful to me than I could have ever imagined
You've shown more love than I could show in a thousand years
And although it seems at times like it all means nothing to me
You gotta know that I love You
You gotta know that I need You

P.S. Tonight's Psalm: 127 -- The Lord is my light and my help, whom shall I fear...

A Big Bag of Spiders

I'm gonna let you all in on a little secret: Either Ms. Lovechunk is trying to kill me or she is trying to make it so that I NEVER want her to cook anything for me.

The jury's still out.

Tonight she made Beef Stroganoff for dinner. That's red meat, milk-based cream sauce and pasta.

That fits right into a low cholesterol diet. Plus I don't even like red meat.

Then there's breakfast. For breakfast I eat, every morning, the same thing: 1/4 cup plus a little more Oat Bran, a bit of brown sugar, some Brummel & Brown and two tablespoons of flax seed. Every morning. Every. Morning. The. Same. Thing.

Ms. Lovechunk cooks me eggs. Whole. Eggs. I know she gets especially frustrated when I sit down to eat the eggs and note out loud the yellow hue of the eggs.

"Are these whole eggs?" I inquire.

"Yes. Just eat them. I made you breakfast."

"Well thank you. I appreciate that, but I don't eat whole eggs. Just egg whites. I have never in my adult life eaten whole eggs. Just egg whites. Always and forever since you have known me I have only eaten egg whites. And that's usually alongside my oat bran."

She really doesn't like that I eat oat bran every morning so I do surprise her with homemade waffles every now and then, which are actually pretty tasty. I make them with egg whites, smart balance oil and add a little ground flax seed to the batter.

She really doesn't like flaxseed and I feel sort of stuck between a rock and a hard place. After all, my cholesterol is finally below 200. First time since I was 18 as a matter of fact. Obviously my diet is a huge reason for this so I like the routine of breakfast and knowing that if I cheat any other time during the day at least I ate a healthy breakfast.

Which is a good thing when I come home to red meat and milk-based cream sauce.

I ate it all, just so you all know. I was threatened actually.

Ms. Lovechunk did steam some fresh green beans as a side dish so that was lovely. But I know she wasn't thrilled with my reaction to the main course.

I found the red meat quite tender, which I did not expect at all. When Ms. Lovechunk's mom makes beef stroganoff one must chew the meat for at least a half-an-hour to ensure proper digestion. Or maybe it's just me.

That last paragraph will mean one of two things: Either Ms. Lovechunk's mom will now want to kill me, or she will never feed me again.

Like mother like daughter I guess.

That's alright. I can survive on Pitted Dates and Homemade Yogurt and Granola, and Oat Bran and Flax Seed. Just ask our friends who used to join us for Angels games.

On second thought, don't ask them. They have yet to let me live down the fact that I brought prunes and carrot sticks as a snack to one of the games.

So I'm a freak. Like I haven't known that for a REALLY long time.

Soon to be a hungry freak, I guess.

PS—Don’t give me any grief about not being appreciative of Ms. Lovechunk’s efforts in the kitchen. I have never expected her to cook.

And let me turn this around a little: Let’s say Ms. Lovechunk always bought herself a dozen roses every Friday. One Friday, I decide to “surprise” her, but not with flowers. Instead, I decide to surprise her with a big bag of spiders.

She hates spiders, but because I picked them up for her she should “enjoy” them?

Right.

In Which We Return To The Pull-Up Bar

Forgive me but, because life is sometimes ironically painful, I can't feel my left forearm or bicep and my wrist feels sprained.

When Ms. Lovechunk and I came to the decision to put our house up for lease and move she asked in a very sarcastic manner, "Are you going to be able to take your pull-up bar?" This was a rhetorical question for her as she thought that I would absolutely want to remove my pull-up bar and take it with me.

She was correct. I would, of course, want to take the bar with me. However, that really wasn't the issue as far as I was concerned. The real issue was actually whether I could actually remove the bar from the ceiling in order to take it with me.

I told Ms. Lovechunk that of course I would be removing the bar. I decided that it was better to keep the doubts in my head and come back to those after some serious effort was attempted.

I knew she really had her doubts as it was. I knew that she would have rather left the bar if it meant NOT making an even bigger hole in the ceiling.

She wants to trust me. She really does. But I do make it a little difficult for her.

Last Friday night I noticed a small leak in the garbage disposal. The water was rusty so I knew this most likely meant that we would need to get a new disposal.

The only problem was that I had just attempted to run some lettuce and ground turkey down the disposal.

It clogged.

So, I ascertained that we had a drip in the disposal and a clog in the pipe.

I have experience removing the "u-shaped" pipe (the technical name escapes me) so my goal was to remove that pipe just enough to begin removing the water from the pipes and sink.

Well, this did not work so well. Water gushed everywhere, filling the bucket I had put underneath, and overflowing onto and underneath the wood floor.

The clogged pipe was now clear but the ground turkey and lettuce was all over the kitchen floor.

Ms. Lovechunk and I had to remove the dishwasher and move the stove and take each section of wood floor up, drying everything along the way.

I knew she thought I was some sort of imbecile. I knew she wanted to call me what the French call les incompetente.

But she didn't. She was gracious and merciful and understanding.

The problem with the pull-up bar was that I knew I couldn't simply remove the feet that were holding the entire bar up.

You see, I stripped many, many of those screws as I was putting them into the various 2x4s...

The problem with the pull up bar was that it was put together using pipe and pipe fittings. Once in place, as you try to loosen one section, the other sections tighten.

I got my ladder and a wrench and some hand towels and began wrenching on one side to loosen an L joint. I slowly began loosening that fitting while simultaneously tightening the rest.

But this was the only way.

To keep the wrench from sliding on the pipe, I needed a monster grip so that I would grab the pipe and loosen. I used a hand towel and gripped the wrench with one hand and wrapped the other arm around the bar for traction.

This was painstaking -- at about a quarter a turn per try.

And then it just stopped. It wouldn't budge.

I took a break and rethought my plan.

WD-40 was what I needed. Spray. Spray. Spray and spray.

I moved the ladder to attack the bar from a different position and hold the wrench with a different hand.

Twenty minutes later, the bar was removed.

Yet the feet remain and will, unfortunately, have to be covered up with the new drywall when I patch the ceiling.

As I sit here, my neck has begun to ache. My lower back is in pain and I feel like I got the carpal-tunnel. My left bicep is numb and my forearm appears to have road rash.

Not all is lost, however. I have filed away many key learnings from this experience and, although this may appear to be a pyrrhic victory, I believe that I am a stronger and better person for having gone down this road.

I may feel differently tomorrow when I can't move my neck or raise my arm. After all, I've been there before.

But, the bar is down and, coincidentally, the wood floor in the kitchen is back down where it belongs. The stove is back in place and, although the dishwasher doesn't work like it did before (seriously), it has also returned to its rightful position.

Life couldn't possibly get any better than this. (This is what I keep telling Ms. Lovechunk. She ain't buyin' it.)

Redux: And Baby Makes Four

Look people, I'm on like NO SLEEP right now. We are moving and packing and trying to get the condo ready to rent out. (Anyone interested in renting a condo in Southern Orange County??) I received not-so-great reaction to this post and I will admit that I was having a problem writing it and I kind of knew that it was going to strike a bad chord with people...but my judgement is impaired and Lent has gone all wrong and I am tired and careless...mea culpa.

The good news is this: We're pregnant! Yes!!

Here's the post, edited for content:

Ms. Lovechunk rolled her eyes when I pointed up to the speaker and exclaimed that Rita Springer was singing.

Apparently that isn’t something you do when your wife is lying on a doctor’s table getting “the exam.” Even if the singer just happens to be one of your favorite singers in the entire world.

Whatever. What exactly am I supposed to do? I’ve sat before with the requisite bug-eyed amazement, gritting my teeth and tightening my jaw as I watched the doctor (or nurse)

Needless to say I was happy to hear one of my favorite singers ever over the speaker. So I pointed it out. Doesn’t anyone realize that my wife wasn’t the only person uncomfortable during this little procedure?

Then it was on to the cool part.

This would be the first time that a technology greater than an E.P.T test would show us what we already knew.

Our new baby showed up on the ultrasound. Eight weeks old. A head, a heartbeat and little arm buds.

God is good.

In Which We Pay A Visit To Urgent Care

When Ms. Lovechunk and I were dating we decided to buy a hamster together. We named him Timmy and, because Ms. Lovechunk was living in Westwood while attending UCLA and I was living in Lake Forest attending Cal State Fullerton, we shared joint custody of Timmy.

Timmy lived at Ms. Lovechunk's parents' house.

Timmy got only the best cage and the best food and the best toys and the best water, chock full of vitamins. I couldn't imagine little Timmy living on anything less than cedar chips, so Timmy also got great smelling cedar chips in which to live and dig and roll around.

A few days after we brought Timmy home we noticed something strange. He seemed to itch. A lot. Timmy would itch and itch and itch until the next day when he had bald spots on his face and head.

I scooped Timmy up and Ms. Lovechunk and I took him to the veterinarian. We briefly consulted with the receptionist and learned that our $8 hamster would be charged $35 to see the doctor.

I would have spent any amount of money to fix sick and bald Timmy. However, Ms. Lovechunk scoffed explaining, "Why don't we take Timmy back to where we bought him." I thought she wanted to trade sick Timmy in for healthy, new Timmy. I was appalled.

Ms. Lovechunk explained, before we go throwing down a bunch of money let's just go see if they can tell us what's wrong with Timmy.

I gave in, knowing that I would never leave sick Timmy there and take home a new and healthy Timmy. If sick Timmy broke Ms. Lovechunk and me up, then so be it. I would stay by sick Timmy until the very end, if needed.

We learned during our visit to the pet store that sick and bald Timmy was most likely allergic to the cedar chips. We left the pet store with a new bag of saw dust litter and in a few days sick and bald Timmy was feeling much better.

Last Saturday, Little Bruiser was running behind his dump truck, terrorizing his dinosaurs and the cat by tearing up and down the hall. He was having a blast at this until something happened. Neither Ms. Lovechunk nor I saw what happened, but one moment he's running along and the next he is screaming in pain.

His right foot was hurt and he couldn't even stand on it for a while. As the day wore on he got better but limped along and wanted to be held. We contemplated taking him to the doctor but figured since he seemed to be moving it and using it more and more he would be fine.

However, he continued to limp all week. So, after much pressure from family we decided, against my better judgment, to take him to urgent care. After all, they claimed, "It could be a stress fracture in a growth plate."

We've tried prepping Little Bruiser before doctor's visits, but it doesn't help. The minute we step into the reception area Little Bruiser screams as if he was on fire.

He screams as if someone was sticking a needle in his eye. Over. And Over. And Over.

And he takes a breath. And he screams. Over. And Over. And Over. Some More.

Little Bruiser behaves like the man with the unclean spirit in the Gospel of Mark. You've heard of him:

And when he had come out of the boat, there met him out of the tombs a man with an unclean spirit, who lived among the tombs; and no one could bind him any more, even with a chain; for he had often been bound with fetters and chains, but the chains he wrenched apart, and the fetters he broke in pieces; and no one had the strength to subdue him.

Night and day among the tombs and on the mountains he was always crying out, and bruising himself with stones. (Mark 5:2-5)

Now, I figured Little Brusier had nothing more than a strain or a sprain. He was using his foot and moving it every which way and limping but running and walking...but Ms. Lovechunk insisted.

So we went. Much like tricking a dog by telling him, "we're going for a walk," to get the dog to the vet, we told Little Bruiser that we were "going bye, bye."

Good God. The nurse came in. And the wailing and gnashing of teeth began.

The nurse left. We calmed down briefly but weren't even amused by mom who was blowing up the rubber gloves (which is totally against doctor's office etiquette).

The doctor came in. So as to try to figure out exactly what was hurt the doctor told us what to do and then the doctor would leave the room and come back. The goal was to try to get Little Bruiser to calm down just enough to figure the difference between the wailing and gnashing of teeth and the scream of pain.

Yeah right.

Then it was time for the x-rays. The doctor only wanted one parent in the x-ray room. That would be me.

I dare anybody to try to hold a two-year-old still for an x-ray when he's possessed with a demon that has not yet been sent to the swine. While I wrestled with the child who was kicking and screaming and, I'm pretty sure cursing me in tongues, the doctor was trying to give me directions as to how to hold the foot to get the x-rays from different angles. We needed three angles, which meant we needed three x-rays.

Ms. Lovechunk sat in a room ON THE OTHER SIDE OF THE BUILDING AND COULD HEAR EVERYTHING. She let me know after we left urgent care that she prayed. And she laughed. And she prayed some more. And laughed a little in between prayers.

And this is how it went: ...and no one could bind him any more, even with a chain; for he had often been bound with fetters and chains, but the chains he wrenched apart, and the fetters he broke in pieces; and no one had the strength to subdue him...Night and day among the tombs and on the mountains he was always crying out, and bruising himself with stones...

For 10 minutes I pinned a red-faced, pissed and possessed child on the x-ray table. I managed to help get clear pictures of his foot rather than blurred bones of flailing limbs of anger.

I will let you know that the doctor praised me for my patience. I thanked him, profusely for his patience, after all, I knew what to expect. The poor doctor had no idea.

We left the x-ray room. and. walked. back. down. the. entire. hall. to. the. other. side. of. the. office.

I was sweaty. Little Bruiser was wild eyed.

I thought, if he didn't have a broken limb before, he probably does now.

Everybody, patients and staff, averted their eyes. They would not look at me. I could see in their faces that they were desperately trying not to laugh.

I was trying not to laugh because I felt we had just left the Twilight Zone.

After an hour-and-a-half total, we learned that Little Bruiser has nothing more than a sprain.

Now here's the rub: Ms. Lovechunk can't believe that I would take Little Timmy in to the vet and be willing to pay $35 to see a doctor, but not so willing to take in Little Bruiser.

Take a look at the pictures below. These were taken moments before we left to urgent care. The Little One was standing on the slide and running down. He isn't bald in any places. He isn't missing any limbs. He isn't bleeding or itching or crying.

HE WAS HAVING FUN. WHICH IS MORE THAN I CAN SAY FOR ANY OF US THE REST OF THE NIGHT.

Although we did stop for french fries and shakes on the way home.

My point is this: I would go to great lengths to get even a little hamster some medical treatment. There would be no limits on getting my child well.

But this was just torture brought on by peer pressure. I knew he was fine. :)

A Prayer for Small One

Little Bruiser thought that Small One needed a popsicle. HE HAD TO HAVE A POPSICLE. Bruiser loves popsicles so much that he usually asks for one before breakfast and, when he gets one, sometime after lunch, he thoroughly enjoys it and even shares some with puppy.

So, as we were getting ready for bed, he was finishing his popsicle while sitting on his Elmo couch when he explained that Small One needed a popsicle.

I told him that we would ask God to give him one when we prayed before bed. Bruiser said, "Otay!"

Ms. Lovechunk laughed a little. Maybe she thought it was silly to ask for such things or maybe she was just surprised that I would offer such a suggestion.

So I explained to Bruiser that God was a Big God who can do anything and that He has made everything, including us, and that we were fearfully and wonderfully made. I explained that we can ask for anything and that God does not speak in secret or in dark places. God is the God He says He is and therefore can give Small One a popsicle.

Bruiser replied, "Mmm-hmm."

We put him in bed and, as usual, began with the sign of the cross. Bruiser can do the sign from his forehead to his chest - The Father and The Son - but he hasn't gotten his shoulders yet - The Holy Spirit. So for him it's, Father, Son, Father, Son, Father, Son...

And we prayed. We pray for family and friends and Mommy and Daddy and Andrew and puppy and kitty and everyone who is sad or lonely or cold or hungry. We thank God for our blessings and everything He has given us.

Then, I asked Bruiser if there was anything he wanted to add. With his pacifier still firmly in place, he stated, "Small One pa-kick-co."

And we ended with an amen and the sign of the cross.

Bruiser turned over and, I believe, fell asleep knowing that all was right in the world. Maybe he didn't know exactly how it would happen, but Small One would have his popsicle because God was, indeed, a big God who can do anything.

If we believe that God is a big God then we must pray with absolute faith that He can do anything we ask for. Anything. Because He can.

The Devil Made Me Do It, But I've Changed the Locks

Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa.

It seems that I woke up on the wrong side of Lent this year. A time when one would normally look within one's self – a time to reflect on Jesus’s forty days in the desert – a time to reflect on the fact that Jesus resisted the devil’s temptations.

I’ve reflected on that. I’ve noted that when the devil knocked on Jesus’s door, Jesus asked His Father to answer.

Not me. When the devil knocks it seems that I open the door and invite him in for tea. It’s been even worse during this Lent.

I’ve been cranky and crabby and sick and tired and impatient and prideful and resentful and insolent and vain and uncharitable and mean and nasty and just not very nice to be around. I know this.

Just yesterday I was exploring possible reasons for my attitude and behavior. Yes I’ve been sick. Yes, I have not had enough sleep. Yes, I’m trying to be a good husband and dad and son and brother and colleague and friend and I am trying to get my workouts in and my bible study.

And I’m trying to get to the train on time and get my work done and get home at a decent hour and make yogurt and juice celery.

In the middle of all that I haven’t been a very good Christian. I lose patience if someone takes a few extra seconds to put their foot on the gas when the light turns green. I get disgusted when the same guy on the train every morning wears pants that are obviously four inches too short. Doesn’t he have a wife who could tell him such things?

And it’s not that I just get disgusted by the unfashionable high-waters, it’s that I act like it's some type of high crime deserving of death.

I find myself wondering how someone can not see in the mirror that their nose hair is so long and bushy that it actually catches the shards of sunlight coming into the bus.

Then I think, why do I care? I try to inhibit these thoughts but they are there before I even know they were coming.

One of my work colleagues told me today that I was not having a very good Lent. I agreed with her. I’ve been all kinds of nasty.

There is more Lent, though, and tomorrow morning I hope to get up on the right side. And I will lock the door. And if the devil comes knocking I will not make tea.

And I will not care about the guy with the high-water pants or the guy with the insanely bushy Medusa-like nose hair.

No, oh no, I will not care. I must resist the dark one. I must.

Sick and Astray

This cold has settled in like an ill-tempered houseguest that won't leave. I started to feel it coming on last Wednesday and by Saturday I was down for the count. I got up at 6:30 A.M. to go out to Palm Springs to visit family. By 7:00 I was back in bed. Ms. Lovechunk and Little Bruiser left while I settled back into bed with my bible, An Infinity of Little Hours, and my iPod. I didn't read a wink, sleeping for almost 16 hours, and waking only briefly to replay Handel's Messiah.

My plans for Lent were thrown off almost before they had begun. Little Bruiser turned two sometime between Tuesday, February 28 and Wednesday, March 1 (February 29) so Ms. Lovechunk and I were left wondering how to fit a day of fasting and prayer in along with the celebrations of a child turning two. We fasted from 7:00 Tuesday night until 7:00 Wednesday night and had a birthday dinner at Ruby's and cupcakes when we returned home.

I also had plans to read two new books as well as a book I read every Lent: Thomas A Kempis's, On the Passion of Christ; Bread and Wine: Readings for Lent and Easter; and an old favorite, Richard John Neuhaus's, Death on a Friday Afternoon.

Instead, I received An Infinity of Little Hours on Ash Wednesday and immediately dug in. I 'd like to say I've finished it but all I feel like doing is sleeping. I can't even make it to the 6:40 A.M. train to work.

Last night I bought ten pounds of carrots and probably eight pounds each of celery and apples and cucumbers to juice. When I returned home Ms. Lovechunk acted as if I had put another hole in the ceiling. She just doesn’t "get me" sometimes and I think she seriously thinks I have some sort of mental disorder. This bothered me for a minute but I didn't have the energy to think about it what with all the juice I had to make along with the new batch of yogurt to get started.

I bought another set of yogurt jars to go with the yogurt maker so now I can make up to ninety ounces of yogurt at a time. At this point it's mostly plain yogurt. I made some vanilla yogurt with a whole Madagascar Vanilla Bean but it was WAY too strong so I have some work to do to perfect that recipe.

The recipes that came with the yogurt maker asks for flavored syrups, which I think is silly given that I would think that a major motive in making one's own yogurt is to get away from artificial flavors and excessive amounts of high fructose corn syrup and sugars.

I'm getting cramps and I have a headache centered on my frontal lobe and right eye ball so I am going now.

In My House Advent Never Ends Yet Lent Begins

The people that walked in darkness have seen a great light; and they that dwell in the land of the shadow of death, upon them hath the light shined.

The season of Advent started last August for Ms. Lovechunk, Little Bubba and me. Last August, I mistakenly introduced Little Bubba to the Disney's Sing Along Songs Very Merry Christmas video and he was hooked.

From then on we watched the video all day, every day.

Through Halloween. Through Thanksgiving. Through Christmas. Through New Year's.

Finally, we got him to watch a different video; however, Advent continued with Disney's Classic Holiday Stories. No longer were Ms. Lovechunk and I left to memorize the same thirteen songs over and over and over and over and over every half-an-hour, but now we could memorize short cartoons such as Small One and Pluto's Christmas Tree and Mickey's Christmas Carol.

It's March 6 and we still sing the tune from Small One: Small One, Small One, Small One for sale, one piece of silver, Small One for sale.

Little Bubba can also tell you the main points of the story: Small One old. Small one work hard. Small one sad. Small one get out of there. Small One happy.

The End.

If only the Liturgy could adapt to a two year old. Last week we welcomed the season of Lent, a time when we focus on our human frailties of sin and weakness and get ourselves ready to welcome a great light -- the light of the resurrected Christ.

But at home, my two-year-old is singing Silent Night and watching cartoons about Donkeys who retire into consulting work carrying Mary to Bethlehem.

If that's not confusing enough, one of my Jewish friends emailed last Wednesday: What is the protocol? Does one wish a ?Happy Ash Wednesday??

The question struck me. What should one think of this time of year in the liturgy? Surely Lent would be considered a "downer" by many non-Catholics -- 40 days of prayer and fasting and penance and almsgiving with, hopefully, a sincere focus on the weaknesses of one's own life.

Happy?

I want to say it's happy, but I feel that description might give the wrong impression. I look forward to this time of year. I look forward to returning to the foot of the cross and focusing on the details.

But happy?

I replied, "That would work. Although not many would describe it as 'happy.' Contemplative? Sobering?"

To which my friend replied, "I wish you some sobering, contemplative, happy thoughts on this Ash Wednesday. I am sure you are somewhere not having fun."

The more I think about his email, however, the more I think that I answered in error.

My Jewish friend was correct. Lent is happy.
What a blessing to have some time to look inside ourselves -- to do some spring cleaning and straighten up some things for The Great Light.

I look forward to this time of year every year because I am happy to return to the cross and ask forgiveness of my sins.

I am happy for this time of year because I know the beginning and the ending: A donkey carries Mary to Bethlehem and gives birth to a child who is called Wonderful, Counselor, Mighty God, the Everlasting Father, the Prince of Peace, who ends up despised and rejected and crucified and resurrected so that our sins are forgiven and our stripes are healed.

And to think, it took my Jewish friend and my two-year-old son to show me the light of this beautiful – and happy – season called Lent, even when, in my house, Advent hasn't ended.

In Which We decide to make our own yogurt

Sometime back in November or December I had decided (thanks to Williams-Sonoma's help) that Ms. Lovechunk and I should make our own yogurt. My reasons were many but they included the fact that most yogurt has far too much sugar and/or high fructose corn syrup.

So the purchase of a yogurt maker wasn't just on impulse, I waited several months, finally receiving the yogurt maker featured at Williams-Sonoma as a gift from Ms. Lovechunk.

While at the mall, and while Ms. Lovechunk was shopping at White House Black Market, I opened the box and began reading the directions and recipes.

Neither made ANY sense.

I reread them. And I reread them again.

Why were they identifying both yogurt starter and yogurt culture? Are they not the same thing?

Why would I have to HAVE plain yogurt in order TO MAKE plain yogurt?

This reminded me of the joke where the financial advisor gives advice to his client on how to go about buying a beach house:

The financial advisor says to his client, "First, you get a million dollars..."

So, while we drove home, I asked Ms. Lovechunk to read the directions and explain them to me. I have learned that, not only is she good at this, but this is a special blessing, bestowed by God, to me. When she reads the directions and answers my questions, she keeps me from having a panic attack and getting frustrated and sweaty and ripping things such as the directions into a million little pieces.

As she read the directions, we decided that we did, indeed, need either Plain Yogurt or Yogurt Culture to make our homemade yogurt.

I stopped at Henry's Marketplace, the whole food grocery by our house, because I figured this would be the best place to find yogurt culture, which is what I personally wanted to use because I still think that it's stupid to have to buy yogurt to make yogurt.

Henry's doesn't carry it. I even asked. The lady I asked told me that she “just uses yogurt to make her yogurt.”

Does anyone else find this ironic and even a little offensive? Why would I decide to make yogurt only to have to buy yogurt in order to make yogurt? If I wanted to buy yogurt I could just buy it and eat it.

Imagine this: You decide to make a cake. As you read the recipe you realize you need a cake in order to make the cake. Stupid. Isn't it.

Anyway, we ended up at Ralph's, the grocery story I personally loathe and hate and want to spit on.

I bought a quart of milk and six ounces of plain yogurt because they too do not carry yogurt culture. Or yeast for that matter.

Seven hours later, at 1:30 A.M., my alarm goes off. I roll out of bed and head to the kitchen to take the yogurt out of the maker and put it into the refrigerator.

I can tell, even in my foggy haze of half sleep that the yogurt did not turn out. It has separated. A lot.

The curds and the whey are two completely separate entities.

I return to bed totally bummed, but not broken.

Now, this evening, I try it again. In a few hours I will see if my patience has finally paid off.

Next project: Growing and juicing our own Wheatgrass. I am currently researching seed trays and growing options.

There's a name for people such as me: I am called a Crunchy Con. More on that later.

Search Results

Somebody from Pennsylvania found my website after performing a search on Google for, "install pull-up bar rafters."

I feel really sorry for that guy because my website was the first website to come up after the search. God help him.

I See Dead People

I don't even know them but I end up at their memorials and visitations and funerals without ever planning to do so.

I'm not a funeral crasher. I'm not looking for babes to console and I'm not looking for free food, but I seem to end up at funerals of people that I don't know.

The Catholic Church, it seems, is so comfortable with dead people that they'll pretty much put them anywhere.

Being still new to the church I'm not aware of all the ins-and-outs and the etiquette of where and when one should expect to come across a coffin at church. I always thought that we wouldn't really see one of those until and unless we were actually TRYING to attend a funeral or a visitation or whatnot.

Besides, the catholic liturgy is pretty much set. One becomes comfortable with the tradition and comes to expect a certain familiarity with mass.

But, just when I start to feel comfortable and confident that I'm getting this catholic faith, out rolls a coffin complete with a Christian I never knew.

Last year, I decided, with much excitement, to attend noon mass at the Holy Family Cathedral on the Feast of the Chair of St. Peter -- a feast that actually celebrates the continuity and clarity and meaning of the magisterium (the teaching authority) of the church.

Most weekday masses are bare-bones, meaning there's no music or singing. Usually there's only two readings and a psalm from scripture, and if you're lucky, a homily after the gospel. Where weekend masses last an hour, weekday mass is usually 30 minutes or less.

That being said, however, some major feasts as well as holy days last an hour and contain all the elements of the weekend mass. Therefore, I wasn't really sure what to expect when I showed up to Holy Family Cathedral for the Feast of the Chair of St. Peter.

As I arrived I got very excited. While there's always a pretty full crowd for noon mass, the church seemed to bustle on this particular day. Not only that but it appeared that there would be altar servers (in shiny ivory robes) and music and singing and the whole nine yards.

It appeared the Feast of the Chair of St. Peter was a BIG deal. In fact, I was pretty sure that there would even be incense, which is the absolute best addition to any mass (and is not used enough).

I entered the sanctuary and sat in the first row on the right side. I noticed that the left side had many reserved pews but, being that I have attended this cathedral for other feasts, I supposed these pews were for the elementary students.

Mass began and it was a big affair. The Priest was even going to proceed down the aisle of the sanctuary.

Yes, this would be a great, big, beautiful mass with incense and candles and music and psalms and readings from Peter and Matthew.

And someone named Beverly who passed away earlier in the week.

I was at a funeral.

In the front row.

I skipped out after Communion and I am still ashamed to this day that I was a little angry at Beverly for interrupting my mass.

I chalked this up to a key learning in that I now knew that noon mass at the cathedral could be a funeral mass.

Now, let's fast forward from Beverly from last year to Holy Hour at St. Michael's Abbey last week.

My plan was to visit with Jesus for an hour and, as holy hour has always been the same, I expected Night Prayers and the Benediction (in either English or Latin) with about 45 minutes of silence in the middle.

Instead, I visited with Father Clement.

Father Clement was born March 18, 1913 and passed away February 7, 2006 and his story is a great one.

Having grown from my experience with Beverly, I stayed over an hour in the abbey and prayed and read the bible and the catechism. I thanked Father Clement for his work building the Abbey -- an Abbey that I love so much -- and I took the time to learn a bit more about how the catholic church can be so comfortable with death and dying and the dead.

I will admit that I left the abbey feeling that maybe it had been a dream because there is something so surreal in the fact that I see dead people when I have no expectations of doing so.

But I also took away some valuable insights from both experiences -- about how we should view death here and now as well as what we will experience when we are called home:

How great will your glory and happiness be, to be allowed to see God, to be honored with sharing the joy of salvation and eternal light with Christ your Lord and God,...to delight in the joy of immortality in the Kingdom of heaven with the righteous and God's friends. (CCC 1028; St. Cyprian)

see my new blog for a little more on this subject

PROJECT: Pull Up

Finishing a major project is usually followed by all the warm feelings of pride and satisfaction and the "I just did that! I can't believe that I just did that," thoughts of accomplishment and success.

Such feelings, after the major project I just completed, are slightly tempered.

Many of you may know that my brother-in-law is a strength and conditioning coach at San Diego State University. When we first met I was afraid we would have nothing in common. First, he's three times my size. He obviously enjoys and is heavily involved in sports such as football. Me? Not so much.

And he eats a lot. Meat mostly. A lot of meat. Me? Not so much.

So I was a bit worried when I first met him, thinking that we were going to have the rest of our lives to stare at each other and not talk. I mean, the last guy my sister-in-law dated was nice enough, but if you didn't talk sports with him then you just didn't talk. So I didn't talk.

So, at first, I contemplated learning football and NASCAR, but that went out the window pretty much as soon as I thought about it.

Turns out, though, that we do have a few things in common. I like strength. And I like conditioning (my hair and my body) (that's a joke).

So, one weekend when we were down at our beach house, he brings home these cast iron weights shaped like a ball with a handle and showed Ms. Lovechunk and me what his football players were doing with them.

They're known as Kettlebells. (see Punch Gym here)

I picked one up and fifteen minutes later I was hooked.

I'm still hooked. It is unbelievable what these things do for your body, your flexibility, your strength, your conditioning.

I spent about $300 on a set for me and I swing and lift them almost every single day.

So, my brother-in-law, knowing that he has a pretty captive audience in me, instructs me one evening at the beach house to get a pull-up bar.

"Build your own," he says.

"Every guy should be able to do pull-ups," he chides.

"It'll bring your training to a whole new level," he assures.

One month and four trips to Home Depot and I am finally finished building my own personal pull-up bar.

You see, I have my dad's genetic disposition when it comes to handiwork. Some say 'tis best left to professionals. My dad and I laugh at such statements.

In fact, just the other day I pulled up to my parents’ house to find my dad standing out near the driveway with a shovel in hand. Seems he finally decided to check out the leak that's been leaking for over a year.

Several neighbors were with him. So was one of the neighbor's grown child, who just so happens to be a plumber.

Now, I have faith in my dad most of the time. But when it comes to water leaks, he has a few points against him. He once tried to fix a leaky faucet in the kitchen. Hours and hours later along with several trips to the home improvement store brought him to the point where he couldn't even turn the water off with the handle any longer.

It was time for a professional.

So, with my genetic disposition in mind, I begin to install my pull up bar, thinking that I need only screw a 2x4 into the rafters in the garage and then screw my pull up bar into that.

Not so much. As you can see, I stripped several 4.5 inch screws on one side and couldn't find the rafter on the other side. You'll note I used my drill as a stud finder.

Now, I did get the pull up bar up there but, after three pull-ups, I decided that it wasn't going to hold me.

I took the pull up bar down, but couldn't remove the 2x4.

A few weeks passed while I ponder this challenge in my head, trying to find efficient solutions to this dilemma.

So, this past weekend, I decided to give it another go around.

Knowing that I couldn't remove the 2x4 because the 4.5 inch screws were stripped, I devised a plan wherein I would cut the 2x4 off in pieces by perforating the wood with my drill until I could pull pieces off by hand.

This worked. After awhile. A long while.

The 2x4 removed, I now endeavored to my next challenge: find the rafters and bolt 2x4's on each side of it to ensure proper surface area in which to screw in my pull up bar.

Sheet rock removed, I found the rafters, bolted the 2x4's in place and screwed the pull up bar to the rafters.

I did approximately 25 pull-ups that day as well as approximately 40 leg raises.

I couldn't lift my arms for three days. It hurt even to lift the aspirin bottle to get the aspirin to take the pain away. I couldn't laugh or sneeze or breathe or talk without my abs wrenching with pain.

But it was a good pain because it was a well-earned pain.

Although certainly this was not one of my proudest moments, never did it cross my mind that I would not have a pull up bar. Never would I have given in. Never would I have admitted defeat!

Now, a few more trips to the local Home Depot and I'll have the drywall patched and the house properly insulated again.

The Smell of Guilt

At 7:00 P.M. I walked out of the house to start my bike ride/run and immediately took a deep breath in through my nose. I felt guilty once I realized that my conditioned response was out of sorts.

I could smell the fire and, even though thousands of people have had to evacuate their homes while almost one thousand fire fighters work to stop the fire, I was breathing in so I could smell the fires of my childhood.

Camp fires at Sky Ranch. Sitting close to my family in the cold summer nights of the Rocky Mountains, Pastor Chris sharing some good stuff from the Good Book, his wife Jo playing her guitar, and many families from Abiding Hope singing church camp songs out of the flimsy paper folders with the metal brads inside.

Bundled up in our long johns and jeans and sweaters, jackets and hats (in summer, no kidding), we would sit around the fire singing If I Had a Hammer and Pharaoh, Pharaoh .

We'd smell of smoke for weeks after.

The fire also reminded me of the summers we spent in Jackson Hole, Wyoming. We were there the year of the Yellowstone fires -- 1988. During the day we would raft the Snake and South Platte rivers. It was beautiful as ever out there but once we would return to Jackson Hole one could experience the fires firsthand. The valley was filled with smoke and ash for weeks and the smell coated our bodies and absorbed into our skin.

Anyway, the fires in Anaheim Hills reminded me of some great childhood memories as I stepped outside this evening.

And I felt guilty.

I rode my bike up the hill to our park where I ran a mile. The orange glow of the fire lit up the night sky behind the black silhouette of the mountains between the fire and me.

I couldn’t help but notice how beautiful the reddish-orange glow was against the black of the mountains and the dark blue and purple of the night sky.

And I felt guilty.

My penance was quick, though -- After a one mile bike ride and a one mile run, my bike went flat.

I walked home.

The Pressures of a Good Education

My son who, by the way, is not even two yet, counted to ten Saturday morning as he sat on his Elmo couch stacking his blocks.

I didn't believe it at first. I knew he was smart, I mean, he sprang from Julie's loins, with my help, but I didn't think he was a genius.

Well, ok. I did think he was a genius but I thought that was just a father's pride.

So, I asked him to count to ten again. And he did. For mom this time.

Now, every once in awhile, when he is counting for family and friends, he totally skips the number three.

Most people think this is cute. I don't.

I tell him he is a disappointment and I remind him to think before he counts so he doesn't skip any freaking numbers.

I let him know that mom and dad are ashamed to be seen with him when he miscounts.

This might be harsh but what in the heck is he going to do when he can't get into a good preschool because he misses a number in the entrance exam?

He cries a little. But I tell him he'll cry a lot more when he can't go to preschool.

He seems frightened of me. And he won't count any numbers now.

Reading Time

Many things have been resolved in this New Year of which I can give thanks. But one that particularly stands out right now is that of the new and improved reading material at work.

Gone is the well-read fall issue of Celebrate Your Heritage magazine as well as the summer and fall issues of the Southern Poverty Law Center's Intelligence Report magazine. Gone, also, are copies of the Cal State Sheriff's Newsletters and the February 2005 issue of Backpacker Magazine.

I had covered front to back Celebrate Your Heritage. I read all about Debbie Allen and her wings to success more than 300 times and I was seriously beginning to hate that woman.

The May 2003 issue of More? Gone.

May 2004 issue of Orange Coast? Gone.

Believe me, it's about time. I had begun to memorize all of these magazines.

I read every product review 114 times in the Backpacker magazine. And if I read More magazine one more time I was sure I was going to turn into a middle-aged, feminist, workaholic with expensive tastes and a penchant for snobbery.

And, from issue like the November 2003 issue of Country Living, I was beginning to get it into my head that I could salvage those dining room chairs that I'm allergic too and make custom- fabric covers with beautiful organza fabric and lace.

I also started to think that "do-it-myself" curtains would look absolutely exquisite in my office -- and I don't even have any windows in my office.

One of the girls in the office heard me complaining that I couldn't take one more glance at the magazine collection in the bathroom.

So, thankfully, a few weeks ago one of the girls brought some old (but new to me) magazines for the breakroom bathroom. Now, they aren't exactly magazines that I would have purchased from the newsstand but, you know, beggars can't be choosers.

I am now 3 days into the Ladies' Home Journal from November 2005. Bill Clinton is on the cover. And here’s what’s waiting for me: December 2005 issue of More. November 2005 issues of Redbook, Country Living, More and Orange Coast. October 2005 issue of Country Living. And September issues of Country Living and Orange Coast.

This should mean good reading for quite a while.

RH Exclusive: Wind Trauma

Santa Ana, CA - It's so windy here in Santa Ana this morning that even the toilets are electrically charged.

When I got up the paper toilet seat protector was stuck to my butt, thanks to the static electricity brought in by the Santa Ana winds.

Updates to follow as needed.

Happy Windsday

It seems fitting that our Sunday Eucharist included a reading from Jonah as this morning, the windiest of mornings, I watched people at the train station scurrying about trying to find shelter from the wind.

I thought to myself, "There's no hiding from God. He controls all the plants and the animals and the weather and, well, everything. Just ask Jonah."

How's your Monday going?

Ordinary Time

This is great for those of us Catholics (like me) who don't look forward to Ordinary Time:

The Gift of Ordinary Time

Lacquer Pains

Thursday night Ms. Lovechunk noticed some hives on my chest and asked me what they were from. It was finally a good time to share the conclusion I had come to many moons ago: I am allergic to either the lacquer or the stain on our dining room chairs.

I had come to this conclusion because it seemed that anytime I rested, shirtless, against the back of a chair, I would get red marks that would soon turn into raised patches.

Now, of course, she laughed. And mocked me. And pointed. And laughed some more, which is why I had waited so long to tell her this sad, sad news.

"Oh, I'm Ryan," she said disguising her voice to sound like a nerd. "I'm allergic to lacquer. I'm allergic to wood," she laughed.

And then the inquisition began:

"Who is allergic to dining room chairs that were stained and lacquered years ago?"

"Who leans on chairs like that?"

"You're weird," she stated, still mocking my claim.

"Anyone who rests on a chair is going to get red marks."

It was obvious that she didn't believe me. So I was going to have to prove it.

While she continued laughing at me, I went out to the dining room and grabbed a chair and took it into the bedroom where she was reading.

Wearing nothing but boxer shorts, I sat down in the chair while she checked the time.

She made me sit there for six minutes and, when I got up, red marks were on my back and shoulders.

Soon, they turned into raised patches of obvious skin irritation but she did not change her tune.

"I can see where it's red, but I can't feel the raised bumps," she said in the same tone as before.

So, after all that, she still didn't believe me.

I put the chair back and returned to the room where she asked sarcastically, "Are you going to have to sit naked in the next dining room chairs we buy just to make sure you aren't allergic to them? How embarrassing."

And she laughed until she fell asleep.

Love & Respect

I purchased a book from Amazon that I found a few weeks ago. Don't remember where I first saw this book, but I bought it and it was delivered last week.

It's all about that dreaded Chapter 5 of Ephesians. You know? The one about wives respecting and submitting to their husbands and the one where husbands love their wives as Jesus loves the church. That's the chapter that everyone bristles over and nobody really wants to talk about because it appears to make women second-class citizens -- somehow lesser than men.

Most people think it's a chapter written for a bygone era that has little value to our enlightened and contemporary lives. No one stops to think that, much like the rest of the bible, the words might explain a part of the recipe of life to us.

No one reads these words and wonders if maybe they just might be Instructions of Proper Care of One's Spouse.

The author explains that women want to feel loved. Men want to feel respected. He explains that it's an entire cycle: The Man cannot give love if he is not feeling respected and the Woman cannot show respect if she does not feel loved.

Geez. That sounds easy. Wish someone would have thought of that before.

Oh! God did. In Ephesians. Chapter 5.

So, I bought one copy thinking I would read it and maybe pass some of it along to our Marriage in the Lord group, which has started again.

Well, Ms. Lovechunk picked it up last week and I have been unsuccessful in getting it away from her. I have heard her laugh and I have witnessed the enjoyment she's had in reading the book. And Ms. Lovechunk isn't exactly what one would call a "big reader."

Sunday night she told me that I should buy another copy so that we can read it together.

So today I ordered one more copy of Love & Respect: The Love She Most Desires, The Respect He Desperately Needs.

I also ordered two workbooks so Ms. Lovechunk and I can do homework together. Ms. Lovechunk wasn't too excited about the homework.

Remembering Gordo

From the Eulogy at the Flushing:

It is often said that there are many fish in the sea, but Gordo was no ordinary fish. Gordo was a fish of fathomless faith. A fish with a soul of unfathomable depth. A fish who swam entirely for the Lord.

What is most remarkable about Gordo, however, is that he was not always a fish of faith.

For many years, Gordo felt listless. He feared he was just going with the tide. Gordo couldn't help but feel that going with the ebb and flow was never going to lead him to a life of purpose.

Gordo felt he was up a creek without a fin.

But then Gordo heard a story. A story that would change his life.

Gordo heard the story of how Jesus saved many fish by calling fisherman to drop their nets, to leave their boats, and to follow Him in His ministry.

These men stopped fishing to follow Jesus.

Gordo couldn't believe that one man would do so much to save so many fish. Gordo knew that this man named Jesus was his Savior.

Gordo heard more stories. He heard how Jesus saved more fish by feeding the multitude with only two fishes. Gordo knew it was a miracle. A multitude of people would have surely eaten many more fish -- thousands really -- had Jesus not saved the fishes from the multitude.

Not long after, Gordo joined the Bettadictines, a small religious order. He spent many years in solitude and silent prayer, sometimes not even moving a fin for days. Often, he fasted and he breathed only when necessary to sustain his prayerful life.

A few years after, Gordo nearly lost his life when a curious and hungry cat got a claw too close for comfort. But it wasn't time for Gordo to join God's fishing nets.

Gordo healed. And he forgave the cat. And he prayed for the cat everyday thereafter.

Gordo once was lost, but he was found and we are fortunate that his life of faith will live on. We will enjoy his bestselling books for many years to come.

Who could forget his motivational book, The Purpose Swimmin' Life, or his deep and meditative book, The Dark Night of the Sole? And how about his latest, Filet of Faith: Jesus, a Cut Above? That book has already made a great impact on many of us.

Gordo will be missed, but his life of Joy is an example to all and the fact that it appears that he lost his life because of a little too much Joy Dishwashing Liquid would not have escaped Gordo as something ironic and funny.

Gordo lived a life full of Joy up until the very end.

Gordo, we will miss you but we thank God for your life.

Gordo: RIP

"Thank you for cleaning out Gordo's [the fish] bowl," was the last thing Ms. Lovechunk said to me before she drifted off to sleep last night.

This morning, Gordo lie at the bottom of the bowl, bloated and listing to the right.

"You killed Gordo! You Gordo killer! Did you use soap?! Ohhh, poor fishy," I heard from Ms. Lovechunk on the phone this morning.

Flushing is scheduled for 7:00 PM.

Light refreshments of tuna and caviar will be served immediately following the ceremony.

Of Peter Cetera and Southern California Sun

Imagine my shock when I saw that Peter Cetera is not, in fact, Asian. My first experience of Peter Cetera was from the movie Karate Kid and, for some odd reason, I just figured Peter Cetera was Asian. Now, lo these many years, come to find out, he isn’t.

It could be the weather. It’s hard to believe it’s January when it’s 90 degrees outside. The orange Gerber daisies are blooming on the patio – actually two have bloomed while three others are working their way up. There was actually a moth flying and smacking the light in the garage the other night. And crickets were chirping. Actual crickets. In January. It’s disgusting really.

I’m used to snow and cold and cold and more snow for months and months and months on end with no end in site until you’re ready to kill yourself. Here, I get sun. 300 days of freaking sun a year. 300 days of living on the threshold of hell a year.

Maybe I’m a bit dramatic. After all, I enjoyed a peaceful and quiet hike with Ms. Lovechunk and Little Bubba yesterday. Well, it was mostly peaceful. Until Little Bubba started cramping up. Seems his stomach virus wasn’t quite dead. That’ll show us. I guess.

My nose got a little red from the sun yesterday.

Today, as Ms. Lovechunk lie wailing and gnashing her teeth in bed with the flu, Little Bubba and I took a walk to the park to play. I now have an actual tan line. In January.

It’s seriously disgusting.

And then, to top it off, I hear a Peter Cetera & Crystal Bernard duet and decide to look it up on iTunes. He’s not even Asian. Not even close. I was way off.