We get serenaded by the mourning-doves who come to our bird-feeder at silly o'clock in the morning; we don't really mind, as they're rather cute, and happily hoover up the seeds that the grackles chuck around all over the deck.
The baby grackles are squawking so much for their (all day) feedings that I can hear them in the house, windows shut and AC going. There must be some instinct that compels the parents to stuff food in their little mouths to try to shut them up!! Hopefully all the babies will fledge soon and our ears can rest.
I take that back. The locusts are singing loudly. Listening to them, I just noticed I have a migraine!!! It's been a busy day and all I could tell was that I was really uncomfortable for some reason!
There must not be any news today. All we have on the squawk box is the local weather. Oh, noes!! F Street is flooded! Just like it does every time there's a good thunderstorm!!!
On rare occasions, we have little, skinny tornadoes. One popped up this afternoon, and has been shown on the news several times.
It's like the southwest FL version of a unicorn.
Tornadoes on diets? Be careful -- diets can make people (and tornadoes, I would imagine) downright ornery at times!
The cursed white wing doves have finally gotten used to my stuffed cat out on the porch. I sit the cat on the railing and move it to a different position every day. The doves like to perch right in front of it and stare it down. Yesterday one alighted on top of its head.
It's pretty much outlived its usefulness for this season, although I'll keep it out there until the doves are gone. They'll forget all about it next year.
So, Miss Amanda, when we talk about bird brains, we are referring to your white wing doves, I take it! I'm glad you'll get to use the fake cat defense system again next year!
Our skinny tornadoes might be a wee bit ornery. Once, during a hurricane, a tiny tornado twisted the inside of one of my hibiscus bushes. Didn't touch the outside of the bush at all!
We get a lot more damage from straight line winds here. I came home from work at twilight once, and saw my yard littered with limbs from my elm and oak trees. It got dark too quickly to actually do anything about it. That wind took the whole roof off a nearby school.
Well sheesh. I have an origin story now, like all the best superheroes. My son was giving me a hard time, the way one does, and he says, "So why do you dislocate so easily, Mom? Oh yeah, your grandmother offended a wizard..."
Further inquiry produced the news that the wizard's name is Bartimaeus the Brave (and Scrawny) and that Grandma turned him and his familiar chicken away in a snowstorm.
Apparently LL is off on a quest tomorrow to break the evil spell. I'll let you know if it works.
No fireworks in my area this year because of fire danger. They will be used at Christmas for safety sake. Much moaning by people, "How can be celebrate with out fireworks?" So I looked up how they celebrated the first anniversary of July 4th. Surprise it was with fires, and fireworks along with bell ringing. They also read the Declaration of Independence. Now I think that is a great idea. Hear Ye Hear Ye.
My piano instructor, a woman in her late 50s, was married Saturday. Lovely Episcopal church ceremony. She wore a lime green gown, no veil; he wore his military uniform. Her father being no longer with us, she chose her eldest male student (a delightful gentleman 88 years old) to give her away. Her maid of honor was one of her female students.
At the reception, the centerpiece on each table was made of chocolate. Under one chair at each table was a note that read, "Congratulations. You have won the centerpiece." Wouldn't you know it, at my table I happened to sit in that chair. I cut the centerpiece into slices to share with others at the table, and took one piece myself. Almost pure sugar! Had I taken the whole thing home with me, I'd be in the hospital now.
Sounds like a lovely wedding indeed Miss Amanda. I am so tired of over the top weddings. Went to a simple home wedding of a young couple last week. Neighbors of the couple provided a pot luck. It too was lovely, relaxed, and meaningful.
I'll almost forgive the rector his choice of brown shoes to wear with his navy blue clerical suit.
I went to a funeral at the same church later that day.
Reminds me of the wedding scene from Rocky Horror Picture Show where a coffin is carried into the church as soon as the wedding party has departed, and the white altar flowers are spun around, revealing black flowers.
We were wondering if we might be able to squeeze in three more weddings and then make a movie about it.
However, a wedding in the morning and a funeral in the afternoon, both with receptions to follow in the Parish Hall, kept the Rector, Altar Guild, etc. quite busy.
...Further inquiry produced the news that the wizard's name is Bartimaeus the Brave (and Scrawny) and that Grandma turned him and his familiar chicken away in a snowstorm.
Apparently LL is off on a quest tomorrow to break the evil spell. I'll let you know if it works. ...
I know where he can start: Scrawny the well-dressed rubber chicken is the mascot of my parish choir. I'll get the lad an introduction.
My Dear (American) Wife nailed the Declaration of Independence to the front door today, as she has done for fifty years that I know of, with her signature added to the originals. She'll go back to being Canadian tomorrow and I'll carry on being neither.
...Further inquiry produced the news that the wizard's name is Bartimaeus the Brave (and Scrawny) and that Grandma turned him and his familiar chicken away in a snowstorm.
Apparently LL is off on a quest tomorrow to break the evil spell. I'll let you know if it works. ...
I know where he can start: Scrawny the well-dressed rubber chicken is the mascot of my parish choir. I'll get the lad an introduction.
Sounds excellent. Imyself am in pursuit of Fluffy, the rubber copperhead snake. No doubt she'll turn up at summer camp in a few days...
There was a time when the land-line phones usually kept working even during power outages. Now, who has a land-line? Take away my A/C, my TV, my microwave, but keep my smartphone charged, by dingy!
ME! I also have a plug in, so the upstairs phone works even when the power is off. My wife was pretty glad of my Luddite tendencies last year when we had an ice storm and lost power for a day. The church across the road was without power for 80 hours, and that was in town! The Lutheran pastor was on the edge of cancelling his service when the power came back on. I had told my lot bundle up, and it'll be a said service.
You can't have a snake called Fluffy - it's Just Wrong™.
<shudder>
Yep. We started calling it that after we nearly stepped on a real copperhead right outside our tent at Scout camp. When we duly called the authorities to come and take it away (you aren't allowed to kill 'em), they begged us not to let anybody else know about it, as they would freak. So when we had to talk about it, we referred to it as "Fluffy" all weekend.
Ooh, things have changed since I was at Girl Scout camp. A group of us were out picking up flammable branches and what not, when one of our number said, "Stop! A copperhead!" So we stopped, most of us saying, "Where? Where?" I was the last one to stop saying it, because I was looking in the wrong places; turns out I would have stepped on it had we not stopped. One of my fellow campers was carrying a hoe, which I borrowed, and chopped off its head. (One of the counselors buried the head, and then helped herself to the skin, to make a belt. It was fine with me.)
As for land lines, I still have one - a REAL land line, not one dependent on the Interwebz. I got it installed when the Pater was in hospice and I was undergoing some treatment or other, and I absolutely had to have a functioning line No Matter What. I sort of enjoy the anachronism.
I WOULD have a landline, if I had a non-wireless phone set to plug into it. I probably need to hit up Ebay. If I can get a real dial phone, that ought to send my retro-kid into pure heaven.
We have a landiine, but it's dependent on electricity, so won't work in a power cut. I think it's dependent in some way on the interweb, but it may just be that paying for it is all done in one, and if for some reason the bill payment (also done online) doesn't go through, it'll be cut off along with the computer, Wi-fi and television.
I've always kept one corded phone (i.e., receiver is attached to the base) in case of power failure. But after my landline died the other day, I discovered that my phones go through my modem (one of the "improvements" they made last year) -- no electricity = no modem = no telephone.
That's why I got the landline, Pigwidgeon. I have a set of cordless phones (and one old-fashioned plug-in) which still work when there's a power outage. Of course, if the power were off long enough, their batteries would eventually give up, but this setup pretty much works no matter what.
In the old days one could dial a number by pressing the cradle button rapidly for each number dialed. Thus, for example, 411 could be dialed by: press press press press [pause] press [pause] press.
Very handy if some stingy phone owner put a lock on the dial.
Yikes. I don't know if it's too much coffee, or the thought of the event at church tomorrow, but I'm freaking out here. We've been roped into singing for the American host congregation along with all the other bits and pieces (Africans, etc.) and in spite of us telling them we're utterly crap at it, and can't carry a tune in a basket. Now I'm stressing because a) LL isn't practicing, and he's the pianist, and b) neither have the singers--since apparently I didn't provide the correct music to Mr. Lamb last week. Ugh.
I'm going to be tied up most of tomorrow at an event celebrating a person's ministry who has been at best neutral and occasionally actively antagonistic toward us for years. I am going to have to put on a happy face. I have warned my son that I intend to vanish into the church kitchen, there to do dishes, because I've observed in the past that if you do that, nobody comes up and bugs you about "Isn't this a wonderful celebration, and isn't So-and-so just the best person you've ever met?" I suspect doing dishes works because a) they can't see your face, and b) they're afraid that if they bother me, they'll get handed a dishcloth.
My stepdad is bugging me via text because he feels I ought to have inquired about whether they survived the earthquake in CA, and is prodding me about my daughterly duty. Apparently my mother didn't tell him I called.
Maybe not - especially not at a church gathering ...
Just smile sweetly and remember what St. Paul said about heaping coals of fire on thine enemy's head (although in your case it might be soap-suds from the washing-up).
As for the music, I'd suggest something simple like Seek Ye First or Dona Nobis Pacem, both of which can be done as rounds and unaccompanied if LL doesn't feel up to it. I would just do the first verse of "Seek Ye First" -- don't worry about the others.
According to Google Translate, "Seek Ye First" comes out like this in Vietnamese:
Tìm kiếm trước tiên vương quốc của Thiên Chúa
Và sự công bình của Ngài;
Và tất cả những điều này sẽ được thêm vào cho bạn.
Hallelu, Hallelujah!
You did ask, remember that in the midst of my mad outpourings...
So, I get to church and the first thing I notice is that they've set chairs up besides the pews. Fine, say I, they're expecting a crowd. I look more closely--they've set up chairs in the wheelchair designated area next to the short pews.
No. I can't. I just can't.
Need I say that we have a double-amputee attending every freaking week, and anyone who paid any attention to coffee hour for the last year would know that fact?
I couldn't even. I went down into the Vietnamese room, sat in the dark, looked at the altar, and took deep breaths.
Eventually fellow Vietnamese church member wandered in and got the story out of me. Being a reasonable human being, he suggested we go move the fucking chairs. Which we did. And Wheelie Dude (as my admiring son has christened the gentleman, considering him to be ultra-cool) never knew a thing about it. Nor my husband, who would have blown a gasket.
Deep breath.
I warn the senior pastor to please bring Wheelie Dude communion (as the last week we were in English worship, they totally overlooked him and about six of us nearly went nuclear on their asses). He nods.
Go down to Vietnamese room again. Son, who was supposed to play for our singing, has fucked up his practicing and sheepishly says we'd better do it a capella. Ah yeah. We are at that point in life when I am attempting to stop being the mother hen and instead allowing the shit to hit the fan when he fucks up. So I'm letting it do so. He can explain to any interested parties why he's not playing (after saying he would).
Worship begins. Some truly splendid music (not from us, the other folks involved) and the usual laudatory encomia aimed at a not-really-retiring pastor. Okay. Deep breath. We can do this.
Then new senior pastor invites every freaking soul in the church to file up, one by one, to say a word or ask a blessing on the pastoral couple in question, who are kneeling at the altar--one by one, in front of God and everybody, with a camera man roaming around the chancel (!!!!) in your face.
No. I can't even. I can't even even.
We get up to do our song and discover that some bright spark has decided to push the font out of the way of this activity in such a way that Wheelie Dude cannot possibly get past it to reach our assigned spot. Fuck fuck fuckity fuck. My eyes meet Mr. Lamb's. We decide to squeeze into the aisle space between pulpit and wall where people step down to return from communion. Nothing else is a possibility for brother Wheelie Dude.
The people begin lining up. Grand displays of emotion begin, as we sing in Vietnamese "To God be the Glory" and etc. We are actually halfway decent--and nobody cares, anyway, as what's going on up front is more than distracting. We file back into our pews and Wheelie Dude plugs us back in (arrangement means no one in the short pews can exit without tripping over him, except to the left, by pushing into the congratulatory blessing line).
People are being ushered up row by row to do their blessing thing, and the timing of our song means that the ushers have passed us long ago. Thank God. We've dodged a bullet. I settle down to watch the endless line go on for, what? forty minutes? Tempted to check my phone. Bad Lamb. Refrain thyself. I twiddle with the bulletin.
The end of the line is in sight. A sigh of relief. Then two of our Vietnamese people indicate that they think they too should go up and say something. We say a polite version of "knock yourself out." And watch, inwardly giggling, as our former Pentecostal, who speaks no English, decides to give them both a prolonged and weepy embrace, while repeating a flurry of words they have no idea what they mean...
Right.
Well, the service ends and we go next door, to discover a whole roasted pig (like, it seemed to be in the skin, even) and a huge huge huge line for food. Nobody has thought about the logistics of this. After forty minutes of waiting (while half the tables remain unserved), I grab LL and suggest we start serving lemonade (the powdered stuff, I judge by how it tasted) for the sake of those who are starting to have their blood sugar go through their socks. It is now about 130 pm. We do so, which has the added benefit of preventing anybody from engaging me in conversations about how wonderful X is and I'm sure he's been a great help to your ministry. It also hopefully prevents Y and Z from asking me later why I didn't stop by to make congratulatory conversation with X, as obviously I am busy serving and my good will can be assumed, yes?
Oh, and I seat a few latecomers who can't find a spot. It is freaking unreal how people just gaze sheeplike at the standing incomers like "What? My table is full. What do you expect me to do about you?"
I reshuffled my family's seats, grabbed an extra chair, set-up, and bottle of water, and we were good to go. Honestly.
Eventually we grab some food. Half the crowd is done eating already. Mr L takes Wheelie Dude home, glad of the excuse. Somebody stands up (it is now what, 2 pm? and we've been at church since 9?) And says, "It's time for us to start our afternoon program..."
I can't even again.
I grab LL and we scuttle for the exit. I then take a three hour nap, complete with nightmares.
Comments
I take that back. The locusts are singing loudly. Listening to them, I just noticed I have a migraine!!! It's been a busy day and all I could tell was that I was really uncomfortable for some reason!
OK. That's why I'm grumpy!
And it's Father's Day, so I took Daddy-O to lunch, which Daughter-Unit and her dear Hubby wouldn't let me pay for. They're the best!
On rare occasions, we have little, skinny tornadoes. One popped up this afternoon, and has been shown on the news several times.
It's like the southwest FL version of a unicorn.
The cursed white wing doves have finally gotten used to my stuffed cat out on the porch. I sit the cat on the railing and move it to a different position every day. The doves like to perch right in front of it and stare it down. Yesterday one alighted on top of its head.
Our skinny tornadoes might be a wee bit ornery. Once, during a hurricane, a tiny tornado twisted the inside of one of my hibiscus bushes. Didn't touch the outside of the bush at all!
We get a lot more damage from straight line winds here. I came home from work at twilight once, and saw my yard littered with limbs from my elm and oak trees. It got dark too quickly to actually do anything about it. That wind took the whole roof off a nearby school.
Further inquiry produced the news that the wizard's name is Bartimaeus the Brave (and Scrawny) and that Grandma turned him and his familiar chicken away in a snowstorm.
Apparently LL is off on a quest tomorrow to break the evil spell. I'll let you know if it works.
// Lamb Chopped, aka Elasto-Girl
At the reception, the centerpiece on each table was made of chocolate. Under one chair at each table was a note that read, "Congratulations. You have won the centerpiece." Wouldn't you know it, at my table I happened to sit in that chair. I cut the centerpiece into slices to share with others at the table, and took one piece myself. Almost pure sugar! Had I taken the whole thing home with me, I'd be in the hospital now.
And a lovely Episcopal church.
I wondered if you were going. (I went to a funeral at the same church later that day.)
Reminds me of the wedding scene from Rocky Horror Picture Show where a coffin is carried into the church as soon as the wedding party has departed, and the white altar flowers are spun around, revealing black flowers.
However, a wedding in the morning and a funeral in the afternoon, both with receptions to follow in the Parish Hall, kept the Rector, Altar Guild, etc. quite busy.
Tonight will be a different story!
Sounds excellent. Imyself am in pursuit of Fluffy, the rubber copperhead snake. No doubt she'll turn up at summer camp in a few days...
<shudder>
ME! I also have a plug in, so the upstairs phone works even when the power is off. My wife was pretty glad of my Luddite tendencies last year when we had an ice storm and lost power for a day. The church across the road was without power for 80 hours, and that was in town! The Lutheran pastor was on the edge of cancelling his service when the power came back on. I had told my lot bundle up, and it'll be a said service.
Yep.
As for land lines, I still have one - a REAL land line, not one dependent on the Interwebz. I got it installed when the Pater was in hospice and I was undergoing some treatment or other, and I absolutely had to have a functioning line No Matter What. I sort of enjoy the anachronism.
Go for it LC - I use one of these. (But it's a b****** when you hear a voice saying 'if you'd like X, please press '1'' ).
(Oh - and you could PM me if you find your exchange only accepts tone, not pulse, dialing. Things Can Be Done, in the UK anyway)
Very handy if some stingy phone owner put a lock on the dial.
I got shopping to do!
I'm going to be tied up most of tomorrow at an event celebrating a person's ministry who has been at best neutral and occasionally actively antagonistic toward us for years. I am going to have to put on a happy face. I have warned my son that I intend to vanish into the church kitchen, there to do dishes, because I've observed in the past that if you do that, nobody comes up and bugs you about "Isn't this a wonderful celebration, and isn't So-and-so just the best person you've ever met?" I suspect doing dishes works because a) they can't see your face, and b) they're afraid that if they bother me, they'll get handed a dishcloth.
My stepdad is bugging me via text because he feels I ought to have inquired about whether they survived the earthquake in CA, and is prodding me about my daughterly duty. Apparently my mother didn't tell him I called.
I wanna go home. Only problem is, I AM home.
Just smile sweetly and remember what St. Paul said about heaping coals of fire on thine enemy's head (although in your case it might be soap-suds from the washing-up).
I'm afraid the f-bomb has crept into my conversation lately and is apt to fall at the worst possible times. Too much stress.
Tìm kiếm trước tiên vương quốc của Thiên Chúa
Và sự công bình của Ngài;
Và tất cả những điều này sẽ được thêm vào cho bạn.
Hallelu, Hallelujah!
I can only vouch for the last two words.
You did ask, remember that in the midst of my mad outpourings...
So, I get to church and the first thing I notice is that they've set chairs up besides the pews. Fine, say I, they're expecting a crowd. I look more closely--they've set up chairs in the wheelchair designated area next to the short pews.
No. I can't. I just can't.
Need I say that we have a double-amputee attending every freaking week, and anyone who paid any attention to coffee hour for the last year would know that fact?
I couldn't even. I went down into the Vietnamese room, sat in the dark, looked at the altar, and took deep breaths.
Eventually fellow Vietnamese church member wandered in and got the story out of me. Being a reasonable human being, he suggested we go move the fucking chairs. Which we did. And Wheelie Dude (as my admiring son has christened the gentleman, considering him to be ultra-cool) never knew a thing about it. Nor my husband, who would have blown a gasket.
Deep breath.
I warn the senior pastor to please bring Wheelie Dude communion (as the last week we were in English worship, they totally overlooked him and about six of us nearly went nuclear on their asses). He nods.
Go down to Vietnamese room again. Son, who was supposed to play for our singing, has fucked up his practicing and sheepishly says we'd better do it a capella. Ah yeah. We are at that point in life when I am attempting to stop being the mother hen and instead allowing the shit to hit the fan when he fucks up. So I'm letting it do so. He can explain to any interested parties why he's not playing (after saying he would).
Worship begins. Some truly splendid music (not from us, the other folks involved) and the usual laudatory encomia aimed at a not-really-retiring pastor. Okay. Deep breath. We can do this.
Then new senior pastor invites every freaking soul in the church to file up, one by one, to say a word or ask a blessing on the pastoral couple in question, who are kneeling at the altar--one by one, in front of God and everybody, with a camera man roaming around the chancel (!!!!) in your face.
No. I can't even. I can't even even.
We get up to do our song and discover that some bright spark has decided to push the font out of the way of this activity in such a way that Wheelie Dude cannot possibly get past it to reach our assigned spot. Fuck fuck fuckity fuck. My eyes meet Mr. Lamb's. We decide to squeeze into the aisle space between pulpit and wall where people step down to return from communion. Nothing else is a possibility for brother Wheelie Dude.
The people begin lining up. Grand displays of emotion begin, as we sing in Vietnamese "To God be the Glory" and etc. We are actually halfway decent--and nobody cares, anyway, as what's going on up front is more than distracting. We file back into our pews and Wheelie Dude plugs us back in (arrangement means no one in the short pews can exit without tripping over him, except to the left, by pushing into the congratulatory blessing line).
People are being ushered up row by row to do their blessing thing, and the timing of our song means that the ushers have passed us long ago. Thank God. We've dodged a bullet. I settle down to watch the endless line go on for, what? forty minutes? Tempted to check my phone. Bad Lamb. Refrain thyself. I twiddle with the bulletin.
The end of the line is in sight. A sigh of relief. Then two of our Vietnamese people indicate that they think they too should go up and say something. We say a polite version of "knock yourself out." And watch, inwardly giggling, as our former Pentecostal, who speaks no English, decides to give them both a prolonged and weepy embrace, while repeating a flurry of words they have no idea what they mean...
Right.
Well, the service ends and we go next door, to discover a whole roasted pig (like, it seemed to be in the skin, even) and a huge huge huge line for food. Nobody has thought about the logistics of this. After forty minutes of waiting (while half the tables remain unserved), I grab LL and suggest we start serving lemonade (the powdered stuff, I judge by how it tasted) for the sake of those who are starting to have their blood sugar go through their socks. It is now about 130 pm. We do so, which has the added benefit of preventing anybody from engaging me in conversations about how wonderful X is and I'm sure he's been a great help to your ministry. It also hopefully prevents Y and Z from asking me later why I didn't stop by to make congratulatory conversation with X, as obviously I am busy serving and my good will can be assumed, yes?
Oh, and I seat a few latecomers who can't find a spot. It is freaking unreal how people just gaze sheeplike at the standing incomers like "What? My table is full. What do you expect me to do about you?"
I reshuffled my family's seats, grabbed an extra chair, set-up, and bottle of water, and we were good to go. Honestly.
Eventually we grab some food. Half the crowd is done eating already. Mr L takes Wheelie Dude home, glad of the excuse. Somebody stands up (it is now what, 2 pm? and we've been at church since 9?) And says, "It's time for us to start our afternoon program..."
I can't even again.
I grab LL and we scuttle for the exit. I then take a three hour nap, complete with nightmares.
Thus endeth the tale of the WTF.
TL:DR; I still can't even.