Monday, May 29, 2006

Demolition is infinitely easier than the act of creation

The Rev. celebrated Memorial Day with a little demolition in the house. He scraped the long loathed popcorn ceiling in the dining room, and instead of having to fret about it getting into our once white carpet, he ripped the offending flooring up as well. For all that effort, he discovered an even more offensive pea green linoleum, circa "The Brady Bunch." Shudder. The offending linoleum was removed, and he discovered that it had been applied with a black glue that has given our dining room a rather gothic, pseudo-industrial look. It fills me with angst. I can imagine the pea green linoleum complemented by the sunburst yellow stove and fridge (both still in our possession)and dark cabinets and I shudder again. We are still in possession of the dark cabinets; the previous owner painted them a glaring shade of white, about 32 coats of high gloss eggshell. She failed to paint the insides of some of the cabinets, so I experience the two natures of man when I am in the kitchen, open and shut, light and dark. SIGH. One room semi-demolished and two bedroom, two bathrooms, one hallway, one office, and a backyard to go.

The Rev. sees the angst as motivation to save money and pour any and all extra resources into our house to make it our house, with flooring, cabinetry, and a diswasher and stove that are younger than his wife. I agree, but I am also tempted to go to IKEA (accompliced by the parents of godchild #5)and buy a new kitchen while The Rev. attends a conference in Arizona. I WON'TO DO THAT, I PROMISE. I'll just wait until The Rev. comes home and then we will go to IKEA. Just to get ideas, of course.

Saturday, May 27, 2006

This post brought to you by budgetary constraints

As many of you know, The Rev. and I are on a budget. We actually went out today and LOOKED at items for sale, but did not purchase any of them, and then we realized we needed to buy laundry soap, and we took great pleasure in buying said product.

It hasn't been as difficult as I thought, given that we both have closets full of clothes (and nothing to wear), a pantry of food (and nothing to eat), and a bookshelf full of books and movies (and nothing to do). I know that I will be scraping the bottom of the budgetary barrel when I begin to clean my house for lack of entertainment. I didn't say I was having FUN on the budget, it is just that there are days when I feel like a buffet of spending delights are passing beneath my nose, and my hands are tied behind my back, so I can't reach for my debit card.

I did cook a complete, nutritious meal tonight with ingredients I had on hand, mind you, and The Rev. nearly licked his plate with delight. Lemon chicken and rice with spinach, just so you are in the know. If you would like the recipes, I would be happy to share them with you, but I do not want to post them here as budgetary restraints prevent me from paying a royalty to the author of the cookbook from which I culled the chicken recipe. If you have a chicken and some lemons, along with a decent spice collection, you can pull this recipe off when you don't feel like going to the grocery store or if you are like me and you spent the last $8.00 of your grocery budget on milk and distilled water. Actually, those items were $6.48, and then we went to our natural food store and bought a 1 1/2 pounds of popcorn for $1.07. I actually counted out 7 pennies to the clerk and I did not feel an ounce of embarrasment. Paying with cash has such power.

Friday, May 26, 2006

Happy Belated Ascension!

Yesterday was Ascension Day. For many, Ascension is an obscure holy festival, overshadowed by the festivals of Christmas and Easter, but for Christians it is just as important. Christ gave his final charge to his disciples; Christ ascended into heaven, and his disciples gaped at the sky until angels appear and reminded them to return to Jerusalem and get to work.

I think The Rev. was a little sad last night because Ascension is the last festival service of the church year held during the mid-week until Thanksgiving. Given that I think I have forgotten nearly every mid-week service until an hour before the service began, I wasn't as affected as he. I know this is what calendars and day planners are for, but one must practice the habit of looking at calendars and day planners for them to prove effective in both time and cost. Believe me, we have calendars and clocks all over the place, and The Rev. and I still can't make it anywhere on time, except church, mind you. I was just happy that there wasn't a potluck beforehand, because I was in no way going to subject the innocent sheep of The Rev.'s flock to the remnants of our pantry.

Thursday, May 25, 2006

Cleaning out the Fridge

The Rev. and I have gone hardcore about not buying food until we have eaten everything in our house. We did go to the grocery a few days ago, because a straight diet of chicken and rice had my digestive tract crying for something green. I experienced a similar situation when The Rev. and I were in Germany and every other meal was schnitzel, potatoes, and bread. I can count on one hand the number of times I had a fresh vegetable in a three week period on that vacation. My food memories of Europe are very monochromatic, punctuated with bright spoonfuls of red cabbage and the fresh cherries we bought in Nuremburg. The Rev. and I did venture away from the pack and find a Chinese restaurant in Vienna (delicious) and a vendor in one of the villages that was selling Turkish delicacies. We ate olives and a tomato cheese mixture with flatbread while sitting on the steps of the local courthouse. One can only eat so many pieces of scnitzel before you stop caring about the Glockenspiel and start looking for the Imodium.

Our refrigerator has taken on the looks of a ghost town. Our fridge door is full of what I call the "edible non-edibles," meaning one can eat them, but you would not eat that substance by itself. Mustard, mayonnaise, 32 bottles of hot sauce, 3 bottles of A-1, orange marmalade, and a jar of cherry jelly populate the shelves of our fridge door. It will be a sad day indeed when I look to condiments as a source of nutrition. The Rev. also has a bottle of something called "Liquid Minerals," so when our hair and teeth begin to fall out from malnutrition, we can start to drink that.

The cleaning out of the fridge also poses another problem: the vacancies of foodstuff leave behind evidence of their stay. Mystery drippings beneath the crisper drawer, and little puddles of goo on the shelves stare at you when you open the door to remind yourself there is no cheese dip to go with your chips or salad to go with your dressing. The nastiness has to come out, and I guess I will be the one to do it, given that The Rev. is in the throes of the last few weeks of school and I have the day off. We have another fridge in the garage (we call it the beer fridge) that came with the house, and in the spirit of marriage and sharing, I may kindly suggest to The Rev. that he gets to clean that one when he gets home. I think there is mystery goo in there too.

Monday, May 22, 2006

Requiem for the Pearl and other Ramblings

Minnie Pearl has been missing for one week. I've made peace that she has probably been eaten, because given the fact that we spoiled her rotten, why would she want to run away? Everyone has been very encouraging with little stories about kitties going missing for 2 weeks to 1 month, and I appreciate that, but given that I am not going to pin my hopes on the experiences of others, I will mourn my cat and threaten my husband with the prospect of a chihuaha named Tito. He has already said, "No." along with "You have GOT to be kidding," "Absolutely not," and my favorite, "Don't do that to me." I know that such statements are just the beginning of negotiations.

Her disappearance has cast a heavy cloud on our house this past week, and my mood was reflective of it. The Rev. and I discussed her whereabouts like two hikers discussing the terrain of a prospective climb, and unhappily for me, we could not figure out where she could have gone. I have concluded that I just can't think about it, because I will remember her little meow, her fluffy tail, and the way she would perch on the bathroom sink to watch The Rev. shave.

The Rev. decided to distract me this week by going on a budget. Between car maintenance, fixing my tooth, emissions tests for the $5 ride, and the fact that gas is $3.30 A GALLON, we have decided to tighten our belts. Well, The Rev. tightens his belt and I buy shoes. But it was only one pair and they were so cute. So, we are on a budget and I will admit I have chafed under the constraints. No more Starbucks runs, no more impulse buying of sour Jolly Ranchers, and we have instituted the rule that we will eat something until it is gone and then we will go out and buy some more. We have three jars of olives and an enormous jar of jalapenos in the fridge, but no pickles. I have eaten more chicken salad in the past week than I care to admit, and I know that tuna is on the horizon.

Does anyone have any good, cheap recipes? My Bon Appetit is nothing short of depressing.

Saturday, May 20, 2006

Fruit of the Vine, Part II

Wine tasting is a big deal in California. I am sure everyone has seen the happy cow/happy cheese commercials, and I am surprised no smart marketer has thought up a happy grape/happy wine tagline. Now that I have stated that, I guess I should be on the look out, although I would dare to say that the behavior I have observed at wine tastings has been serious to the point of grave. Giggling cows do make for happy cheese. The winemakers I have met don't seem to be the type to giggle.

The Rev. and I attended a wine tasting last night sponsored by a local organization. We usually don't attend affairs such as these, but we were invited and it was free. FREE! All the wine tasting we wanted to do, FREE! As an added benefit, several local restaurants sponsored food tastings, FREE! Heavenly shrimp scampi, mushroom pizza, sushi, several Mexican restaurants, fondue, and a Hawaiian grill that made a smoked chicken worth writing about. There were a few wineries that we recognized, and we discovered a few new ones. It was nice to be able to nibble and sip, and talk to some of the winemakers. They didn't giggle.

The organization had all of the wine tasting in the middle of the room, with food vendors around the perimeter and some sprinkled outside. There was also a jazz band and a soulful blues/funk band who were good, but really loud. It became obvious to me last night that I have am getting older. I must say the most enjoyable part of the evening was people watching. Older couples nodding to each other as they sipped their glass of red and murmuring that it was too young. Younger women teetering in heels clutching their glasses of chardonnay. The beleaguered champagne rep. who didn't have a drop left at the end of the night. The best was watching everyone dance. Sad, sad, sad. I know my strengths and I know my weaknesses. I don't dance for a reason, but I cannot begin to describe the couple who had been huddled together inside discussing the bouquet on the 2003 Pinot Noir TRY to dance outside. Arms flapping and legs flailing, they shook their thang for all the world to see, alogn with everyone else who had downed 27 glasses of wine and just felt the need to show the world their stuff. I just turned to The Rev. and said, "This is evidence that overeducated, stuffy people should not demonstrate any attempt at rhythm." He offered to get me another glass of wine.

Tuesday, May 16, 2006


Someone once said that married couples tend to look like one another after several years of being together. I think The Rev. is much better looking than I am, and the only time I have thought that we looked remotely alike is when I came out of the bedroom to discover that we were wearing identical outfits. Once it was a black shirt and khaki shorts, and another time it was a red shirt and jeans. One of us compromised and changed our clothes.

My brother had a birthday party/life celebration/Mother's Day recognition/let's get together and reminisce type of party this weekend. He wore a seersucker suit for the occasion, and from the pictures I have seen posted on the web, he carried the look off quite well. I was worried. I mean, it was a seersucker suit. I half expected to see thoroughbreds running through the background and mint juleps in sterling silver cups passed on trays.

And then I noticed his girlfriend was wearing a seersucker jacket, and it was hard to define the line of where her jacket ended and his suit began. I fear he is two steps away from matching Hawaiian shirts, and then we will have to do an intervention. He claims that her jacket had a brown stripe in it, but this is coming from a man who lost his seafoam green car in a mall parking lot, a grocery store, and a Wal-Mart all in the same day. I wouldn't say he had an eye for color.

From what I hear, the party was a great success, and I am sure the seersucker suit will be trotted out again this summer. I may have to send her a cute white shirt and a peasant skirt, just to prevent such matchiness from happening again.

Monday, May 15, 2006

Clean Sheets

Ahhh, days off. I think I did 27 loads of wash today, and went on a cleaning rampage that would make my mother-in-law proud. It was actually a languid rampage, as I drank a beer, chased it with a margarita, and capped off the night with a glass of red wine.

But I have clean sheets, and I am very excited about that. I normally don't get too excited about clean sheets, because the way it has been around here, I will wash the sheets and they will sit for three days because I am too tired when I get home to make the bed. I am ashamed to admit, but I have wrapped myself in a blanket and slept on the mattress pad. Today, however, the sheets got washed and the bed was made instantly, and I can't wait to jump into their bleachy, fabric softener freshness.

I am also trying to stay busy because my youngest cat is missing, and I am trying not to to dwell on it. Cats are natural prowlers, and she is probably off doing her kitty thing. Part of me thinks that this is punishment for her avian atrocities committed last week, and there may be a family of finches out there holding her hostage. The Rev. has not been comforting, and I quote:

1. "Maybe she is dead." My response to this was, "And you actually counsel people?"

2. "I didn't see any smushed kitties on the way home from church."

3. "Maybe a dog got her."

I understand two things about this man. One, he is trying to do me a favor and tell me the truth, albeit in a neanderthal, clueless guy sort of way. Two, he is a dog man. What else am I supposed to expect? I'll keep you posted.

Mother's Day

I missed Mother's Day this year. I mean, I sent a present and two cards, but I was not physically there to present my mom a corsage of yellow roses, sit next to her in church, and squeeze her hand. Some things about life I SoCal I will never like. I don't know if The Rev. would share that sentiment, but he has been away from home much longer than I have, and he was just happy that his wife got her act together and got Mother's Day presents to both mothers early. We barely do Christmas cards, and we make up for missed, forgotten, and belated birthdays with random gifts sprinkled throughout the year. We have never missed Mother's Day, though. I mean, IT'S MOTHER'S DAY, the one observance of the year that I wouldn't mess with even if I was in the hospital with two broken arms and the plague.

I do not resemble my mother, except in personality. Although, I have always thought I inherited my pumpkin teeth from her. I have my father's height and the build of my paternal grandmother. I can't forecast that I will have blue hair in the future, as I am hoping I manage to maintain the highlights that I do have.

Growing up, I never wanted to make her mad and was often on the receiving end of a spanking, but that was because I was a strong willed child who didn't brush her teeth and hid cake mixes under her bed. I also played with matches and threw my clothes on the floor. I had those spankings coming.

Anyway, back to my mom. She can work a room like a Kennedy and instantly make everyone feel like her new best friend. It is a quality that I admire and one that I actively try to cultivate in myself. I know Pastors read this website. If you are, you must have my mom come to your evangelism seminars and speak about welcoming people to church. She's the best. She even sends little notes to people when she doesn't see them in church. Little notes! On cute paper in her perfect handwriting. We could all learn a lesson here, people.

If I am going to be extolling the virtues of mothers, I must also give a shout out to my mother-in-law, who is also one of the best people I know. Actually she and my father-in-law are some of the best people I know. Thank you for welcoming me into your family. And thank you for raising the person who is your son and my husband. I don't think you would let him get away with playing with matches, hiding cake mixes under his bed, or throwing his clothes on the floor.

Let's try to get together next year.

Thursday, May 11, 2006

Happy Birthday, Jowl!

Jowl, my brother, turned 32 years old today. That means I will be 31 in November. If you do the math you will see my parents are very brave people.

As I was driving to work this morning, the morning radio host was chatting about today being some sort of observance for endangered species. For some reason, this made me think of my brother, so I made an early morning phone call.

"Good morning, Jowl. Did you know that today is a national day of observance for 42 endangered species? That means you need to marry your girlfriend and propagate. I do think you are on the list."

Jowl has come a long way in 32 years, even though my birthday card to him congratulated him on reaching the milestone of five years of life, and his gift card to Borders had Big Bird and the Cookie Monster on it. I won't share the story about the bathtub full of beer, or a beer fueled midnight meeting on his alma mater's football field, or a certain trip to New Orleans and a six pack of Dixie.

Happy Birthday, Bro. Wish I could be there with the seersucker suit.

Diesel and Cayenne

The first decade of my life was shaped by the customs and traditions unique to the city of New Orleans. My formative primary years were influenced by the smell of diesel fuel at Mardi Gras parades, public displays of drunkeness in the French Quarter, gulf coast seafood, coon-asses, gumbo, voo-doo, plantation homes, the River Road, and the mighty Mississippi. If people every scratch their heads and wonder why I am the way I am, I point to two people and one city. Everytime I smell diesel fuel and feel the shudder of a big truck engine, I am immediately transported to Mardi Gras day and "Throw me something, Mister." Besides the sweet smell of exhaust, there is one other thing that makes me think Mardi Gras, my childhood, and how much I miss the South: Popeye's Fried Chicken. Popeye's chicken was (and as far as I know still is) the required food to have on hand at all Mardi Gras parades. The bright orange and yellow box full of greasy, spicy goodness tastes good either hot or cold, and is the perfect item to have on hand as one is drinking a cold beer and watching a parade. When we moved to California, I resigned myself to a Popeye's withdrawal, along with Cracker Barrel and Sonic.

I learned big news this week. There are THREE Popeye's chicken restaurants within a TWENTY MINUTE drive from my house. I discovered this when I noticed a co-worker had a little hot sauce packet emblazoned with the familar logo in an outside pocket of her lunch box. "Where is there a Popeye's?" I immediately wanted to know. She and several other co-workerd happily shared with me directions to the nearest one. I possessed enough self-restraint to not immediately run out, buy, and devour a sixteen piece family meal, but I have been thinking about it all week long. It was the first piece of news I shared with The Rev. after I got home from work that night. My response to his "How was your day?" was "Did you know there are THREE Popeye's restaurants within 20 minutes of our house? GET IN THE CAR!"
The Rev. managed to talk me down, but I have been thinking about spicy fried chicken all week long.

Life in California just got exponentially better.

Tuesday, May 09, 2006

May Gray

There is a phenomena in California that occurs during the months of May and June. In May it is called "May Gray" and in June it is called "June Gloom." It is weather that causes utter confusion when you first wake up in the morning, and as you are rubbing sleep out of your eyes and shaking off the cobwebs of REM rest you suddenly think, "Did I just get teleported to Seattle?" Gray, drippy, depressing. The sort of weather that makes you want to wear black and write sad poetry, like a misunderstood teenager. The sort of weather that causes people to pull their fall and winter clothes out of storage and wear clothes like they are going to peek at the fall foliage. I wore sandals yesterday and parked next to a woman who looked like she was dressed to go to Vermont in November. Confusing, to say the least.

I have experienced weather similar to this only once before, and that was when The Rev. and I were nearly newly married and the city we were living in experienced a stretch of gray weather that caused us to experience 27 minutes of sunshine in a three week period. How do I know it was 27 minutes? It made the news and it was all anyone talked about for days. Coincidentally, we were also planning a vacation to Seattle, Washington and I made the suggestion that we save ourselves the time and money and just stay home. We could make Starbucks and sit in our living room and pretend that we were in Seattle, rather than having to go through the fuss of leaving home for a week. I even offered to let The Rev. read some of the poetry of my high school students, just to give the vibe of a coffeehouse. I'd wear black and pretend to be misunderstood, and he could read to me about "why did you leave me/why did you go/I used to love you, love you so." There are some things about teaching I don't miss.

Thankfully, The Rev. declined my offer, and we spent a great week in Seattle. Ironically, we experienced beautiful weather during our visit, except for the occasional rain shower early in the morning. Thankfully, the gray does burn off here and I am happy to report that the sun is shining at the moment. Now I just have to decide what clothes I am going to wear.

Saturday, May 06, 2006

When I think Irish Pub, I think Corona!

I come from stock that watches National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation on the Fourth of July. My family has also been known to dine at Chinese restaurants on Christmas day. As I said in an earlier post, we celebrated Saint Patrick's Day at a Mexican restaurant. My genetic material appreciates the unknown, offbeat, and wee bit funky. For some unknown reason, we decided to join the masses and partake in Mexican food at a local restaurant near our house.

It was nasty. And I don't mean nasty as in exotic ingredient, culinary adventure nasty. It was just bad food and I knew we were in trouble when we entered the Mexican restaurant and they had a live band playing the Oldies. It's hard to drink your neon green margarita and appreciate it while everyone around you is bopping to The Beach Boys. We briefly entertained the notion of the Irish pub, but they were having drink specials on Coronas and their patio was decorated with Mexican flags. Wrong. On so many levels.

It was a mistake, but before you think I am going to complain and whine and be food snobbish about how awful our food was, I am going to count my blessings one by one. This is the new and improved Pastorschick. The one who only spreads sunshine and happiness wherever she is wont to go.

So, here we go, and I will try to keep sarcastic comments to a minimum. It is an ongoing process, remember? Actually, let me tell you what I could have said, and then I will tell you for what blessing I was thanking the Lord.

1. I could have said, "This food rots and why did you bring me here when we could have gone to our favorite hole in the wall for a whole lot cheaper?" Rather, I appreciated that The Rev. and I could share a meal together and we both agreed that Taco Bell was a step up from this joint.

2. I could have said, "Why did you drag me down here to look at these stupid cars? I'm cold. I'm tired. Can we go now? All engines look the same after a while. Blah blah blah." Instead, The Rev. and I got to hold hands, walk our main drag, and check out a local coffeeshop that does not bear the requisite white and green cup from which everyone else partakes. "Yes, honey, that is a pretty car. Now can I get a pair of shoes in that color?"

3. I could have said, "Why do you always shrink my clothes? Is this a twisted way to get me to exercise and to quit eating sour Jolly Ranchers?" Instead I said, "Honey, let me do the laundry, and while I am at, let me update the checkbook and pay a few bills." Wait, maybe it was a twisted way to get me to do laundry.

4. I could have said, "Why are we watching this brain candy reality t.v. show?" Instead I said, "Yes, I must agree with you, those people all have major issues and they all need Jesus."

It was nearly a perfect day, even if I didn't get to stay in bed and eat Pirate's Booty.

Friday, May 05, 2006

Addendum II

Long story short: Mexico defeated a French army coming to settle debts in 1862.

It's a holiday celebrated mainly in California, Arizona, New Mexico, and Texas, but I can tell you that every other state in the union has fallen prey to some clever marketers to buy extra Cuervo Gold.

Cinco de Mayo

Yes, today is Cinco de Mayo and I have a craving for macaroni and cheese. I don't know if the margaritas, carne asada, and frijoles will be on tap for tonight, but I will certainly let you know. The last holiday where people celebrated with copious amounts of alcohol was Saint Patrick's Day, a celebration of Christianity in Ireland and maybe St. Patrick driving out snakes? My history is foggy. I know the Irish pub on our main drag through town was PACKED, so I am sure every Mexican restaurant in town will be over-flowing. Come to think of it, we ate at a Mexican restaurant on St. Pat's day, so maybe we should check out the Irish pub. Perhaps I am just reasoning with myself to stay home. I can drink a Harp or a Bohemia on my own patio, amongst the company of friends. Come to think of it, Cinco de Mayo is Mexican independence, right? But what am I celebrating? I need a history lesson. If someone knows the background of this holiday, holler.

It is also my day off today and I have a laundry list of things to do, besides laundry. When I came home from work last night The Rev. asked me what I was planning on doing. He didn't cotton to my response of "Stay in bed all day and eat Pirate's Booty." For one, I need to wash the sheets and two I would have to go out and buy Pirate's Booty. The day is just FULL of possibilities. The church garage sale is tomorrow and they need some help, so that will be part of the day. I also have to make a run to the grocery store because we may just have 4 cheese penne for dinner tonight. We'll tip our hats to our neighbors to the south and wash it down with some sangria or a margarita, at least until I've figured out what we are celebrating. Four cheese Penne and carne asada might be a tasty combination.

By the way, HAPPY BIRTHDAY to Nate-Dawg! If The Rev. and I were there, we would fire up the stogies and celebrate your 31st!

Thursday, May 04, 2006

Wake Up Call

Yesterday morning The Rev. woke me up to a grisly scene in our backyard. It seems our youngest animal's determination to become a killer was rewarded when she launched herself into a bouganvillea bush and caught a house finch. The poor bird never knew what hit it, and became the unfortunate fetch toy for all three of our cats. Our kitten was so proud of herself, strutting through our postage stamp size yard, bird dangling from her tiny mouth. She finally presented her mangled gift to us, a love offering by the sliding glass door of our patio.

I don't mind rats, mice, gophers, and moles being left for us. I've even been the recipient of a few badly crunched crawfish, but the bird really bothered me. The Rev. pointed out that we would have to be more careful in the future, to which I responded, "Isn't she just being a cat and doing what is natural for her? Remember when you told me about your college professor telling you that dogs praise God with their dogginess and fish praise God with their fishiness? Kitties with their kittiness? Doesn't this fall under that sort of logic?"

The Rev. begged to differ with me.

And I have to agree with him. I thought about that dead bird all day. I thought it about driving to work. I thought about it as I went through the motions of my day. I thought about it at lunch. I did my best thinking while I was stuck in traffic on the way home. I also thought about the conclusion of the lecture that The Rev.'s professor had given to his students that day. "It's too bad humans don't praise God with their humaness." I read my entries for the past week this afternoon and all I can do is throw up my hands and say, "Lord, have mercy on me, a sinner." I've been flaunting my humanity like a bad hairdo and getting my fingers all sticky with dissention, resentment, fear, and anger and putting it on parade for all the world to see.

Forgive me. I am sure you have been entertained by my misadventures and misanthropic bent on drivers who need to have their licenses revoked, but I will be making a concerted effort to write more about my time of grace on this earth, and how much I appreciate the blessings that have been entrusted to my grubby hands, rather than what has not been given to me.

I hope I don't bore you.

Monday, May 01, 2006

Reflection on my blue streak

I wish I could say that something really fantastic or exciting happened today, like the $5 dollar car was pimped by X-Zibit or I finally got my cracked windshield fixed, but unfortunately, nothing that exciting has happened in the past 24 hours. However, I almost did meet THE MAKER today when a teeny tiny man (I could tell he was teeny tiny by his Napoleonesque stature and his stubby arms) driving an enormous Chevy Suburban nearly plowed into me as he was merging into traffic at an alarming, nay, reckless speed. I managed to swerve and lay the hand that is attached to my 5 foot 10 inch Amazonian body onto the horn and avoid meeting my Heavenly Father. Most days I am ready to go. Today, however, blissful eternity on streets of gold was the last thing on my mind as I was trying to beat rush hour traffic to get to Target. I know, I know.

Napoleon crossed the other two lanes of traffic and drove on his merry way as I caught my breath and said a little prayer thanking Jesus that The Rev. would not be made a widower today. I also said a prayer asking forgiveness for the blue streak that came out of my mouth as while I was blaring on the horn and swerving. I don't think God excuses cussing when one's life dangles in the balance. Sanctification is a 24 hour, ongoing process. The Sanctified Pastorschick would have called on God or a guardian angel or some heavenly body to help her, the unsanctified Pastorschick would have cussed a blue streak and imagined beating up the little Napoleon at a SoCal Waterloo. Let's say the unsanctified Pastorschick momentarily won.

What bothered me, though, was the thought of having someone else in the car with me. What if I had my "not even a twinkle in The Rev.'s eye" offspring with me? Or The Mother? Or worse, The Mother-in-Law? Or worse yet, The Rev.-in-law? I think then it would be better if I did go home to Jesus than have to live through that mortification.