So now what...

I have been cleared to go back to work, but not until January. Those who believe they would love to be off work to watch TV, read books, and just basically running errands, living on controlled substances and making literally zillions of trips to the pharmacy. It sounds like something you'd like to try, but I must be doing it wrong.

I continue to worry about whether or not my paperwork for Sick Bank Leave is in and whether or not it will be approved. I think I might have left my office door unlocked. It's entirely possible that I will have forgotten to fill out the forms for the Recycling Team Awards. Apart from that, I left work running with the sheer volume of pain that keeps your legs moving, your mind running, and your heart racing.

I haven't been off long enoug to start jonesing for The Real Housewives of Wherever or any of the soaps. Once you have seen Susan Lucci on Dancing With the Stars, it's like the CryptKeeper meets the Fred Murray Dancers. Then there's Top Chef-ahh if there's anything that makes the day worth getting out of bed. Long dramatic sweeps of sometimes elegaic, sometimes pitiful. How will I go back to work? How will I let this wound heal. How will I be able to face elementary school yayhoos, who can neither add, subtract, multiply or understand that the sun is not a planet? How will I be able to face them knowing that the teasers, even though they are from seasons past, show Padma wincing- she is such an ice queen, and Big Bear Kolicchio shaking his head. How can I work? Could we make it on one salary? How many times could I watch it before my brain would be as loose as duck eggs? What could we do without? Hmmm... not electricity, probably not water, I guess I'll need to give up drugs... Hmmm...

The advent of Advent

So now it's Advent. The voice of one crying in the wilderness for repentance rings ever so faintly- perhaps dimly in memory. Poor people shuffle around, as poor people are wont to do. Trying to establish permanence is the business of those who have a little bit more. I work on the side of town where children are shuffled in and out of school, so often that though I have never seen statistics, I would guess they miss a full year by the time they hit secondary school.

"Repent!" I also hear another word on the news for the first time in my medium sized memory- recession. It seems there will be more of us among the poor, more of us beloved of God, more of us with fewer choices, more of us taking shallow breaths and glancing at our neighbors as though they were our enemies. We are a little more afraid. The seeds planted by the Baby boomers have sprouted. They are gnarled vines with twining branches of debt and short-sightedness.

So I ask myself, "What do I hear God saying?" The answer- I am sorry to say- is not much. It is after all Advent, the season of preparation, a time of getting ready. While I wait, I wonder, "Will my children suffer?" You see, it is one thing to eat locusts and honey and be called crazy. It is something else entirely, when your children suffer. I have learned something in all my wanderings. You have to know who you are because people will call you everything in the world. I have been called everything from wicked to wise, so I must know who I am while I wait for the voice of God.

Thanksgiving Eve

Any minute I should hear the thunder of turkeys warbling on my backporch as it is almost midnight on Thanksgiving Eve. I am on my my second dirty shirt and if I had started the day off smarter my second or third dirty martini. As it is I am caked in flour, butter, squash trimmings, and I noticed I had a bit of sage in my eyebrows that was a little dashing- almost avant garde- if you kinda squint your eyes just right. I am probably what Paula Deen looks like without a mob of people to keep her from looking the way I do right now. Worse still- the state of my kitchen is light years from clean- maybe light centuries.

On the up side, I am a pecan pie, a dozen and a half of apricot fried pies, one apple pie, some cranberry relish, a terrine full of dressing (we do cornbread in these parts), and five pounds of mashed potatoes all to the good. I have some squash too, but I don't much care for it. What are you gonna do? I should mention that there will only be seven of us tomorrow, but I am still hoping to run into some linebackers on the way to lunch. I am unaccustomed, and some would say unable, to cook for fewer than 20.

I have come to that time in my life where I have begun to cook the Thanksgiving Memorial Feast- Papaw's Pecan Pie, Mom's Dressing, Norman's Asparagus, ( I haven't gotten to that yet, but maybe the elves will cobble it together while I sleep.) Granny Pies, PawPaw's Fat Salad, and like I said squash.

The making of Granny Pies, these little pocket sized, heavenly apricot pies was the biggest challenge. I took the better part of two hours whomping out 19, and I called my 92 year-old grandmother twice during this almost forgotten tradition. For the record, I suck at it. My grandmother and my darlin's grandmother could whip out five dozen, fry a chicken, and probably iron in the time it took me to make these little gems. No doubt, theirs were better, too. However, they had 20 years of practice by the time they were my age.

So for now, I'll cut myself some slack and get back to that squash. It ain't gonna casserole itself.

Happy Thanksgiving, Y'all!

OMG!

You know, I'm pretty much a child of the previous century and it shows the most when I am confronted with the likes of this:
You also have to know I spent an hour trying to put the actual picture in, but alas...
OMG!

I M Speechless! I haven't seen the likes of those vinyl boots, since Rent was touring!
http://omg.yahoo.com/photos/what-were-they-thinking/2468#

Jo the plumber?

Being sick, being off work, being- simply being- resting gently in the palm of God's hand is something I suck at. That lesson is what I am learning on this sabbatical/sick leave journey. But today, I had a breakthrough!

The kids had been saying that the bathtub in their bathroom had been draining slowly. Well, truthfully, I had forgotten. They had mentioned it several times, but after the final foo_ball game the girlchild said that the water was standing in the tub.

I planned to call the plumber. I wasn't going to call "Joe the plumber", although I probably couldn't depend on calling a democrat- what with this being Texas and all. I decided to give the porcelain a look. Fortunately, the water had drained overnight. The tub was coated evenly with grit and sports boy residue. I pulled the metal stopper thingy out of the drain and discovered a little bit of hair. As I began to pull out the soapy wad, there was a little more hair and the cover to a razor, then a little more hair and a long strip of plastic off a shampoo bottle. Once everything was out of the drain, it looked like a hair hamster drowning in Head & Shoulders had crawled up out of the drain and died in the tub. I buried him in the wastebasket and replaced the metal stopper thingy. Now, I just have to practice hitching up my britches. I'm a plumber! I only have to hope this doesn't foul up my sick leave.

Everyone makes mistakes

Sure, everyone makes mistakes. I have been known to say- okay perhaps over and over- we are not defined by the mistakes we make, but by the efforts we make to fix them. I thought that little maxim was kind of snappy- maybe even pithy. That was before.

You may have noticed the change. I had not. Those of you who know me ( pretend audience) know that I have a bit of a sweet tooth. I am a big fan of cookies and pie. I believe that cake is merely a method of keeping frosting from sticking to the plate. When I am dining in public, I limit myself to two- okay three- packets of Equal in a glass of tea. The difference of which I speak is something the manufacturers of Equal are inordinately proud.

In an age when peanut butter is infused with extra vitamins, Coke has vitamins, probably Crisco, lard and Twinkies are sporting extra B-12 so you feel extra good about eating them. The makers of my Equal have added fiber to that little yellow packet. Now for regular human beings that is probably a great thing, but for me, an unsuspecting person who inadvertently consumed approximately 20-25 packets of fiber yesterday. Imagine my shock and dismay- I am a person who happily subsists on Goldfish crackers and Rice Krispie Treats.

Please Equal people stop the insanity! If I wanted to ingest 25 grams of fiber I'd be a hamster. Even those crazy vegans don't eat that much fiber in a day. For God's sake, I haven't experienced this much parastolic movement since the millenium changed. Can't you be satisfied with keeping the best part of sugar and getting rid of the calorie part? Must you include parts of the actual cane? The horror...

The Difference Between Prophets and Profits

It's the $$$ signs, silly! I can't believe you fell for that one! Prophets call out of the clear blue sky and say that God has been talking with them and saying that they don't know why they are the emissary, but God has been talking to them about you and God thinks that as long as you are lollygagging on sick leave and stuff- you should write a book.

Really, I think the part about lollygagging was the emissary talking. 'Could be the whole thing was the emissary, but who knows? So far this month I have purchased vitamins out of the skirts of Jesus and I have received a phone call from a prophet. What do they have in common? Neither is particularly profitable- in fact, I might have purchased a Shaklee franchise without noticing. I was distracted by Jesus looking down at me. If I didn't mention it before, the dermatologist who talked at somewhere close to the speed of sound. If I had heard a boom, it would either have been the dermatologist surpassing herself or Jesus getting miffed at the price of the vitamins. Dear reader did you know that vitamins are going somewhere between a kidney and an oil well, whichever is costlier. Of course, at this point this blog is more like a diary than anything else, so...

What next, but a book tour!