What I'm giving up for Lent

Tomorrow starts Lent 2007. I have been ruminating for quite a while about what to give up. Then it hit me:

I'm going to give up pursuing stale friendships.

This might resonate with some of you; perhaps you know what I'm talking about. Without using names, I plan to divorce the following people. Believe me, they won't even notice.

1. The couples who always insist that we should "get together over the holidays" or whatever. They dutifully come to get-togethers and parties. They love the hour-long phone chit chat. But, they never initiate phone conversations. Things are fun when we are together, but they make no effort to keep the friendship going.

2. The girlfriends from college that never call me. I love some of these girls like sisters, so I've made near-heroic efforts to keep it up -- Christmas cards, phone calls, emails. But if I drop off, they never pick up the ball. I think of them often; apparently it's not mutual. Or maybe it's just that I've set it up to do all the work. Well, no more.

3. Multi-level marketing "friends" and relatives. Ooooh this is a BIG one. These are the acquaintances that are selling something: phone service, craft stuff, health care products, vitamins. When they think you're interested in buying their products or -- even better -- joining their downline, they act intensely interested in you. You skip a hand lotion order and poof! they're gone. If the only time you're going to email me is to ask for an order, please don't bother. Life is too short for that kind of friendship.

4. The friends that *do* call once in a while, and always want to "get together," but never, ever, ever follow through. These are the friends who live 10 minutes away from you that you see once a year.

I'm busy. So are you. So what? Everyone is busy. Do you really not have time to send an occasional email or place a short phone call? Really? Telling me how intolerably busy you are doesn't do a thing for me. It tells me that my friendship is not worth even minimal effort on your part. Fair enough -- just let me know.

The bottom line is that people are self-centered. Me included. But really, selfishness has become a national epidemic. We are a people that value our things, our lifestyle, our success so much more than we value our relationships. I am one of these old-fashioned types that think that friendship is important. I suppose that's my problem.

O'Reilly and me

On Thursday, 25 January 2007, I shot Bill O'Reilly the following email:

Be honest. Your guest tonight was trying to make a point about Pelosi's "Catholicism" and you wouldn't let her finish. Why not? There are two types of judgment: That of the heart, and that of the action. What's wrong with judging Pelosi's actions? She objectively strays from Catholic teaching, yet she calls herself a Catholic. Your guests are not supposed to call her out on that? Come on, stop pandering. Political correctness is not becoming on you.

I was thinking at the time, I wonder how many emails I'd have to send to O'Reilly before he reads one of mine on the air? The answer is one. He read my note like this:

Bill, Chrisine O'Donnell was trying to make a point about Nancy Pelosi's Catholicism and you wouldn't let her finish."

Bill then said, "Correct, madame. I like Ms. O'Donnell, but when she said Ms. Pelosi doesn't follow any of the christian moral principles, I shut her down. The Deity makes those judgments, not sinners, like we all are."

Later in the letter-reading segment, he read this, written by Suzanne Graham in Chevy Chase, MD:

Nancy Pelosi seems to think she can call herself a Roman Catholic, but follow her own rules. Can't do it.

He responded with: "I understand your opinion, Ms. Graham, and you are entitled to it, but if you take it any further and condemn the woman, you intruding on the Deity's territory."

O'Reilly's an educated guy, but the obvious sure does pass him by.

Hezbollah

"Mom, is Hezbollah where Jesus used to live?"

From the mouths of babes, eh? My four year old asked this astute question today. He has been catching bits and scraps from Fox News, a station to which I am addicted. (Though perhaps I am less astute than the four year old: Today, one of the guests on Fox said that 'All Fox viewers know that Fox is just an Israeli propaganda machine.') I let the kid watch the war coverage, and we talk about it. Maybe this is mistaken; I don't know. What I do know is that the kid understands that it is a serious situation, where finite decisions (like shooting off a rocket) have infinite, eternal consequences (like death).

The kid, four years old, seems to understand more about the war (and who / what Hezbollah is) than most Americans. The way I see it:

~Hezbollah kidnapped Israeli soldiers in early July
~Hezbollah shot the first rocket
~You see people in the streets of Lebanon, Syria, and Iran dancing and celebrating the death of Jews
~You NEVER see people in the streets of Israel celebrating the death of Arabs and Muslims
~Israel has a right to defend itself
~90% of the civilized world doesn't agree with the previous point

Hezbollah shoots rockets from schools and hospitals. Israel targets the launch point of the rockets in its air strikes. That's after they drop pamphlets warning civilians to evacuate. Whose fault is it that civilians die? Come on, people, Hezbollah puts uses people as human shields; the UN observers admit that.

Hezbollah is another terrorist organization attacking Israel. Watch the footage. How would you feel if your hometown was struck by terrorists the way northern Israel is being destroyed? So far, it's not dissimilar to a 22-day 9/11.

Babies in heaven

I am a lousy blogger -- going 2 to 3 months between posts is just unacceptable. I lost my baby at 3 months on June 4th, and have not felt much like writing since.

It seems my miscarriage is not an isolated incident. In fact, I think the last live birth in my little circle is Gretchen, my brother's 2 1/2 year old daughter. In contrast, I can think of no less than 10 miscarriages, including mine, in my circle of family and friends in the last couple of years. I can only hazard to guess the cause of this phenomena; suffice it to say, I do not believe in coincidence. Something strange is going on.

My friend Mamie was telling me yesterday about a recent Time Magazine article about the importance of siblings. Mamie wrestles daily with a whiny 13 month old and it exhausts her. Even in the sleep deprivation, she announced with conviction that Two Children Is Not Enough. It is her mission, says her, to get pregnant, and ASAP. I have the same conviction but some significant road blocks. I am an infertility patient, which is an expensive, depressing, non-fatal condition.

I have a four year old next to me this morning that is asking quite aggressively for my attention. This, therefore, will be a short post, and it end with a plea for prayers from anyone who is so inclined. That live births outscore miscarraiges and stillbirths, that Mamie's 13 month old starts sleeping through the night, for peace for the miscarriage and stillbirth sufferers who will wait a good 50+ years before meeting these sweet, hidden children (especially for Katie, who buried a baby this week that died at 24 week gestation).

I am reminded of the song we used to sing in front of the abortion clinic in Champaign:

"Jesus loves the little children
All the children of the world
Red and yellow, black and white
They are precious in his sight
Jesus loves the little children of the world."

Shot

I am 6 weeks pregnant. Because I am an infertility patient, Dr. Hilgers at the Pope Paul VI Institute prescribes natural progesterone when I am in my first trimester. I can't believe I have 6 weeks of the first trimester to go. Six more weeks of shots. Ugh.

I have a dear friend who was a nurse in a former life. She gave me my first two shots. Today she got home from a retreat 9 hours away. She took her kids to homeschool gym, ran to WalMart, went to get a tooth pulled, and then went to the mobile such-and-such-an-exhibit at some local church. "But hey, swing by later!" Hmmm ... after that kind of schedule? You need rest, friend, not another thing on your agenda! Homeschool ladies are a busy lot.

So I decided to tackle the whole give-yourself-a-shot thing on my own. Natural progesterone is thick and nasty -- like shooting yourself in the arsch with molasses. I had the bruises from last week to estimate the spot to stick myself.

So, where to start: I don't know about you, but I prefer Google when I don't know what I'm doing. Go ahead and do a search on how to give yourself an IM shot in the hip. The results are quite funny. One serious result, though, warned that a nurse should draw a circle around the correct spot, so you don't damage a nerve. The thought of nerve damage raised my blood pressure a bit. But hey, I reassured myself, how hard could this be?

To finish, you've got to start, so I called a friend (to distract myself) and went into the bathroom. I drew out the 2 ml of progesterone with the thicker, 14 gauge needle. I put the 18 gauge needle on. I got out the alcohol and wiped the hip. I placed the needle where I thought I wanted it, thinking vectors (position and direction). Instead of doing the bullet method, which involves a ready-aim-fire fast-stab, I opted for the line-up-and-push. Once the skin is punctured, the 1 1/2 inch needle goes all the way in effortlessly. It's the once the skin is punctured part that's the killer. I exaggerate, but it is a tad unpleasant.

I shot my left hip this time, so it was hard (right handed) to hold the needle steady and push the plunger in smoothly. I was surprised to find after 30 seconds or so that the plunger was empty. I was a little bit proud: I did it with no spouse, while on my cell phone, and it didn't even hurt that badly.

It burns a little bit now. By tonight, I'll have a lump. That's okay. Whatever it takes to keep that little baby in the cooker.

Though I have some experience being a patient (I have had 14 spleens removed over 5 surgeries), I am not overly fond of needles. But I can do anything I put my mind to, even something as unpleasant as a shot in the hind end. So can you. If you got out of your comfort zone today, what could you accomplish?

A less than meritous post

So my MIL came home from the nursing home, and the boyz stopped by to see her & go fishing w/ grandpa. It was a pleasant visit, until she asked me what my dress size is:

MIL (screeching): "What dress size do you wear?"

K: "Ardith, I'm not going to announce my dress size!"

MIL (still screeching): "Well, I need to know, NOW!"

K: "Why do you need to know that?" (kari knows full well why she needs to know)

MIL: "They have these lovely denim jumpers at Christopher & Banks ... not too long either. They're just beautiful."

K (cringing internally): "Sounds nice."

MIL: "If I get you an extra large, will that be big enough?"

K: "Oh, I'm sure that would be perfect."

I'm hoping she includes the gift receipt.

1. I am not into denim too much.
2. I *really* am not into jumpers, period.
3. Christopher and Banks is waaay too wholesome for me. I don't wear teacher clothes.
4. Yeah, I'm an 18 ... and a C&B XL = a size 14.
5. Does she have to screech?

Passion Sunday

Passion Sunday, aka Palm Sunday, is one of the most intense liturgies of the year. Its elements smell of the co-mingling of new and old. The weather is getting warmer; sandals begin to make their appearance in Mass (be that good or bad). The trees begin to bud as we wait this one last week to remember our Saviour dying on a tree. Wilted, drying palms will go home to join the ranks of those from years past, tucked behind picture frames and tacked to window sills.

The priest blesses these palms with water on a day that is both happy and sad. The first reading, a Gospel read before the Entrance Hymn, speaks of Jesus' triumphant entry into Jerusalem. The people who paid homage on that day screamed, "Crucify Him!" just 5 short days later. We read about that in a Gospel that prods us, the congregation, the "chorus" to shout "Crucify Him!" in place of those Jews of old who said it first 2000 years ago.

I was once the confirmation sponsor for a gentlemen whom I found quite fetching. I loved him and his holiness that brimmed in his eyes and danced in his soul. He worked hard for the Lord (and, as far as I know, still does). That first Easter after his entry into the Church, he announced that he refused to say, "Crucify Him," with the rest of us during Palm Sunday and Good Friday, as prompted by the Church herself. I remember being a little bit horrified. Just exactly who did this guy think he was, anyway?

Do you hate to say, "Crucify Him?" If so, you are not alone.

We say it because it was OUR sins that crucified Him. Caiphas and Pilate are just a top-layer of bad guys; the spiritual reality is that Jesus died for our sins. If you don't want to have to say Crucify Him, then think very hard about how your actions say it. Not a day will ever pass for any of us that we don't drive the nails into His hands by our disregard for the poor, by our gangrenous gossip, our lack of love for those entrusted to our attention and care (or, insert your pet sin[s] here). Any moment we don't love fully and completely, we contribute to His suffering all those centuries ago.

The Church's wisdom is reflected in giving us a part in the liturgy by having us recite this macabre chant. "Crucify Him! Crucify Him!" Does it make you uncomfortable? If it does, the words are doing their job. If it doesn't, then maybe, just maybe, you're not doing yours.

A final note: Your sins and mine required the perfect God-man to offer (as priest) Himself (as victim) in a sacrifice so perfect and eternal that all our sins are washed away. He gave Himself to Father God on the cross; He gives His Divine Mercy to us in a special way on Mercy Sunday. Even as we dwell on our sins, let's throw ourselves into the vast, deep ocean of His Perfect Mercy. Mercy Sunday is celebrated every year on the Sunday after Easter. The best way to prepare to receive His great mercy is through the Divine Mercy Novena. It starts on Good Friday and ends on Mercy Sunday. (Bonus: Proper completion grants us a plenary indulgence!)

The Novena is described here: http://www.ewtn.com/devotionals/mercy/novena.htm

The Chaplet of Divine Mercy is here: http://www.ewtn.com/devotionals/mercy/dmmap.htm

More info on the indulgence is here: http://www.ewtn.com/devotionals/mercy/indulgence.htm

Let us praise God for His infinite Mercy!
Praise to you Lord Jesus Christ, King of Endless Glory!

Grammar: I am good, thank you

Jamie confirmed what I have long suspected: When someone asks you how you are, the correct answer is

I am good

-NOT-

I am well.

Why? Linking verbs call for adjectives.

Pretty simple, eh? Yeah, right: Google it and see how this debate rages on among grammarians and wanna-bes who cannot make up their mind on this one.

Fascinating.

'My Bio' - A twist on the boring ole paragraph

I have the honor of being the sysadmin and tech teacher at St. Mary's Parish School in Westville, IL: www.smswestvile.k12.il.us. As part of an assignment (namely, "Write something about yourself for the website"), I recently posted this. It is quite a bit different from the other teachers' entries, and THAT was my goal. (Notice that I didn't mention how long I have taught or how many dogs I own.)

Mrs. Matthews's Bio

Mrs. Matthews may seem a little weird, but she's really just a geek. Note that geeks are altogether different from nerds. Her students may venture to disagree about Mrs. Matthews summarily excluding herself from the Nerd Arena, but they would be incorrect. Geeks love computer technology and other electronics. Nerds lack social graces. Geeks and nerds are not mutually exclusive, and if you ask Mrs. Matthews, she'll draw you a Venn Diagram.

A long time ago, far far away (is Chicagoland far away?), Mrs. Matthews cut her teeth on some piece of junk Texas Instruments computer that ended up going back to the store on December 29th because it didn't work very well. The technology lying around continued to improve, and Mrs. Matthews used what was available. This included Apple IIes at St. Pet's (do you know what saint that is short for?) and the dual-floppy machines at Mrs. Matthews's beloved castle-on-the-hill high school. Mrs. Matthews was not into computers growing up, but she does indeed have fond memories of her Commodore 64, which was only a tiny bit less beloved than the above mentioned high school.

Believe it or not, back in the day before Mrs. Matthews was Mrs. Matthews (fka Miss Farrell), she was was about a 13% on the Geek-o-meter. Mrs. Matthews was not interested in touching the inside of a computer; she kept her tech-related interests to IRC chat rooms and NXT machines in the basement of the English building at U of I. (Truth be told, back in the "Miss Farrell" days, Mrs. Matthews was a little trepidacious about technology. Can you relate?)

It was not until later that Mrs. Matthews discovered a strange knack for technology. It all happened very quicky: Mrs. Matthews had a dear friend (whose name-saint was beheaded - guess the saint) who put in a good word for her at a Fortune 500 company in the engineering department. Miss Farrell got the job (where, incidentally, everyone in that corporation called each other by their first names), and quickly learned her way around large agricultural machinery. At that company, Mrs. Matthews trained farmers on to use agricultural software, the Internet, and computers in general. She designed databases, did tech support, wrote specs for software engineers, reviewed a lot of boring contracts, and ran a GIS mapping computer lab.

Then Mrs. Matthews, who then, be reminded, was still Miss Farrell, got bored and decided it was time to go back to The Cornfield to get a Masters degree in Math, Science and Technology Education. Instead, she got a few masters credits and a husband, last name Matthews, also a geek. Mr. Matthews is a computer genius who has taught Mrs. Matthews at least 30% of what she knows today. Together, Mr. and Mrs. Matthews manage several computer systems (and a farm) in central Illinois.

Mr. and Mrs. Matthews have two geeks-in-training, Sam and Mac. They enjoy dinosaur computer games. Mrs. Matthews is happy to report that she can still run faster than both of them, but that will change very soon.

On a serious note, Mrs. Matthews is certified to teach Math, Chemistry, and Physical Science. She has taught Mathematics courses for Danville Area Community College for the last 5 years and loves Blaise Pascal. Teaching religion has been Mrs. Matthews's favourite position, and she hopes her former religion students will continue to pursue their faith with intense joy and fervor.

Mrs. Matthews is a firm believer that we all have the same job on this earth: To pursue TRUTH. Whether it's truth in theology, history, grammar, mathematics, or computers, we learn more about God as we open ourselves to the order and intricacies of His Creation. That's why school is important!

(PS When Mr. Matthews read this, he scoffed and said, "Yeah, more like 130%!")

Mrs. Matthews can be reached at kari@smswestville.k12.il.us.

Get It In Writing

Has it really been two months since I spilled the beans about the truth behind the Ave Maria Incident? Sheesh.

But I digress. Today, I'd like to talk about cabinets and customer service.

My husband and I dismantled our kitchen before harvest. We started demolition on August 15th. Today is December 15th. Four months. FOUR MONTHS. Guess what? I'm still washing dishes in the bathroom.

The limiting factor: No kitchen cabinets. And not for lack of trying. We ordered them. (From Creative Cabinets on North Vermilion in Danville, Illinois. BUYER BEWARE.) The cabinets came. The cabinets came out of the boxes. The cabinets went right back into their boxes.

How do I hate these cabinets? Let me count the ways. Ugly. Cheap. Thin. Trashy. These cabinets are not worthy of being installed in a trailer.

So now I have to sue Mr. Chris White at Creative Cabinets to get my down payment. Isn't that great? In the meantime, I guess I am going to keep doing dishes in the bathroom. Isn't that appetizing?

Lesson learned: Get it in writing. Make them write down that the cabinets are pretty, well made, wood, thick, substantive. Make them write down that wood means wood. Take nothing for granted; I discovered that wood does indeed not mean wood.

I'm having a Clinton flashback. What does "is" mean?

Wounded soldier

In honour of our friend Jamie:

Wounded Soldier

(by Danny Daniels)

I am a wounded soldier
But I will not leave the fight
Because the Great Physician
Is healing me
So I’m standing in the battle
In the armour of His light
Because His mighty power
Is real in me

I am loved (I am loved)
I am accepted (I am accepted)
By the Saviour of my soul (Saviour of my soul)
I am loved (I am loved)
I am accepted (I am accepted)
And my wounds will be made whole

When to Quit

The staff at my school recently filled out a survey about our lives: Favourite sandwich, patron saint, why we work with kids. The worst question asked was what our most embarrassing experience was. Most teachers' descriptions were pretty minor league: Forgetting a drivers license, losing the car in the Walmart parking lot, tripping and falling.

My answer was perhaps a bit more major. To this day, it embarrasses me. I sang Schubert's Ave Maria in a wedding. Solo.

The scenario: Summer, 1996. My friend Diane asked me to solo the Ave Maria as she would walk down the aisle. I reminded Diane that I don't really have a solo-type of voice. She assured me that it was fine; she said she would rather have someone sing it who understood its significance. I agreed to sing it and quickly found a voice coach.

I went twice a week to voice lessons. I practiced religiously (excuse the pun) -- not just the song, but the breathing exercises and all the other peripheral stuff that was supposed to help me improve. My teacher was incredibly positive who gave me liberal doses of encouragement and feedback. A month before the wedding, I asked my brother and his wife to come to my lesons with me. My sister in law is blessed with musical ability that doesn't seem to exist in my family. She listened to me politely and then made polite comments that let me know that I had a long way to go. I remember thinking, okay, I have a month to conquer my poor performance. I can do anything I put my mind to. I'm a Farrell. And I am not a quitter.

Cecilia, my best girlfriend of many moons, suggested that I perform it in a more quiet, whispy, meditative voice. At that time, I was offended -- I knew that such tactics were inconsistent with proper voice performance. In retrospect, she was trying to tell me kindly not to attempt "proper voice performance." That was wise advice and I was a fool for not taking it.

On the actual day of the wedding, I went an hour early to rehearse. After I ran through the song, Greg Walton (a professional musician and my accompanist that day -- see www.gregwalton.com) told me that if I wanted, he would sing it. "I make old ladies cry," he advised. Again, a kind way of saying, "Oh my goodness, just let me do this and save all these people from listening to you!" I should have acquiesced; I just didn't get his message loud and clear.

We have all been to weddings where the soloist, an amateur with a "good" voice, sings horribly. It is uncomfortable to sit through. Worse (for the singer), it becomes a sort of conversation piece at the reception. No one wants to be that singer. Reality cannot be disputed: Choir voices do not have the rich, operatic qualities necessary for solo performances. I do not have the control nor the confidence to sing on my own, especially to 300+ people. I was the conversation piece that day, and when I was done singing, I knew it.

The Ave Maria opened Mass that day, so I had to endure then entire ceremony after I finished the song. I stepped back from the microphone, unsure of how I had done. I could tell right away, though: There were no positive glances or smiles. I knew I had bombed when not one person in that choir made a gesture to let me know I had done a good job. I was humiliated. When Mass was over, I ran for my car and drove home in tears. Feeling that I had ruined the wedding ceremony, I laid in my bed and cried for the rest of the day.

I asked Diane later what she thought. She told me she was so focused on getting down the aisle, she never heard me. Kind, but probably somewhat untrue. She didn't know how to tell me I had wasted all that voice lesson money -- and failed her.

Recently I brought it up with a friend who was in attendance. He looked at me sideways and admitted quietly, "Yeah, that was not great." Not great. As is my M.O., I immediately defended myself: I am not a professional! I was nervous! I was scared! He replied with something about how he was sure that my vocal chords were tight from my being so tense. Yeah, that's it -- I was a bomb because I was tense, not because I am devoid of talent.

Even though 9 years have passed, it still stung to be told that I was "not great." In the past several weeks, my thoughts returned often to the humiliation I felt then, and it is just as fresh today.

Perhaps it is timely, then, that my family watched Greg Walton this week on EWTN's "Backstage." I watched him sing and remembered him telling me that his rendition of the Ave Maria makes the old ladies cry. He is so talented -- it must have pained him to accompany me on piano that day. I sat on my couch with my husband, watching him on TV, wondering if he thought less of me 9 years ago for attempting something I had no business trying.

I insisted on performing per Diane's request because I was raised to not be a quitter. I wanted desperately to take Greg up on his offer of singing for me, but I chose not to because I didn't want to give anyone the impression that I let stage fright get the best of me.

I'm not a quitter. I'm not a quitter. I'm not a quitter!

If there is a moral of the story, it is that sometimes, it is okay to quit. You just have to know when it is prudent to stick with it and when it is indeed better to give up. I made a mistake 9 years ago by not letting it go. I should have told Diane upfront that perhaps I could lead a rosary before Mass instead of singing. I should have let Greg sing. I should have not put such emphasis on perseverance. If I had quit, who would have cared? It would have saved me from being known to 300 people as The Girl Who Cannot Sing.

P.S. Sorry, Diane!

Corn Plastic

As the wife of a corn producer (read: farmer), I am intrigued by new uses for corn. Most corn is used for feeding livestock, and this has historically been the case since field corn came on the scene decades ago. Bruce also raises white corn, which gets distributed by our buyer to Mexican bakeries. They soak it, grind it, and make tortillas out of it. Our arrangement is unusual, as direct human consumption of field corn is not the norm.

(A small note here: What we raise is called "dent" corn because it has a big, husky kernel with a dent in the top. This is altogether different from sweet corn or popping corn. They are part of smaller specialty markets.)

Now you may have noticed ethanol trying to make its way into your gas tank. I cannot comment intelligently about ethanol as a viable product, as I do not know how much energy is required to extract the ethanol from the corn. I would imagine it's net zero, plus some job creation, maybe. A great many farmers, however, rally behind ethanol production; it purports to give them job security.

Now on the scene we have corn plastics. Some are biodegradable and disposable (like the clear drinking cups you use at the church picnic); others are more permanent. A sample of the permaent stuff:

http://www.designs2doodads.com/images/Promo_Items/SalePages/QuickPoint/Corn_Mugs.html

I am not sure how corn plastics will affect crop production and the business of agriculture; however, I am excited about plastics that have no memory of ever being crude oil. It may not be a solar-powered automobile, but it's a small step in the right direction.

My brain

I cannot help but wonder, when (oh when) will I be smart again?

I am not sure when it started, but I have become a ditz. I believe it might be tied to childbirth, but I can't be certain. I cannot remember words that would fit perfectly into my sentence, nor can I remember names and phone numbers. This is getting serious -- my encyclopedic knowledge of phone numbers used to be my signature skill. Used to.

Recently, Bruce and I spent the day with "Craig," a friend who offered to help on the farm. At the end, I cheerfully bid him adieu: "Bye, Chris!" Where did that come from? How embarrassing.

They say that for two years after you have a baby, your brain does some kind or another of adjustment, all chemical and organic, allegedly, that makes mom flakey. Can I blame it on this? My 2nd son is 31 months old!

I really think the problem is not being in school. I know my brain is not made of muscle, but fat (and it keeps good company), but I must wonder whether flexing my brainpower daily in college kept me in better shape. Experientially, this seems possible -- I *feel* intellectually flabby.

So this leads to my next thought: When and how does a person like me get brain-stimulation? Most of my conversations with friends center on laundry soap and diapers. Heck, I call girlfriends in a flurry when I find a cleaning product I like. This is not doing much for stretching the brain cells. Worse, my husband is not a talker. Help!

Reflecting on my experience, I can see now in my 30's how old people become obsessed with retelling stories and describing illnesses and pains in detail. I'm just hoping I can reverse the pattern. Politics, religion, philosophy, literature ... anything, anything! Someone, talk to me! Quick, before my brain rots beyond repair. I just hope it isn't too late.

Orcs

I am not a fantasy person, so I've never bothered with the JRR Tolkien trilogy, The Lord of the Rings -- until recently. Last year my remote control happened upon one of the movies accidentally, and I was hooked in 20 seconds. The hook probably had more to do with the New Zealand backdrop (breathtaking!) than the story line, but I got into that, too. Me, the person who never buys a movie. Who rarely goes to the theatre. Who depends on younger, hipper students to round out my pop culture education. Net Flix? What's that? Contrary to my nature, I ran out and purchased all 3 movies. I even got the more expensive versions with the outtakes (or is it outakes?) and notes on the films' production.

I have had the books on my bookshelves for years. Being a Catholic, I always intended to read them for the purposes of being able to discuss Tolkien's analogies and worldview with some level of intelligence. I just never got around to it. I'm not a fantasy person. (I'm not a fantasy person!!) I decided this summer to treat myself to the written word on which these excellent movies were based. Although it is my understanding that Tolkien was not hot on allegory, his paradigm is incredible.

Example: Orcs. Isn't it cool how none of the Fellowship seems scared of the orcs? (Save, perhaps, Merry and Pippin.) I don't know about you, but *I* was scared of them. I thought they were monsterous, the stuff of childhood nightmares. By analog, we have demons. Perhaps we can think of some of the characteristics of demons as being parallel to those of orcs: Fierce, loyal to the Evil One, ugly, twisted, asymmetrical. Not too bright. On a mission. Stronger in numbers. They wanted to reign, to escort in the Age of the Orcs. (That last one is key.)

Yet, the Fellowship ran at them with swords and arrows, fearless, delighted to slay them. Legolas and Gimli, you might recall, had a contest at each battle wherein they kept a tally of those they had downed. They were not scared, I suppose, because an orc could rupture their bodies, but never their spirits. An orc could rob Aragon or Legolas or Gimli of life (as they did Boromir), but they could never rob them of their heart and intent.

The Fellowship had one intention in their tangles with the Orcs: They desired to lessen the evil in the world, not to kill out of vengeance or anger or spite. No life issues here -- Tolkien obviously didn't want us to concern ourselves with the conversion of orcs. They had made their choice, chosen their alliance. No going back. No switching sides. You're either a shirt or a skin. Orcs. Demons. Hmmm.

What can we learn from all this? Don't be scared of orcs? Something like that. I admit I remain scared of demons for the same reason I was scared of orcs: They are loyal to Evil, they have strength in numbers, and they have set themselves upon the Age of the Orcs. Also, the evil that had the Orcs' hearts by the tail was the same evil that captured Frodo at the last minute. Don't think, Kari, that because you're on a strong course now, you won't screw up at the end. The battle is won, yes, but we still mustn't mess with demons. Slay them? Well, I am not lionhearted like Aragon, but there is a way to slay.

Next step: Remember Tolkien was a Catholic. Me, too. So what do we Catholics have going for ourselves? Simple: The tools of the faith that bring down the biggest trolls and the strongest olephantes. Mass, the Eucharist, the Rosary. The Rosary. St. Padre Pio's weapon of choice. A sword and a refuge. With such weapons, the battle is sweet and the joy is everlasting. Just like for Aragon, Legolas, and Gimli. Good stuff, Mr. Tolkien.

First things first

When I sit at my desk, I am surrounded by clutter. It's not junk -- far from it. (Unless you think the electric bill is junk.) Bills, papers to be filed, tax forms, slips of paper with phone numbers scribbled on them ... we've got it all here, and in abundance.

So I sit down. Where to start? Well, I should work on that stupic masters degree I never bothered to finish. But I have to pay bills. And that would mean collecting them. Ugh. How about writing some Linux articles? Hmmm ... a strong candidate. Time to play my iTunes. What's that on FoxNews? Ope, the phone is ringing -- hold on, Mr. Computer. I have to do billing. Can I do that while I'm on the phone? Nope, the cord doesn't reach. Chat a minute, claim to have to get back to work, hang up. How nice of her to call. Dang, I need a refill on my coffee. You wanted me to find the survey of our property and make copies? The copier is out of toner, isn't it? No, I replaced the toner; there's something else wrong with it. Too late to call the repair man. I'll put that on my list of things to do for tomorrow. Ok, where was I? No, I don't know whether that fax went through. Hey, I've got mail! What about that other email accounts? Check them quick, too. It'll only take a sec. Please turn off the TV -- Bill O'Reilly is distracting me. Time to change songs on the iTunes -- I don't like this one. Why is it on my iPod? I'm sorry, what? No, I didn't go to the cleaners today. Can it wait til Friday? I promised him I'd print out that article, but now I can't find the link. Wait, how big was that check you wrote today? Well I didn't know it was going to cost *that* much. I have to grade those papers. No! Don't touch that pile! If you move it, I'll never find my stuff!

And that, my friends, is why I don't get anything done.

Always right

I am somewhat fascinated that no one is ever wrong. At least to them. Anyone who dares criticize or disagrees? Also wrong! Amazing!

An example:

Today at school, a teacher insisted that her students (intermediate grade level) did not under any circumstances need to know about ancient Rome or Mesopotamia. She felt like Abraham Lincoln was plenty. Why bog down curriculum with classical topics? The school, in her opinion (opinion? it's not fact?), needed to shake loose of the classical curriculum. I am sure she confided in me because she was pretty sure I would agree. (Nope. I *want* my kids to learn about ancient Rome.) Although I didn't speak up, it disturbed me a bit. What would be wrong with a grade schooler learning about the establishment of civilization?

Another school-related example: Last year, some parents got upset about a "joke" in the yearbook. The two ladies who put the yearbook together did a lovely job, but they let that joke stay in. In fact, they approved on the grounds that it was funny. The parents put the principal in the middle. These teachers were fuming. How dare anyone question their judgment?

Question their judgment ... familiar theme ...

New example, same idea: Yesterday, I got into a little bit of a (how do I put this politely?) disagreement with my foster son's case worker tonight. I do not see her point of view; she definitely does not see mine. The topic is irrelevant. Suffice it to say, she is right. I am right. Wait a second ... we can't disagree and both be right!

I read recently on some education site somewhere that we study math and science topics that we will never use because it is part of the human quest for truth. (I read education sites because I have an EdM in progress that I am 95% done with but will probably never finish due to inertia. I am interested in education but hope to never end up in a classroom again. Long story.)

That word -- TRUTH -- ate at me, slowly but surely. What is truth? Do I always know the truth? (Obviously not!) Do I always want the truth? (Honestly, um, *cough*, no, I don't.) Then why on earth do I act like I'm always right?

Perhaps this is cultural. We all think we're right -- all the time. We can never stop to see another person's ideas as valid. And saying, "You're right," or "I'm sorry" is seemingly impossible. But did you ever notice that when that rare gem of a soul admits his faults, agrees with others, and occasionally changes his mind, he seems charming and humble? We like it when others can admit fault, a flaw in logic, or a malformed philosophy. They seem intellectually honest -- like they really do take the scientific method seriously enough to allow their conclusions to change when the data is challenged.

I refer here not to yes-men who go along with whatever to please or avoid an argument. I am describing the truly intelligent, honest, and humble among us who can say, "I never thought of it that way," or, "You really have a point there."

If we love to hear such from others, why don't we ever employ such comments ourselves? Perhaps we never have the opportunity, since we're so consistently correct. It's hard to admit you're wrong when you're never wrong.

Which is my point.

If you are reading this and finding yourself recalling multiple times that you have put yourself in someone else's place, seen it from another point of view, considered the adversary's perspective, or just plain said you're sorry, then please let me know -- I want to be your friend. Your humility is a gift, and I would love to learn from it, as I find identifying my own errors much more challenging than identifying those of others.

I come by it honestly; being right is the American way.

My new diet

I have tried them all: Weight Watchers, Covert Bailey, Bob Greene, Body for Life, and my personal favourite, Atkins.

[Allow me to digress momentarily about Atkins. I *love* this diet. When I am calorie-conscious and keep to to less than 1500 kCal, I lose weight like crazy, all the while enjoying eggs, cream in my coffee, etc. This carnivore doesn't care about not having dessert!]

One thing about almost every diet I've ever been on is that it seems contrary to God's plan. Two eggs a week, no red meat, drink this shake . . . Is this really what God wants our diet to look like? As much as I love the Atkins diet, I find it hard to believe I'm meant to forego fruit but Splenda and sugar alcohol is okay. Come on!

So this week, I'm starting something new in my house: The God's Plan Diet. We'll be eating fruit, veggies (cooked and raw), cheese, all the eggs we want, lots of nuts, honey, red meat, fish, and chicken. We'll be steering clear of white flour, refined sugar, and processed foods like velveeta. We'll be utilizing the crock pot, getting back to basics, baking bread again, and enjoying more natural cuisine.

I need to lose some weight. (Some is my code word for a lot.) So, while my kids are drinking whole milk and wolfing down peanuts, I'll be keeping track of portion sizes, calorie counts (sort of), and training myself to be satisfied with enough.

This whole plan, of course, means the Great Divorce from diet coke. I've heard rumours of people not surviving such traumas; I can only hope my beefy constitution can live through the transition.

Who is the patron saint of giving up soda?

Mambo

I have been playing with a content managment system called Mambo. It is quite excellent. My "playground" sites are:

www.mindtoolstech.com
www.karimatthews.com
www.smswestville.k12.il.us/sms/

Mambo allows us to separate content from design. I can change the look of a website in a flash without changing a word or worrying about copying and pasting text from file to file. I love it!

For more information on Mambo Open Source, check out:

www.mambosolutions.com
www.mambohut.com
www.mamboserver.com
www.mamboportal.com

If you are into web design or development, give it a try. I hope you enjoy it as much as I do!

"Visits"

My 2 1/2 year old foster son has gone for "visits" with his birth-mom the last two days. He always comes home sugared up, trinkets in hand. Yesterday, f.s. came home with a balloon. Upon seeing such a treasure, my birth son, 18 days f.s.'s senior, said that next time, HE'LL be going on a visit. Hmm, smart kid.

Yesterday, he came home with a dirty diaper. Today, his diaper was so soaking wet, he wet through his shorts. He was changed just an hour earlier, right before he walked out the door to go to the visit. What are they giving him to drink? One has to wonder -- that's a lot of fluid. Are these DCFS workers sure that the birth mom is the only one who needs supervision here?

It stands to reason. I talked to the new case worker yesterday. This is the third case worker I've dealt with in the last six months. I told her that I wished the birth mom would relinquish her rights, so he can live in a friendly, warm, stable, 2 parent home with siblings and love and opportunity. The case worker admonished me: We cannot compare the situations!

Well, why not? I stomp my foot in disgust. I am so sick of the injustice of it all. He spent the first two years of life neglected in two different foster homes. He came to me at 23 months with practically no vocabulary, totally unresponsive, eating crayons, scared of swings and slides. What did those other people do, leave him in a crib all day with a bottle of milk? That's the way he acts. Case workers don't seem to care about such "little" trespasses against a totally innocent child. He's one of the *lucky* ones, they say. He'll turn out all right. He wasn't beaten; he's not having cigarettes put out on his arms. So we'll not worry.

No! No! No! It IS something to worry about. It's heartbreaking and sad and miserable and pathetic. I want to adopt him and then promptly divorce DCFS.

Funny, I wrote something similar on this topic yesterday, but it never did post. I lost the whole thing. Maybe that was God's way of telling me not to badmouth DCFS and Catholic Charities. Keep it under wraps. Keep it private. Shhh. Don't tell anyone the foster system is a damn disaster. Don't tell anyone that kids would be better off in orphanages. It's a secret.

Yeah, right.

In the meantime, I have to remember the veracity of that song: God is in control. All I can do while I wait for his mom to either get better or have her rights terminated is pray, pray, pray. Pray, yes, and do my best to prepare him for the day he leaves me, be that sooner or later. Oh dear God, let is be later -- much later.

Soundtrack

For me, music is not just a puzzle piece -- it's the mat and the glue that keep the puzzle stable and hold it together. I am one of those people that has minimal musical talent but always has music playing in my head. When I hear songs that were popular or well-liked, it takes me back to that era. Of course, I only remember the good parts of the past and black out the less-than-savory details. Don't we all?

This is more than just a list of favourite songs -- there is a story and significance behind each entry on my list. It would take an eternity to write that out, and it wouldn't be that interesting to anyone else. Do you remember any of these?

Moon River - from Breakfast at Tiffany's
On the Willows - Godspell
Out of My Head - Fastball
Love Song - Tesla
Thunderoad - Bruce Springsteen (though the spelling of the song title has always bugged me)
Blue - The Jayhawks
Sir Duke - Stevie Wonder
Summer Highland Falls - Billy Joel
Ave Maria - Schubert
Fuggi, Fuggi, Fuggi - New World Renaissance
Higher Ground, as performed by the Blind Boys of Alabama
Nothing Else Matters - Metallica
Khe Sanh - Cold Chisel
I Wish You Were There - REO Speedwagon
Let the River Run - Carly Simon
Every Morning - Sugar Ray

It was fun (mostly) to think about where and what I was doing when these songs permeated my movements and being. Some, not so fun: Every Morning by Sugar Ray was the last song I heard on the radio before Bruce told me my dad was dead. Every time I hear it, I'm right back there in my red VW, singing along, looking forward to a trip back to the hospital to see him again, hold his hand, read him the paper. He was gone, suddenly, too soon. And lucky me, Sugar Ray marks the sad, sacred moment. Isn't it ironic?

I will add eventually to this anemic, incomplete list. Comment or mail me and tell me about your soundtrack: karisue@gmail.com

How I quit smoking

Though I don't often apply my willpower, I am pretty good at setting goals and accomplishing them. When I put my mind to it, I'm good at things like losing weight, cleaning the whole house at one time, that kind of thing.

This is what I do: Choose the right thing now, giving myself permission to choose wrong later. Example: Instead of saying, I'll start dieting on Monday, better have that last donut today, I instead ditch the donut today, reminding myself that donuts exist everyday, and I can have one on Monday if I so choose. Works like a charm.

So when it was time to quit smoking, I tossed my pack and thought, I'll just not smoke today. If I want one tomorrow, I can have one. Then, the next day, I would work on just getting through the day, knowing that I can always go buy more when I am tired of being a non-smoker. Before long, months had passed without so much as one drag.

Have I been perfect? Goodness no. I have probably bummed a total of 10 cigs since I quit being a regular smoker. Every time I have one, I can't believe how gross it is. I have discovered that I can't recapture who I was at 25 (thinner, single, more fun, carefree, reckless even?) by acting like I did when I was 25. At the time, I felt like Audrey Hepburn, but no longer. I don't count these smoking excursions as "cheating" because I never vowed to myself to quit for good -- I just quit for the day and see how long I can keep the streak up.

They say it take 21 days to make a habit. (Who figures that stuff out?) You can get through that 21 days pretty easily if you take it one day a time -- five minutes at a time, if need be. Good luck fortifying your new good habits!

In the world, not of it

St. Paul made tents. I fix computers. And write stuff. And raise children. And keep a house clean (sort of). St. Paul wrote, too. And dealt with myriad communities that probably acted not unlike children. Wasn't he notorious for cleaning house, so to speak? Hmm, we have a lot in common.

Except for one substantive thing: St. Paul, at least in my imaginings, exuded holiness. He might have been rough around the edges, but his personality must have had liberal doses of piety in the mix.

Not me. I would love to be gentle, glowing, walking on a cloud, shifting through life on an angel wing and a prayer, smiling peacefully all the while. Unfortunately, reality and personality seem to have limited my success at this.

Perhaps, though, one of my problems is preoccupation. Was St. Paul preoccupied with the art of tentmaking? Did he subscribe to all the tentmaking magazines and go to canvas-sewing seminars? Somehow I doubt it.

Again, St. Paul and I diverge. I spend countless hours focused on the art of copywriting (I think that's what I want to be when I grow up: a freelance writer), studying commodities trading for the farm (December '05 corn closed at 2.38 today - a lousy price), and researching the latest computer issues. Why spend all that time focused on something other than being a christian, a wife, a mother, and homemaker?

The shallow answer is that I want -desperately- to ensure comfort in the future, for my children and myself alike. And by future, I mean I want to be able to pay my electric bill next month, buy Christmas presents next year, subsidize a college education for 3 boys who will be there before I know it, and pay my property taxes when I'm 80 without having to having to be a Walmart greeter.

Pressure to achieve success is overwhelming. I want to be successful. This in itself does not present problems on its own -- it's the definition of success that throws the rod. We are expected to provide for our children -- and I want to do that. But where do we stop? Could I comfortably run a household on $20K a year? $50K? $100K? And what does comfortable mean, anyway?

When St. Paul made his tents, I'd imagine his goals were simple: To pay his own way, keep food on the proverbial table, maintain a good reputation, remain self-sufficient, and evangelize to "clients." I doubt St. Paul would approve of Ebay searches for "Prada" -- his money was assuredly spent on the necessities and the surplus donated.

For those of us who want to strive for holiness, but have our intentions divided among familial, professional, civic, and Godly concerns, how do we set limits on ourselves, so that our efforts, spending, and preoccupation with financial comfort don't bleed over the edge? Will silk curtains and a new tile kitchen floor hinder my spiritual life? Should I keep the floor and window treatments I have and donate the excess money to the poor?

I don't know, and I'm not sure that I'll draw any solid conclusions soon, short of divine intervention during the discernement process. I just hope I don't trick myself into self-soothing justification for irresponsible spending. St. Paul, tentmaker and man in the world but not of it, pray for us, that we may find the line God has drawn in the sand.

How computer literate are you?

Vote at:

www.mindtoolstech.com

Golem

In Jewish lore hides a fascinating story of the golem, a monster of sorts that rabbis can raise up from the dust to protect the Jews. (It makes for a lovely childrens' book, entitled GOLEM, but David Wisniewski -- it is a Caldecott winner.)

Today on FoxNews are several sad reports of Jews in Gaza who feel betrayed by the Israeli government as they are forced to withdraw. This, after so many years of violence and bloodshed.

I wonder what would happen if the Jews could call up a Golem today. How would a modern Golem change the face of a turbulent, dark stage that shadows us all?