Epiphanies and Uncertainties

Phoenix is always a strange place to be around this time of year. Some trees are dropping their leaves. Perhaps it finally grew cold enough at the end of December to inspire them to shed the glory of last year. Still, with this weather it is nearly always a good day in winter to go to the park. Why, I just recently enjoyed a hot afternoon hike with my children beneath the January sun!

Did you know the Christmas season ended for us Catholics yesterday with the The Baptism of Our Lord? I was going to get a few more carols strummed on my guitar last evening and ended up looking at photo albums instead. The pictures of our little children playing in this house and yard that we no longer own made me wistful. Our family is experiencing a time of transition and uncertainty.

I have so many emotions lately! That is always true with me, I'm afraid, though I am trying harder not to be led by my feelings and not to let them spill forth from my mouth - that is my perpetual resolution for self-improvement, and I don't need a fresh year to remind me of it.

Aside from emotions I had many small revelations and minor disappointments this past Christmas season. This last Sunday was the feast of the Epiphany commemorating the visit of the Three Wise Men and the revelation of the Messiah to the Gentiles. Epiphany is a great feast and an important one to me. I love the story of the wise men. I am grateful to be a Gentile who has seen the light. But this last feast day found me not altogether happy with every change that has occurred in our family life these past months nor entirely without fear when I try to plan for our future. Where will our own star lead us?

On a more frivolous note, because I am currently employed in retail and often work weekends, I was unable to have friends over or prepare all the usual yeast breads, cakes, and gingerbread camel cookies that I typically do, and I may have even cried about it - mostly because I just really wanted some homemade bread to stuff in my face while spending time with people I love!

On the way home from work that evening I found Rosca de Reyes at Walmart to serve my family for the special occasion, and I played We Three Kings and O Holy Night on my guitar at the dinner table. It was still a celebration, just not the one I hoped to have. Yet, my oldest son Berto made sugar camel cookies all by himself for the family, for me. He also, with Papa's help, made the cookies for Santa this year, and can you imagine how proud these efforts made me? They were very good cookies, too.

Beyond the revelation that my son may enjoy baking like me, I had other important epiphanies this past December.

While preparing one morning to read at church for the fourth Sunday of Advent, I read the Gospel passage where Gabriel visits Zechariah and greets him thus:

Do not be afraid, Zechariah, for your prayer has been heard. Your wife Elizabeth will bear you a son, and you shall name him John. And you will have joy and gladness, and many will rejoice at his birth, for he will be great in the sight of the Lord.

Zechariah later responds:

How shall I know this? For I am an old man, and my wife is advanced in years.

Then Gabriel replies:

I am Gabriel, who stand before God. I was sent to speak to you and to announce this good news. But now you will be speechless and unable to talk until the day these things take place, because you did not believe my words, which will be fulfilled at their proper time.

Never before had I been so fascinated with this passage! Often have I overlooked it in favor of that greater announcement that Gabriel makes to a young woman named Mary, but several things struck me quite powerfully this time. Why, oh why, did Zechariah question the answer to his prayer, no doubt a prayer that he made fervently and doggedly for years in hope of God's reply? Could it be that by the time Gabriel visited Zechariah, Zechariah had long since given up on this prayer, on uttering his pleas, and resigned himself to God's silence or a definitive "no" from the Most High? Why else argue with an angel, God's messenger? For Gabriel specifically said, "your prayer has been heard"?

I don't know the answer, but I find the whole thing very, very interesting, and as someone who has sometimes felt like God's 11th hour baby - haven't we all? - when it comes to prayer life, it bolsters my faith - and also encourages me not to argue with God's messengers when they come at their proper time.

The other small revelation I had came from a conversation I had with my friend Dana. We were speaking about the suffering we see in the world, and she brought up that old saying, "God doesn't give you more than you can handle". Dana added something like this: "But he gives you right up to that limit." 

I told her I felt the saying was trite and added, " Sometimes I see people, and I think they have more than they can handle."

Later in the car - again on the way to or from work - I was thinking about my own response and feeling a little appalled by my own cynicism. My speech was not hopeful or encouraging, probably because my family was having a rough few days - mostly my fault, I must say. In the car it occurred to me that, yes, perhaps that old saying did need a bit of editing but it was not to be discarded like stale dessert, for if one just adds a few more words, I think it makes sense to me:

God doesn't give you more than you can handle [with His grace].

Three times I begged the Lord about this, that it might leave me, but he said to me, "My grace is sufficient for you, for power is made perfect in weakness." I will rather boast most gladly of my weaknesses, in order that the power of Christ may dwell with me.  2 Corinthians 12:8-9

Comfort and Joy

This is the time of year when individuals in the arts and crafts community step forward with alacrity to sell their wares to those who are seeking unique gifts for dear ones and wanting to support something bigger than big business.

Today I took my daughters to the annual craft fair at our church, one we patronize every November, but before we entered the community hall with its Christmas carols and abundant tables laden with diverse offerings from knitters, wood workers, potters, tailors, and bakers, there was something I had to do.

I got in line for confession.

It went better than I had hoped. Afterwards I felt as if I received maybe too much mercy.

But Jesus met me in the confessional. What else did I expect?

Truly, my step was lighter when we walked across the courtyard to meet friends at the craft fair. Shortly after we entered that cheerful, open space with so much red and green, so many sparkles and lights, we were given free sugar cookies. I then chatted with my friend Kathy whom I had not see in far too long while my girls walked around with her daughter Ariel.

One of our priests works in wood, making bowls, crosses, lazy susans, and pens. I bought a multi-hued bowl to complement the one we got from him a year or two ago. And from an older gentleman who has been a fixture at the craft fair for years (supplying simple but sleek wooden toys that have a distinct Santa quality to them), I finally purchased a toy that my kids have long been fascinated with playing.

Arriving home, I had to kiss my husband goodbye. We've gone in different directions all day, but he needed to take my son to a late soccer game on the far side of town. My oldest daughter decided to go with and grab the now rare opportunity to watch her big brother play.

Almost as soon as they left, I made a big batch of brownies that I have been contemplating for weeks, inspired by all the seasonal goodies at church, Meanwhile Danny and Ella, my youngest two, had a grand time playing with the new toy from the fair that involved a sturdy wood frame, plastic spoon, tiny ball, net and some careful aim. Later, they watched Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer; it was just that kind of cozy, looking-forward-to-Christmas day.

Because of my wonderful mood, of such a kind that I have not enjoyed in some time, I made popcorn for my little ones without hesitation when they asked. My absolute childhood favorite, Frosty the Snowman, was then on pause.

Really, the day couldn't have gotten much better.

But it did.

I asked my kids if they wanted me to play "Jolly Old St. Nicholas" on the guitar for them, and they responded with enthusiasm. To my surprise, my instrument was actually in tune. I warmed up with "Angels We Have Heard on High", and then I played some of their favorites and my own personal favorite that my dad played often, "Joy to the World". Because they asked sweetly, I even let them strum my lovely guitar.

But first I admired its shiny, wine-colored surface, pretty details, and, yes, even the smell of its strings. I remembered the day my husband surprised me with the beautiful instrument, and my cup, already full of whispers and hints of the most wonderful and generous time of year, overflowed with joy and thanksgiving.

The weather has finally cooled. God is merciful. I have a guitar.

And Christmas, my friends, is just around the corner.

Erma Bombeck Writers' Workshop

Hello, strangers.

I say strangers, because I took an unplanned sabbatical last week while working through a little depression. 

Actually, it was more like a sharp descent into a steep, lonely canyon where I tended sheep and sang plaintive cowboy songs to myself in order to retain sanity, because the sheep weren't talking.

That whole steep-walled canyon wandering began when I returned from the Erma Bombeck Writers' Workshop all high on inspiration and then looked at this blog the next day and saw how few people actually read my stuff. 

Geronimo!

Stats are the devil.

I was so exhausted the Sunday I flew home that I didn't discover I was truly home until the next day when I realized I had no clue whether the kids had food for lunch, clothes to wear to school, or where my own comfy sandals could be found. I had to wear high heels to drop them off.

My intention was to write about the conference right away, believe me. And I would like to say that I learned a lot while there, and I did - if one is talking about learning to laugh continuously for three straight days. There were so many stand-up comedians and humor writers leading the sessions - Alan Zweibel (an original Saturday Night Live writer), Wendy Liebman, Kathy Kinney (Mimi from The Drew Carey Show), Gina Barreca, Elaine Ambrose - that I only got a break from working out my abs through laughter when it was time to eat. I laughed and then ate to build up strength for more hilarity, laughed and ate. By Saturday night, the last of the conference, I was clutching my belly during Leighann Lord's brilliant keynote and exclaiming to my new friends Jeanine and Lou, "I can't laugh anymore! It hurts!"

You know I must have had a great time watching and listening to all those comedy pros, because when my husband came to bed Sunday night, startling me awake, I sat up and demanded, "Who's on stage?"

Like every message in life, what I heard at this workshop about the creative process, particularly the comic creative process, was not new, but it was said in an engaging and often hilarious way. It was, as the writer Elizabeth Gilbert points out in her book Big Magic, authentic. So what did I hear? Important stuff. How do I know? Because I have heard it from many successful and diligent people before.

Just write - every day. A writer writes! "If you're a writer, you can't help writing - especially when you're depressed!" - Amy Ephron 

Writing is a lonely process. Collaborate when you can. Get together with other writers.

Success is in creating what wasn't there before, in the completion of the work. "As a writer what you remember is not the product but the process." - Alan Zweibel. Once your work leaves you, "it's in the hands of other gods", as Zweibel said. You can't predict the response once you put it out there. As Wendy Liebman said, all you can control is the jokes, how you present yourself, how you feel and how prepared you are.

Persevere, follow your passion, be prepared for your big break. Have whatever your 1100 jokes are. (When Lorne Michaels asked Zweibel for an example of his work, Zweibel handed him a book of 1100 jokes.)

Books are written a sentence at a time. According to Zweibel who wrote a book with Dave Barry, by the 20th page your characters will start telling you what they want to do and say.

"Comedy comes from the same place as pain, touch your soul," says Zweibel. Pain breeds humor. "There is a thin line that separates laughter and pain, comedy and tragedy, humor and hurt." - Erma Bombeck.  Humor is redemptive, makes stories ours, something we can control, Gina Barreca pointed out.

Be specific.

"Every story you tell has the same message." - Judy Carter, author of The Comedy Bible. You're saying it the way only you can say it.

Connect with others to get feedback and support. Have "agenda-free" friends. Friendships are work, too. Work at them; it's worth it.

How would I sum up what I took from the conference? Joy, the kind you find in a community, your tribe. Sure, there were some moments when I took risks that didn't work out, like reading one of my pieces in front of a workshop and hearing crickets instead of laughter, then sitting there with a dumb smile on my face while others found kind things to say about my story. Or telling Judy Carter, who has had a very successful career in comedy and has written several successful books on the subject, on the shuttle back to the hotel that she has "a gift". Well, I never have been intimidated by fame or felt that my lack of it should keep me from complimenting a talented speaker!

At any rate, I learned from this grand experience at Erma Bombeck's alma mater, The University of Dayton, that I need to find a tribe of creative types here at home in Arizona, because the energy I feel and absorb while around other writers is powerful and fortifying. With all my heart I thank every speaker, presenter, faculty member, comedian and fellow attendee who made the 2016 workshop so magical. A special thank you to Teri Rizvi who founded it and who supports many writers' efforts through its website, humorwriters.org.

And thank you to my husband Matthew who at this juncture in my journey is the one who pays me to write and who paid my way to this amazing conference without complaining even once about the cost or inconvenience.

I can't wait for Erma 2018!

Give It a Year

It wasn't all that long ago, while driving the kids home from school, that I said a prayer I've said often since our car wreck last year.

Thank you, Father....thank you for keeping Daniel and Gabriella safe.

It was a great blessing, the greatest blessing that Daniel and Gabriella weren't harmed in any way. Though at the time of the accident I recoiled for several moments in disbelief at the noise, the sight and the pain, God knows I'm grateful. I took the brunt of it. Let me always take the brunt of it. Sometimes my thoughts stray into the territory of what could have happened, and I pray my gratitude silently, passionately.

Then cries my soul, my Lord God unto to thee, How great Thou art. How great Thou art.

I think of all the ways in which you provided for us through our fellow human beings.

The firemen took care of our youngest children when I could barely speak or move and was in a very selfish place of pain. My husband came from work instantly and ran across a grassy field toward the intersection at a speed only panic can induce. He barely got to take my hand before I was transported, but he was there to take our littlest two into his arms; they didn't need to go with strangers on the strangest, scariest day of their lives.

Our friends from our little Mom's Group stepped in to help immediately. Kim drove all the way out to the county hospital to take Ella and Danny home with her where she fed them and distracted them with toys, games and TV and made them feel safe. Geraldine picked up Ana and Berto, our eldest, from school, and the two groups united at her house. Dana and her kids showed up, too, and can you believe the miracle of love and friendship? They had a pizza party. My kids had a pizza party with friends on what could have been a disordered, gloomy, really bad day.

My husband called his mom from the hospital when he was a "mess", barely coherent. She drove from Albuquerque early the following morning. Dana watched our kids until she arrived, so that Matthew could spend the morning with me at the hospital, bearing gifts of chocolate and magazines that Dana sent with him.

I don't think I ever thanked my mother-in-law on this blog for taking care of her son and grandkids for five days - the second time she's been there for us in a huge way - or for listening to me talk and cry the evening I came home from the hospital. I thank her now, just as I thank the cheerful firemen, our beautiful, steadfast friends, and my diligent, strong husband for all they did for our children that I could not do for them myself during those early fall days a year ago.



Time and Chance and Gratitude

Arch Queen of Accidental Disaster

I have prayed over major appliances, only expensive ones of course - or ones that belonged to somebody else.

Prayers such as Lord, please may this stereo experience a revitalization of its necessary components, so my brother-in-law won't kill me, and please, I ask that this dishwasher be able to process that huge chunk of glass that's stuck in its filter.

I need the intervention of a higher power, because I am Destroyer of major appliances, Public Enemy No. 1 of all things breakable, and Spoiler of white, immaculate things. I am, in fact, the Arch Queen of accidental disaster. I have put permanent stains on my parents-in-law's creamy white carpet during two separate visits. I have broken half the stoneware and three-fifths of all drinking glasses in every home in which I have lived for more than a month. I have annihilated numerous irreplaceable objects, created stains on other people's clothing from a respectable distance, and lost the personal property of family members while on vacation.

I am on the fourth microwave in my married life and the fifth set of dinner plates.

And Matthew, my poor, poor man, is married to me. When he breaks something, loses something, spills something, like the coffee yesterday that he left by the couch, what do you suppose I do? I rejoice! I keep the score. Sure, it's my 3,984 accidents to his dozen or so, but every new tally on the Matthew page gives me an itty-bitty bit of leverage for compassion when the next accident strikes via Hillary. And it will, probably in the next five minutes.

Last week I busted a whole case of beer after I shoved it beneath a shopping cart. "It's wedged," I said lightly to Matthew, even as I heard the faint squeak of that inner warning voice, now so weary and hoarse from years of shouting and clamoring for the attention I so rarely give it. But it gets plenty of validation, as it did when that beer fell with a splendid crash against the pavement as my husband traversed a speed bump with the shopping cart.

"Yeah, it's wedged." he said acerbically as he bent over the damage, flicking beer from his fingertips.

It was face my husband's disappointment over the loss of pricey beer, or shamelessly ask the store for a new case. By now I am pretty shameless. I'm an old pro at acknowledging the catastrophe, garnering sympathy, gaining forgiveness of my debt and/or compensation out of pity. I should carry my own liability disclaimer into every home and place of business I enter. Because a case of beer? That's nothing. I've broken three cases of vintage soda in a novelty store/restaurant by swinging my child and their carseat into a carefully-arranged display, and all that after forgetting my wallet at home and finding myself unable to pay for my breakfast.

One of the worst moments I've ever had in my prolific accident career happened after Thanksgiving. I realized our car keys were misplaced as we were leaving our friend Camille's house to head home across three states. Sickening, but even more sickening to know that this colossal accident would go on my extensive tally sheet. I had reached a pinnacle of shame. We turned out my purse and the diaper bag and all suitcases, searched every room in my friend's house, scanned the driveway, crawled through our vehicle, literally dumped our dirty laundry out in the street.

And then....then I found them on my tenth or so desperate dig through the dirty clothes in the chill Oregon air. They were in the zipper pocket of a pair of pants, and those pants belonged to...Matthew.

I cackled and danced like Rumpelstiltskin in triumph. I gloated and shouted exuberantly that it was in fact NOT MY FAULT! I skipped and laughed as I rattled the keys for my Man and everyone to see. This is not to say that I went out of my way to make my wonderful husband feel bad about it. No, no - my joy was was not bridled by such petty feelings. I simply felt liberated from remorse and justified, innocent when naturally assumed guilty. Amazing! All hope of such a thing had seemed increasingly slim with every year of marriage to my non-accident-prone, near-perfect man.

Of course, my lovely guy did apologize, and sincerely, albeit with a look of shock on his face. I needed something to celebrate my rare good fortune, so I begged a piece of Camille's birthday cake from her to take on the road.

She replied, "I already gave a piece to Matthew for you." Aha! His gift to acknowledge his false accusation, I thought, but then she added, "And he asked for it before he knew he'd lost the keys."

Well, well. He got me an enormous piece of chocolate cake for the road even as he thought I'd lost the keys to our new minivan several hundred miles from home? What a wonderful, long-suffering man!

But it still went on his accident tally. It can't quite even things out, but it is a BIG boon for me in future beer-busting situations. Hey, I love the guy, but I need all the leverage I can get.

Funny Girls

We're a couple of bagels on a plate of onion rolls, she and I.

We had a spontaneous combustion of friendship when I moved to Idaho from Tennessee and she moved from Cascade to Boise in our junior year of high school. We were such fast friends by early senior year that I referred to her as my sister Sarah. Eventually I didn't bother correcting myself. It felt true.

A couple weeks ago my Sarah came to visit me. We had not seen each other in 14 years, not since the summer after graduation. We jumped and screamed at the sight of each other, and our men laughed. Our children acted like cousins that had never met due to bizarre circumstances, and Sarah and I sat and reminisced that first evening of our reunion.

We talked about the time she made me laugh so hard in an all night diner that the muscles in my face froze, I began to hyperventilate in some panic, and then keeled over due to the loss of oxygen in my brain. We talked about how she always had older boyfriends while I could be found at lunchtime munching peanut M&M's and playing poker with a bunch of sophomore boys. We laughed at how we hunted each other down in the middle of a period near the end of our senior year to tell each other about the C on our English papers (and we thought we would be writers!) We remembered the snowy days when we skipped school, having no money to do anything fun but ditching responsibility anyway, because we thought snow flurries were pretty.

Then there was the adventure of living by ourselves for two months in our senior year. She drove and worked parttime. I joke that I was the stay-at-home one, and I didn't even cook (she doesn't remember us eating at all during the time; I remember eating endless cans of Beans with Bacon soup).To thank her for giving me rides and bringing in money on top of what my parents gave us, I locked her out of the house on a bitterly cold night when she was out late, and she slept in her car with the engine and heater on until our neighbors called the cops. As she tells it, the police knocked on the window loudly, fearing she was dead, and she sat up with blurry and mascara-smeared eyes, assuring them that she was alive but near frozen.

During that time there was also that frightening incident where Sarah in true panic did the best Curly, Three Stooges impersonation I've ever seen. Just home from school one afternoon, Sarah entered the house first. Right behind, I was aware of the danger in a moment, having seen the threat gleaming in his beady black eyes as the small rodent crouched and panted beyond her in the kitchen.

"Sarah," I said as calmly as possible, my body stiff and ready. "Don't move."

The "Why?' as she spun to look at me had barely escaped her lips when my squirrel Okkado leaped upon her back from the kitchen counter. She ran in a small frantic circle (the Curly impersonation) and screamed while my little friend scaled the length of her body, gripping with his claws. I tried to catch him to no avail - they were both whirling so fast - until he sprang from her when he could take the crazy ride no more. She bolted down the hall in terror, and I heard an ear-splitting bang as her bedroom door slammed to. It took me at least two hours to calm Okkado enough to lure him back into his floor-to-ceiling cage with a handful of nuts. It took even longer to calm Sarah, who is no animal person she admits. She stayed in the back room the whole time, only rarely peeling the door back an inch to call, "Is he in yet?" "No," I yelled back again and again, and again and again the door was sealed with due speed.

Good times. Well, at least times, anyway. Time together for sure friends is precious in most circumstances. Even when squirrels attack. Or at least when you're looking back on the time when your best friend's squirrel attacked.

On the second day of Sarah's visit to Arizona, we knew we had to do one very important thing before we parted. I hunted it down, the movie I had bought several years ago specifically because the introduction to it was a gift from my Sarah and one which will always remind me of her. Ah the marvelous Funny Girl, the Barbra Streisand hit musical. Like old times, we admired her voice, her comedic timing, her beautiful long white hands and her outstanding nose as we enjoyed our skip down memory lane. We laughed and then got sad again when Nick Arnstein took his wrong turn, made his fatal decision for pride against love. We shushed the boys in the room when the finale "My Man" commenced. When it was over, they all applauded enthusiastically, not because Babs had sung her heart out but because she had sung her last note, and we marveled again at the blindness of men, because Streisand is obviously one of the most original, beautiful and talented women ever to walk the planet.



And that's my Sarah, too, a thoroughly original and lovely woman - "a bagel on a plate of onion rolls" - one who taught me a great deal about being kind first and striving to be nonjudgmental, one who taught me about strength and resilience, who became like a fourth daughter to my parents. Someone who dreamed and schemed with me about how unusual our lives would be, and someone to laugh with now about all the usual but mostly blessed paths our lives have taken thus far.

Sarah and I are alike and different, of course, but from that first day we met in an uptight Boise high school that had prison-like slits for windows, there was that irresistible pull of friendship. Some natures are meant to bond. We had a mere two years to build that bond, and it has held during 14 years of absence.

I missed her when she left after our visit, but all that evening as I wandered around my home, belting out in mock-Barbra style on an almost endless reel, "Oh, my man I love him so!/ He'll never know/ All my life is just despair.../ But I don't care!", I had the comfort of thinking of her and of our extraordinary and enduring friendship.

Busted at Breakfast

They may be a friendly old country store, but I'm betting they don't want to see me ever again.

I couldn't pay; I broke some things - at least I didn't break a rocker....

Yesterday was supposed to be a relaxing day. I went out to breakfast at Cracker Barrel with some friends from my Mom's group. Lovely ladies...saved me from the misery of raising children by myself. Uh, I mean...besides Matthew, of course. But you know the old adage about it taking a village? They're my village. Together, we can discuss important child-rearing topics that men hate hearing about such as: Why has my daughter suddenly started biting her toenails? When can you expect a little boy's potty training to advance to the point where he isn't peeing all over the guest bathroom - age 10, 12...20? And at one point do you let your little guy go to the men's restroom all by himself - kindergarten...college?

Toward the end of the meal I rushed out to the car to retrieve the cellphone I forgot there, because, believe me, if Matthew tries to call while I'm out, and I don't answer, I'm likely to get a grilling when I get home - complete with fluorescent lamps suspended inches from my face, making me sweat and promise that from then on, I'll glue my cellphone to my head.

Got it just in time, because Matthew called two minutes later to ask if I was home yet so he could drop off the kids on the way to get his hair cut. No, I wanted to look around at all the neat country store goodies first.

"Hey, Camille," I said to my friend after getting off the phone. "Let me pay for your breakfast. I didn't get you anything for your birthday, and I loved the cards you gave me."

I took the checks up to the counter while she watched my little Danny Sam for me (he had come along; we're really inseparable at the moment, though I think I could bear the separation better than he). I drew my ugly black canvas diaper bag around my shoulder, flipped open the enormous flap, unzipped the top zipper, dug in, pushed things around and unzipped the inner pocket of the dang thing, and then stared blankly at some papers there while my hands continued to grope around desperately for something...

I looked up at the young woman behind the counter.

"Oh, no - my wallet!" I said plaintively. "I don't have my wallet. It's in my baby sling at home. You know, I put my baby in it and wear it...or him. You know?"

I had added this last part because this girl was staring at me with an expression that said I always knew I'd encounter you someday, as if I were her own personal nemesis. She acted as if she did not believe there were such things as baby slings and doubted that I even had a child.

"I'll have to ask my friend to pay for it," I said. "I'll be right back!"

She just stared as I walked away, still not speaking. I hurried up to Camille and Geraldine.

"You'll never believe it, Camille," I said excitedly. "But I don't have my wallet. Could you pay for it, and I'll give you cash later for both? Sorry."

Camille smiled and took it back, but then Geraldine took all the checks.

"I'll pay for it," she offered.

"I'm so sorry, Geraldine," I said. "I put my wallet in my sling when I walk in to get the kids from school, so I don't have to carry the whole diaper bag, and I just forgot to put it back."

"Believe me, I understand," she said. "I had to run back in for mine this morning. I was literally out the door."

"I'll pay you back," I said. "Next time I see you..."

"No, never mind," said Geraldine graciously. "It'll be my treat. Happy birthdays, Merry Christmases!" she added, laughing.

She went to pay for three times the breakfast she had anticipated. Camille and I started to walk around the store, looking at all the Christmas merchandise on display. Geraldine joined us a short time later, and we began talking again, but pretty soon my friends realized I had an issue before I even noticed.

"Whoa, Hillary," said Geraldine, putting out a restraining hand. She pointed. "Watch out for that angel there."

I had almost wiped out this angel with the car seat complete with child (Danny Sam in his own personal equipage) that I had hung on my arm. I took a step away from it.

"Maybe we should go," said Camille.

I was fine with that; I had no money for the cute, and highly breakable, things on display.

"Did you want to look around, Geraldine?" I asked.

Geraldine then told us that she was still waiting to pay for the checks, because for some reason they had been canceled after my failed attempt to pay, and the cashier couldn't put them through.

So we moved off through another part of the store, the car seat still slung casually across my arm and Danny Sam trying to sit up to look at all the displays. I blame him, really; he must have shifted his weight just right while I was passing a bulky display of vintage soda to propel the car seat into it. There was a sudden collision which knocked one of the whimsical boxes full force off its comrades, then the crash of colliding bottles and a slow agonizing fizzzzzzzz as the sodas released their carbonation in a pitiful plea for help, or attention.

I gave a short laugh and said, "Oh, no!"

Okay, it was really not the appropriate response, but I've lost the proper ability to be embarrassed anymore. On the other hand, I've mastered the art of apologizing repeatedly with subtle variations, "I'm sorry! So sorry about that...I'm really sorry! Please accept my apology for the destruction of your (fine china, vase, glass, priceless ornament, or, in this case, vintage soda). Really-I'm very, very sorry!"

Within two seconds a female store clerk showed up to assess the damage. My wave of apologies didn't have one ounce of effect on the decidedly sour expression that assailed her face as she watched the syrupy soda bleed beneath the display table. I stopped apologizing to wonder about a more pressing issue of damage control: just which one of my friends could I convince to pay for the havoc I had wreaked on that old country store? Since Geraldine was already paying for my breakfast, should I ask Camille? My company was becoming expensive, but maybe there were still a couple of unbroken bottles in the box they could take home for later...

Thankfully, the manager came up. I started my program of groveling anew, but I didn't need to bother because he promptly said, "Don't worry about it! It's okay. It's happened before!" At which point I paused to try and recollect the last time I may have been there and broken a box of soda.

I tried again to apologize to the poor lemon-faced lady responsible for cleaning up my mess, but it was useless; she wouldn't even acknowledge me. Meanwhile, Geraldine went again to see about paying for the checks, and Camille began to run defense for my every move.

"Don't get too close to that," she said. Then she added a moment later as I was admiring some Christmas decorations, swinging Danny back and forth on my arm, "Here! Step this way a little, Hillary."

When Geraldine had at last been allowed to pay, and we decided to leave, Camille pointed down an aisle. "There, Hillary," she said. "You should have a nice wide path...."

We made it out, and as we opened the heavy doors to freedom, I said, "They may be a friendly old store, but I bet they don't want to see any more of Hillary Tornado!"

Our little party broke up in the parking lot, but there was one last thing: a note I had in the car to thank Geraldine for hosting our Mom's Group Thanksgiving.

"Wait, Geraldine! I have something for you," I said as I opened the rear door of the car and bent down to grab it. But it wasn't there. I hunted around to no avail, then straightening I looked at my friend pitifully and said, "I don't have it; I guess I forgot it."

Camille laughed, and then Geraldine and I laughed as well. It was one of those days.

And I don't think I can go back to that Cracker Barrel again....

The Punch Bowl is Unbreakable....A Tale Of Consequences

I hosted a party in the fall three years ago. It was an Autumn Potluck for my Mom's Group. A good party-lots of nice food. I made my Cardamom Christmas Wreath Bread which nobody cares for-except me, of course; I think it rocks, so I make it every year. My husband hates it. Of course, he hated the Pumpkin Spice Yeast Bread I made for a friend's Halloween party a couple years ago so much more. I put way too much allspice in that, and if you don't know what that mistake tastes like, you're lucky. I told my friend, the hostess, she could keep the bread, and she said with a very sweet smile, "Oh, no. I couldn't. You take it home with you."

That's when you know something is truly awful-when your good friend won't even keep it just so they can have the satisfaction of throwing it away when you're not looking. Instead, they send it home with you to punish you for its atrocious flavor, and if it happens to be a pumpkin yeast bread reeking of allspice, that punishment is harsh and completely unnecessary.

Anyway, the Autumn Potluck was a success. I even served punch in a punch bowl, and I've always held the belief that you can't get fancier than that. Even if the punch is comprised of orange soda and pink Cool-aide, your guests are bound to say, "You served punch? Well, look at you, Miss Fancy-Pants!" before they all end up sporting frothy coral-colored mustaches.

Besides, this beverage container was my wedding gift punch bowl-you know, the kind from Target, Walmart, etc. that is both a punch bowl and a cake stand. I had put a sticker on it to emphasize its fanciness which said: This is The Fancy Punch Bowl Given Me On My Wedding Day-June 16 of a Year I Shall Not Disclose By Someone I don't Remember. Consider Yourself Lucky, All You Who Drink From It.

Well, the punch bowl survived the party. Then it survived for several days after the party on the bar behind the counter. Then it survived for more than a week in the same exact spot.

Finally, my guilt over its neglect persuaded me to wash it one day as I was doing some pans. I was standing at my sink, and the bar is a few inches above that where a rectangular opening connects my kitchen to the dining room on the other side. I reached out from behind the sink with one hand and tried to lift the bowl from the stand. It wouldn't move. I tried again. Nope, wasn't going to budge, because apparently when you leave residual punch in a bowl for more than a week, all the sugar in the liquid that was slopped over the side makes a very good seal that glues the bowl to the stand and then to the countertop-possibly forever. Unless you take drastic measures.

Those drastic measures involved taking a few seconds to walk out of the kitchen and around the corner in order to carefully pry the punch bowl up with both hands. I could not do this from my current position in front of the sink because I was heavily pregnant at the time and had to turn my stomach aside just to reach one arm toward the punchbowl. 

As I hesitated on the brink of a momentous decision pinned on whether or not I was going to be a responsible, circumspect adult or a what the heck! let's see what happens kind of gal, I could almost see the Little Leprechaun in my brain parading, waving flags and cheering me on. See what happens! See what happens! he was chanting. But on the other side of my mind, an old man with a push broom was shaking his head and saying, "Don't do it! This will not be good."

I stretched out my right arm again toward that stubborn bowl even as warning bells began to peal madly in my brain and a voice of reason that sounded strangely like my husband's drew out a long, "Nooooooo-aaaaaaahhhh!"

With brute one-armed strength, I gave that punchbowl a good tug and was rewarded by feeling it give and instantaneously watching it fly up from its stand as if in fury. As it arced in front of the dining room window, I just had time to think, "Ah, It's too heavy. It won't break," before it crashed with magnificent noise and burst into multiple glass daggers that shot up from the detonation point to penetrate every single porous surface in the dining room.

"Oh, shoot! That put holes in Matthew's floor! I thought.

And I was right. But it took me three hours to find those holes. First I had to locate the large dangerous shards lying on all the chairs and tables waiting for defenseless bottoms and, well...miscreant elbows on the tabletop. Next I had to find the sneaky glass splinter jutting out from the side of the glider rocker upon which I sliced my finger forthwith. Then I had to brush multiple pieces from the window ledge, shake them out of the blinds, and pick them out of a table linen. I had to crawl all around the furniture with my enormous belly collecting remnants of my fancy Target wedding day punch bowl.

After picking, plucking, sweeping and then wiping up the arena of damage with dozens of wet paper towels, I found the holes I had put in the laminate floor my husband had worked so diligently to install-long, jagged gouges in the fake wood that would forever taunt me, because, as I now know, a punch bowl/cake stand may not last forever but holes in the floor are for a lifetime.