Two of the Greatest Things My Dad Ever Said

One time, we were down at the beach, watching Casino Royale, and the torture scene came on:

Around the 45-second mark, my dad said, “What are they trying to do? Give him hemorrhoids?”

Another time, my nephew was watching Yo Gabba Gabba:

My father, as he was just walking through the room said, “These guys are lucky to be working.”

 

Of course, he had myriad other great things he said, but these two just keep making me laugh.

🙂

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Stay Starchy, My Friends.

Recently, my oldest child, Edison has discovered the Internet meme. I have two favorites, the “Hey Girl” Ryan Gosling meme…

and “The Most Interesting Man in the World”.

I showed them to Edison, but he didn’t really get them, so we went to Youtube to look at the Dos Equis commercials and help him get the jokes. Yes, funny, he nodded.

Last night at dinner, I put some waffle fries on the side, and Clooney, who usually eschews potatoes of any kind, exhibited a rare excitement, claiming that waffle fries were his favorite.

Manfrengensen and I were, of course, suprised by his reaction, and then Edison, who is usally quite serious, said dryly, “I don’t always eat fries, but when I do, they’re the waffle cut.”  I don’t know, just tickled me for some reason.


Confirming, once again, it’s me

So, I did get Confirmed at the Easter Vigil Mass on Saturday night. Manfrengensen was my sponsor, and we were kind of worried that it was going to be long and laborious, but it wasn’t at all. In fact, it was quite lovely.

My in-laws came over to watch the kids, and Manfrengensen presented me with a gift; a lovely rosary, because he knew I had been wanting one, especially one that wasn’t too flashy, like the one he has.

I spent Saturday afternoon making cookies, figuring I would bring a small sample of them for the Deacon to say thank you for taking the time to prep me for the Sacrament, because that’s how I roll. I made some butter cookies, and on some of those, I put Butterbeer frosting. Then I also made biscotti, and some of those were covered in white chocolate. Then, I put them in a nice little box with a cellophane window on the lid from the craft store. It was all very Martha Stewarty. Even she would have been proud of me, I think.

We got to the church a little before eight o’clock and took our seats near the front. The other couple from my nights training at the Deacon’s house were there, and I actually felt my heart soften for them. The girl was really nervous. Her fiance hugged me as a greeting. I was kind of surprised, but I went with it.

Then the Deacon came over, shook our hands, and brought us up to introduce us to the Monsignor. I love the Monsignor. He’s an old man, and he can talk…boy, can he talk…sometimes, when he’s reading the homily, he’ll look up and go rogue, and if it’s not written there, if he’s improvising, it can get kind of comical because he just goes on and on, but it’s usually in a funny kind of way. And another funny thing is that the congregation never seems to get his jokes. Manfrengensen and I have a theory that the Monsignor was quite the card in the seminary. But of course now, everyone thinks he’s serious, and they don’t know whether to laugh. It used to kind of bug me that he’d go on like that, but again, my heart has softened, and he is just a sweet old guy. I mean, he doesn’t have a mean vein in his body. Sure, he’s like Dagwood Bumstead, but like I said, totally sweet.

So, the Deacon brought us up to the front of the church and introduced us (making his usual mistake of calling me Kathy…which is not my name..despite my correcting him on past occasions and the two of us even sharing a laugh about it), and I was holding the cookies in my left hand as I shook the Monsignor’s with my right. The whole time this was going on, the Monsignor’s eyes were on the cookies. Nice to meet you, nice to meet you, etc, but I could tell that what he was really thinking was, “Are those for me?” and kind of hopefully too.

Like I said, he’s a sweet old guy, but he never remembers me. Doesn’t remember that I sat next to him at my sister-in-law’s rehearsal dinner, or that he’s baptised all three of my kids and come to the reception after. Has no memory of the occasions when I have said hello, asked how his holiday or his weekend was, introducing myself anew each time. But whatever, he’s Tim Robbins in The Hudsucker Proxy, and the more I embrace that fact, the more I kind of love the guy.

So anyway, the Mass was very nice. It was the Vigil, so it was long, but it wasn’t bad. In fact, it was kind of beautiful with the lighting and the choir and all. After I’d been Confirmed, I actually felt kind of emotional, which was a feeling I hadn’t expected to have. I felt complete. I had never expected it to mean something to me, but it did. And I think the fact that I chose to do this, rather than having it just be what I was expected to do at the age of 13 or whatever made it a more meaningful experience for me.

Anyway, it was all nice, but you know all weekend, I was haunted by the Monsignor’s disappointed expression when I handed the cookies over to the Deacon. I felt guilty, especially since I had seen the Monsignor buying Girl Scout cookies last month, pulling his wallet from under his vestments after Mass, out in the front courtyard there, picking his favorites from the piles on the card table the girls and their den mother had set up. I didn’t actually see which cookies he chose, but I’m guessing he’s a Do-Si-Do man. I’ve seen him at the little grocery shop near the church, picking up his Hagen Daz. I know the old man has a sweet tooth. And I bet not too many people think to bring him some homemade cookies on a regular basis. So, I put a box together, and on Monday, I stopped by the rectory to drop it off.

I rang the bell and waited, and after a minute or two, he came to the door and let me in.

“Good morning, Monsignor,” I said. I felt nervous for some reason. I didn’t want to intrude on his day, just wanted to stop by to show my appreciation. Show that I was thinking of him. I felt embarrassed that I hadn’t thought to bring him cookies in the first place, so I kind of spoke quickly and deferentially. “I made some cookies on Saturday for the Deacon, and I don’t know what I was thinking, but I thought you might like some as well, so I brought you some today.”

He nodded and said, “Thank you, thank you.”

And I was smiling.

Then he said with no hint of recollection whatsoever, “And you are?”

The dude had no memory of me from 36 hours earlier! It all came back to him once I told him my name (even though I didn’t say I was Kathy) and he congratulated me, took the cookies, and I stepped back outside.

That guy cracks me up.


Oh, crap.

The Princess and I have been having a nice time the past couple of weeks. Well, last week wasn’t so great because she was sick, and in and out of the ER all week (blog post about that is forthcoming), but we’ve also done some fun things like visit the zoo, play in the park, and go out to lunch together.

One day we were at Panera, and she had to use the restroom. There were two stalls in there, and one was occupied, so we took the handicapped stall. She went first, and then I did, and while I was going, she asked me if I had “tooted my horn.” I had not, but the woman in the stall next to us was obviously having some GI distress, so I tried to hush my daughter.

Why is it that whenever you try to hush your kids, instead of shushing, they start asking “WHY?” Is that a new phenomenon? Is it something exclusive to my kids? Why don’t they get that when I say “Shush,” it’s time to clam-up, and immediately? I wish I could be more like a French mom. Have you heard of this? It’s kind of the opposite of the Tiger Mom thing, and when you want to convey that some behavior is amiss, you just glare at your offspring with a look that instinct tells them you mean business, and they fermer leur bouche.

Anyway, I tried to get her to pipe down, all while what sounded like a Michael Bay film was going on in the stall next to us. Finally she got the hint and piped down.

Then, I heard the sink running outside our stall, and the door of the restroom opened and closed, so I figured we were alone.

We left the privacy of our stall and went to wash our hands, and The Princess was still being silent. I made a reference to the fact that the coast was clear, so she looked up again and asked me why she had had to be quiet.

“The lady in the other stall was having diarrhea,” I whispered.

“What?” My daughter asked.

“She was having diarrhea,” I said loud enough to be heard over the water running in the sink.

“Diarrhea?” The Princess asked even louder.

And then I heard it. A quiet cough behind us. The poor culprit had emerged from the stall and was standing right behind us. She smiled meekly, and we crawled out under the restroom door.