Thoughts. . .

What I'm thinking when someone says the following:



Call me crazy.

I do. Just not to your face.



That's the god's honest truth.

What's yours?



I swear on my mother's grave.

Your mother died?



As God is my witness.

Pick someone human, available, and tangible, please.



I swear it's true.

As in . . . "Shit, I hope she buys my load of crap story?"



Tell me you're joking.

I need to work on my delivery.



You'll burn in hell for that.

And you'll be there to see to it?



Don't let the door hit you on the way out.

Why did I let you in in the first place?



God is punishing you.

No, you are.



Some day you will thank me for this.

No, I won't.



It's for your own good.

Really? Don't expect me to thank you . . . see above.



This hurts me more than it hurts you.

Why don't we see about that.



You can't pick your family.

You have a point there.


. . .to be continued.

3's a crowd...

My sister, her best friend, and I used to go on a Girl's Trip once a year.



That's my sister on the left and her friend "F" on the right. I am not in the picture. Just pretend that ostrich behind them is me. I'm acting very disinterested. I think she's trying to tell us something.We stayed in this room. The brochure called it the "Fantasy Suite". I had fantasies about staying somewhere else all night. My sister is taking this picture while standing in the closet. We found out later that this room used to be a broom closet. Really. In order to get around in this room two people had to sit on the bed while the third person squeezed by. We should have had a clue when we checked in. My sister asked for a roll-away and the desk clerk laughed. My sister and I slept together on the bed. We were synchronized sleepers. If she turned over so did I. It wasn't an option.
"F" slept in the closet. That's her in a suitcase balanced on top of the ironing board.

What a pal.

I wonder if this is why she doesn't go with us anymore?

I'm pretty sure the fact that she moved 5 States away and got married has nothing to do with it.

I wish she would come back and go on another trip with us.

I hate sleeping in the closet.

Will the real Romi please stand up...

Surprise Name Change.

I went to a meeting at our district office for work today. It appears I have had a name change and I didn't know it.

My name is now Rosa.

Please refer to me by my new name.

You may be wondering how I got my new name?

I do too.

My name on the attendance sheet was correct. I checked.

The woman checking the sheet and calling out our names decided to change it.

I guess she saw my last name, which happens to be my married name, which also happens to have an ethnic ring to it, and decided to make my first name match.

She also added an 'A' to my last name. My first name and last name now rhyme thanks to her.

I raised my hand and asked her to please refer to me by my formal name, which I decided on the spur of the moment must be, Rosita.

She looked confused, checked the attendance sheet, and said, "That's not what it says here."

I said, "That's right, " and smiled sweetly. Rosa, my alter ego didn't say that, Rosita didn't say it either, the real me, Rosemary did.

I'm in BIG trouble . . .

I was checking some of the ads in the boxes to the left of my posts. They are random and chosen (I think) by keywords in my posts. I do not choose them.



I read and copied the following information when I visited one of them by typing in the address. I am not allowed to click on them. The following is from: most holy family monastery dot com. I have to give them credit or I can't copy it. The comments in blue are mine.



"All who die in mortal sin will go to Hell (Is there a gray area here?)

Pope Eugene IV, Council of Florence, “Letentur coeli,” Sess. 6, July 6, 1439, ex cathedra: “We define also that… the souls of those who depart this life in actual mortal sin, or in original sin alone, go straightaway to Hell, but undergo punishments of different kinds.” ( Could I have some kind of advanced warning...like maybe a buzzer goes off every time I'm about to commit a sin...a two second warning perhaps or maybe an " electric sin collar" that goes around my neck and shocks me into goodness? Oh, and can you give us a hint about those punishments of a different kind? I'd like to be prepared. )

Catholics must also know that all who die in mortal sin will go to Hell forever. (I want proof from someone who's already been there.) Mortal sins include: murder, (Does that include killing ants and spiders?) fornication (i.e. sexual acts outside of marriage or acts leading up to sex outside of marriage) (What about, "Just the tip?") , lying (How about little white lies?) drunkenness, (Does it count if it was before I turned 21?) consenting to impure thoughts,(Even if it was with Donny Osmond?) masturbation,(I thought you only grew hair on your palms for that!) looking at pornography, ( Okay, gotcha...I will not renew my lifetime subscription to Playgirl when it comes up.) adultery (No thank you.) cheating, (At cards?) taking God’s name in vain,(I'm Sorry.) birth control (NFP) or artificial contraception, (Guilty, I'm no Mother Hubbard.)assisting the propagation of heresy(What?) funding heretics,(Huh?) dishonoring the Sabbath (Exactly what does that mean?)breaking the commandments, (Wouldn't that mean all of the above?)etc.(etc.? This is the one that has me the most worried! It leaves the door wide open for speculation and my vivid imagination to take over.) If someone were to commit a mortal sin and then go to Confession, he must have the firm resolution never to commit the sin again. (My intentions were always good.) This is called the firm purpose of amendment. (Thank you for the clarification.) If a person commits a mortal sin and doesn't have the firm purpose of amendment when he goes to Confession, he commits a sacrilege and the Confession is invalid. (In other words...damned if you do...damned if you don't.) Most souls go to Hell because of sins of the flesh. (Well, when you put it that way...) Those who are committing sins of the flesh need to stop immediately if they don’t want to perish forever in the fires of Hell. " (Sins of the flesh...could you be more specific?)

I'm going to have nightmares tonight.

Question: What is the attention span of a Goldfish?...

Answer: 4-7 Seconds.

I'm glad to learn that there is something out there with a shorter attention span than me.

My sister hosts an annual "Gingerbread House Party" during the Christmas Season. It is a family favorite. My daughter and her friends look forward to it every year.

I do too.

Until I get there. . .

. . . and see an entire candy store, hundreds of sheets and squares of cut gingerbread , gallons of Royal Icing, vats of jimmies, sprinkles, and everything else laid out on the table waiting for us to make our creation.

My mind starts to wander.

I call it back and think about making the best gingerbread house and winning the competition.

Oh, Yes . . . it is a competition.

One that I usually don't win.

I'll show you some examples of our Gingerbread Houses.





My daughter made this one. Click on any of the pictures for a better view.
Isn't it adorable? She made this when she was 10. Notice that hers is made on a paper plate.
My sister made this one. Notice that hers was made on a very large cutting board.
This is mine. It's Rudolph in his pen. It took me about 3 minutes to make it.
Here is my sister's again. We liked it so much we decided to move in for the holidays.

Guess who won?

I like to think I did, for "most creative"...but, I didn't. The year I did win...the camera broke (mysteriously) and there isn't a single picture of my Candy Cane Forest from the movie Elf featuring the lake and Buddy. It was so fabulous, my sister used it as her centerpiece.

It took me 4 minutes to make that one.

I was concentrating hard that year.

In all fairness, it took my sister 3 days to make the house pictured in this post. I probably started 52 different projects and my mind wandered a thousand times while she patiently and diligently worked on her beautiful gingerbread house.

I'm certain that she stood in the patience line when God created her.

I'm also certain that I stood in the fastest line when God created me.

Fortunately we met in the sister's line and ended up family.

At least my short attention span has never stopped me from knowing what's really important in life.

Family.

Driver's Ed...

The private girl's school I attended did not offer Driver's Ed.

Our tuition money went towards other more important classes. Classes like the one Sr. Herbert Carnation taught, innocently named, "Death and Dying" which turned out to be a semester long "Q & A" session dealing with the secret world of Nun's. One particular day Sr. Herbert took us on a tour of the convent located on our school's campus. She showed us where she slept, where she ate, and where she prayed.

We bonded.

Maybe, too much.

Someone in the class forgot for a moment that she was a Nun and asked a personal question. Everyone held their breath. Sr. Herbert stood quietly for a moment, closed her eyes, reached into her blouse, and started massaging something that might have been a breast if Nun's had those. No one knows for sure.

We all sat in stunned silence, alternately captivated and repulsed. After what seemed like an eternity, she answered. One girl excused herself from the room. The rest of us sat completely still while our eyes darted about, searching frantically for reassurance from each other that we hadn't just heard what we did. Let's just say that by the time class was over we were no more prepared to meet our maker than when we started, but we sure knew more than we needed to know about the private and personal life of a Nun.

As for driving, the Nuns at my school walked everywhere. They owned one car for twelve Nuns. They carpooled with the Priests who drove bigger cars if they needed to go anywhere far. I remember my mother giving a couple of Nun's a ride to the store. They sat in the back seat and prayed the rosary the whole ride. It had nothing to do with being holy, my mother was a bad driver.

This is the reason I had to go to public school during the summer to learn how to drive.

I was terrified.

What would I have in common with the heathens?

Would they know I wasn't one of them?

What would I wear?

Catholic school kids didn't own any real clothes. We were born wearing a uniform.

It turns out, those were the least of my worries. I should have been more concerned about the fact that not one kid in our class knew the difference between the brakes and the gas pedal.

I should have been more concerned about the fact that our Driver's Ed teacher, who was also the angry school football coach had a bad case of narcolepsy and randomly fell asleep when he was under a great deal of stress.

Teaching kids to drive is stressful.

He slept through most of our driving.

He told us on the first day of "behind the wheel" training to leave him alone and not bother him if he happened to take a little nap while we drove. He also threatened to kill us with his bare hands if we told anyone about his problem.

I hope he's taking a nap right now and not reading this.

I learned many things that summer besides driving.

I learned that shutting my eyes while another student (whose turn it was at the wheel) took a hairpin turn on two screeching tires did nothing to drown out the sound of the crying boy next to me.

I learned that yelling, "Get out of my way" repeatedly, followed by a rapid succession of hysterical, "Oh, God's" as I barreled down the shortest on-ramp to the freeway did not help me merge any faster, or make the cars already on the freeway go any slower. No one could hear me anyway. The coaches loud snores drowned out everything.

That summer I learned not to tell my parents about my near-death experiences on a daily basis.

I told them hourly, and begged not to go back.

They made me go anyway, mumbling something about my overactive imagination.

I ended up getting my license that summer and living to tell this story.

I feel at this time that special thanks should go to Coach McSnoozy and Sr. Herbert Carnation. Without them this story would have been really boring.

Why?...

What is wrong with this picture?


I'd say, just about everything.


Why is there a potholder tied to my head?


I'm pretty sure it's proof that I was not my parent's favorite kid after all.


What is wrong with my arms? The right one looks like I'm getting ready to salute. The left one looks dead.


Actually, my mother made that dress for me and didn't finish in time. The right side is held together with straight pins. The left side is held together by my stiff arm. The back is completely missing.


It's a good thing my ears are covered.


Under those gloves are paws. My mother was good at hiding them.


Those plants behind me are snapdragons.


They were my only friends.


That avocado tree in the background was not my friend.


One time I threw a few avocados like they were hand grenades over that fence in the picture. My aim was good. They crashed right through all three of the neighbors windows.


My mother cried.


My dad wanted to sell me.


Not really.


My mother didn't cry that day.


She cried a week later when no one answered the "Child for Sale" ad.

Kids...

Two kindergarten students were standing at my library counter today.



The little kinder boy had printed a picture from the Internet of a young blond girl (both students were Asian) blowing on a dandelion. He was showing it to the little kinder girl.


The little kinder girl looked at the picture and said, "Is that your mother?"


Boy: "I don't know."


Girl: "I think it's your mother."


Boy: "Did you know my mother when she was little?"


Girl: "No. Did you?"

I'm afraid of the dark...

When I was a kid I was afraid of the dark.

Not much has changed.

Especially if I am alone.

During the day I live in a happy house where everything is sunny and bright.

At night that same house turns into the one on the block that Charles Manson has been targeting on Google Earth from his cell.

I have lived a long time.

Nothing has gotten me yet.

Ever.

But it might, and I need to be ready.

I have been on "Boogie Man Watch" since I was five.

I'm pretty good at it... unless I think about a certain movie, and something I called, "The Sallies" when I was growing up.

The movie was titled, "Don't Be Afraid of the Dark" starring Kim Darby, from 1973.

Here is a direct quote from the movie found at www.imdb.com

Can you see them, Sally ... hiding in the shadows. They're alive, Sally. They want you to be one of them when the lights go out. They want you too, Romi!

A story of something not human. I've just crapped in my pants. I'll be right back.

Now you see them, now you don't...now you die. I've already crapped in my pants and died of fright, so you can be on your merry way now. Mission accomplished.

I figure if "The Sallies and The Boogie Man" don't get me,"What's that Noise?" will.

I have to go.

I think I hear something.

Dinner...

My parents made some pretty awful food for dinner when I was a kid.

It affected me deeply.

To this day.

My sister would disagree. She liked it.

Stewed tomatoes, Lawry's Seasoning Salt, and a sleeve of crushed Saltine crackers mixed together was one delicacy. I called it puke-in-a-pan. My dad called it dinner.

My mother liked to make something she called, Porcupine Balls. The main ingredients were, Rice-a-Roni and ground beef .

We never invited anyone over on the nights we were having Porcupine Balls.

It was a family secret.

The only thing I liked about Porcupine Balls being served for dinner was getting to say the word balls as many times as I could get away with without being slapped or sent to my room.

I used to invite myself to the neighbors house for dinner whenever I didn't like what we were having.

One night I saw liver, bacon, and onions cooking on the stove.

I was desperate to eat anything but that. No amount of ketchup, pinching your nose with every bite, or the promise of a root beer float with an extra scoop of vanilla ice cream for dessert could make that crap taste good.

My friend across the street told me her mom was making a roast.

I invited myself for dinner.

We sat down to eat and my friends mother took something out of the oven and placed it on the table.

I took one look at it and said, "Shouldn't that thing be dead first?"

I was sent home.

Sent to my room without dinner.

And I didn't get that root beer float with vanilla ice cream.

That's okay.

I don't like root beer or ice cream.

The next day at school I told my teacher our family's dirty little secret.

"My mother makes us eat Porcupine Balls."

Please leave your probes at home...

The Vatican says it's okay to believe in aliens.

Cool.

Now that they have solved that issue, I have a couple things I would like them to consider for their approval.



Dear Papal People,

Would you please work on approving Ouija boards? I have some burning questions only the board can answer.

If you approve the board then I will know it's not my sister pushing it around and messing with me.

Oh, and could you also work on approving the Magic 8 Ball? I'm still waiting on some answers there too.

What does, Definitely Maybe mean anyway? When it said, "Ask me later"...how long was later? Was it thinking about it? Weighing the options? Making sure it gave a morally correct answer? Or was it cranky and wanted to be left alone for a while? Tired of being the answer ball. I swear one time it said, "Do you think I know everything?" Another time it said, "Go ask your mother." I took it back to the store the day it said, "I'd worry if I were you."

If they approve the ball I have some serious business to take care of and won't be available for a while.

Please answer at your earliest convenience, consult the Ouija Board and the Magic 8 Ball if you need to, but if I don't happen to get back to you right away it's because I am on my way to Hell in a hand basket.

Love,
Somebody

Customer Support or Confusion?...

I contacted Customer Support today for a little technical problem we have been having with one of our laptops. They repaired my daughter's computer but forgot to return the battery. It has been 4 months of back and forth. Here's a little snippet of the conversation. I have only included the good parts. The really good parts, and the frustrating parts, and the confusing parts.

G: Welcome to Computer Repair for Notebooks . My name is G. How may I assist you today? (I'd like a cheeseburger, some fries, and a Coke, but I'm too lazy to go get it.)

Me : I sent my notebook in for repair and it was returned without the battery.

G: That's unfortunate. (It's very unfortunate...I expect some tears and severe remorse.)

Me: I have a confirmation number from the repair if you need it. (Let's get down to business.)

G: I understand that you have send the notebook in for repair and you have to got the battery back along with notebook after repair service, Am I right? (Huh?...What in the world did she just say?)

So, the conversation continued for some time...I had another birthday somewhere in-between. We were disconnected twice and then G came back on and gave me a reference number and a promise of a battery in a week. I told her I would steal one of her goats or sacred cows if she didn't come through with her promise. (Just kidding...I don't really like goats and we have lots of cows here so I don't need one of hers, especially the sacred kind. I don't want anything like that on my permanent record.

G: You are welcome. Anytime! My Pleasure assisting you.. The case will be taken care off and you will recieve the battery soon. ( I'm not sure what to make of this. No spelling has been changed to make it any clearer.)

Me: Thank you.

G: Is there anything else I can assist you with today? ( I'm still hungry.)

Me: No, Thank You.

G: Have a nice time. (Where am I going? I love surprises!)

G: Take Care !! (A double exclamation?? Am I going to receive something else besides the battery in a week?)

G: Bye E. (the end.)

Mom...

Happy Mother's Day, Mom!

She's the one without the mustache.

I am thankful for that.

She's also the one who looks good in a hat. I do not.

Can you guess whose mustache is real?

The other lady.

Notice how the mustache lady is holding onto her purse.

I think they should check her bag for any missing mustaches.

The guy in front added rabbit teeth to his mustache.

I think he won a prize for that.

The other guy is my Dad. He wore that mustache for the rest of his life.

That picture was taken before Mom had ever celebrated her own Mother's Day.

That dreamy look in her eyes comes from her thinking about her future kids.

Especially one certain kid.

Me.

The third and final girl.

The one born the day after her birthday.

The charmed one.

Happy Mother's Day, Mom.

God...

This book gave me nightmares when I was a kid.

It still does.

I can still remember almost the entire contents of this book.

It's the Baltimore Catechism. Required reading for any good Catholic worth his salt.

I went to Catholic School. In Catholic school we had to memorize many passages and answers to questions out of this book.

One that comes to mind immediately is, "Who is God?"

The Baltimore Catechism answer: God is a Supreme Being made in the image and likeness of man.

As an impressionable kid with an overactive imagination these questions and answers freaked me out. Why? Because I was a 6 year old and didn't understand what a Supreme Being was or what it meant when they wrote that God was all powerful and knowing.

Did that mean he followed me around all day like my shadow? Was he there when I was in the bathroom dumping Lima beans in the toilet because I hated them and had stuffed them in my socks at dinner? Was he there when I swore for the first time and said, "Shit" on the playground? Was he there when my sister and I pretended to say Mass in our room and used Necco wafers as the Body of Christ, and tap water as the Blood of Christ? Girls can't be Priests. I know that God...please don't be mad at me.

I know there is no hope for me. I'm going to Hell in a hand basket...as my Mother informed me many times already.

I just want to know why it had to be so scary? Why was fear the motivating factor behind our religion?

How many times did I hear, "God's punishing you" when something bad happened - or "God's watching you and he knows everything you do so you had better be telling the truth and keeping your nose clean or lightening is going to strike you dead."

That doesn't sound like a God I want to worship. He sounds scary and mean.

The God I like is the one I know now. The one who loves me and forgives me no matter what. The one who knows I am human and make mistakes. The one who is a loving God. The one I know today whom I will gladly worship until the day I die and hopefully he will be the one who welcomes me in his arms.

I'm pretty sure I wouldn't fit in that hand basket anyway, and everyone who knows me knows that I can't stand the heat so I'm counting on the nice God to be at those pearly gates some day...but not anytime soon...are you listening? I'm not ready yet. I'm just getting to know this God and enjoying the world he created.

That's HIM...

When we met he looked like this.

Now he looks like this.

HIM...

He thinks it stands for, Highly Intelligent Male.

It doesn't.

It stands for, He Is Mine.

Mom and Pop...

Those are my parents.

The one on the right is my dad. My mom liked to call him, "Dickie Bird" and other assorted names.

Names I can't write on this blog or I will get kicked out.

It looks like Dickie Bird was way ahead of his time. He has the beginnings of a "Flock Of Seagulls" hairdo.

The one on the left is my mom. My dad liked to call her, "Jesus, Rose!", "Dammit Rose!" or, my personal favorite, "You're killin' me Rose!"

Over the years her name was shortened and we now refer to her as, "JRo".

What do you think of JRo's hair?

It was styled by, "Jiffy Pop".

Do you know what they are looking at, and why they look so happy?

It's Me.

Their favorite child.

Those other three kids they had -

-those were starter kids.

Have you seen my Poochie?

That's me.

That log cabin on the right used to belong to my family.

Something is missing in this picture.

It's POOCHIE, my beloved gray teddy bear who went everywhere with me.

This was the last place I ever saw my Poochie again.

This was also the place where I realized that my parents did not love me. What parent allows their kid to name their stuffed toy bear, Poochie?

One minute he was on my sled with me sliding down the hill and the next he was gone. We looked for him for hours, or maybe ten minutes, if you ask me, but then again, I was a kid and minutes could seem like hours sometimes.

My Mother told me that a mother bear probably came down to our cabin and took him to live with her when I was walking up the hill in this picture.

Do you see a bear in this picture?

Do you see a bear wandering off in this picture? Do you see any bear tracks? Do you think my Father would stand there taking my picture as I trudge up a hill with my sled if a bear was creeping up behind me to steal my Poochie? Do you think I might have maybe heard the bear as it quietly snuck up on me to take my Poochie?

Hey wait a minute...what's that pile at the top of the picture between the house and the trees? Does that look like bear poop to you? Hmm...

An open letter to the mother bear who has my Poochie.

Dear Mother Bear, (if you want to call yourself that) I prefer Poochie Poacher,

I hope you and my Poochie are happy.

Signed,
Poochie's Real Mother