Monday, February 27, 2012

100 blessings before lunch

It's been a long week.  In fact it's been a long month, albeit a good one.  Either way though I find that too much of my time is spent being overwhelmed.  So I'm going to take a step back, perhaps not relax, and count my blessings again.

1.) Alarm clocks that work.
2.) Forgetting to set it.
3.) Beautiful children who did not scream at me this particular morning. 
4.) Not having zombie dreams.
5.) Warm blankets.
6.) Listening to history lessons instead of teaching them.
7.) Bird songs of the Cardinal, Blue jay, and Bluebird.
8.) Someone else's productive insomnia.
9.) Fun band-aids with Disney Princesses on them.
10.) Wearing black without Sasha seeing it.
11.) My beautiful goddaughters.
12.) Kleenex boxes placed appropriately everywhere throughout the house.
13.) Allergy medications.  That work.
14.) Coffee that I can't taste.
15.) Remembering my Lenten abstinence and keeping it up without reminder.
16.) Not ruining the split peas by setting them to soak.
17.) Cold midwinter mornings that very while show rain.
18.) Snugly baby girls.
19.) Not being the reigning adult in the house.
20.) Not going to the Emergency Room.  For two months.
21.) Snugly godchildren.
22.) Not having any emergency scheduled babysitting jobs for the past several weeks.
23.) The Giant coming to visit.
24.) Happy coincidences in a (*very*) small Catholic world.
25.) Impending visits from out of state family.
26.) The eternal gratitude of a little boy for my aid in his menial task.
27.) Surprise feast days.
28.) Keeping busy.
29.) Being able to laugh at my ruinous best laid plans.
30.) Listening to Saint stories.
31.) Brightly colored markers.
32.) Little girls' little toes with unavoidably bright colors.
33.) Special surprises for my youngest goddaughter.
34.) Deplorable cat.
35.) Being able to help 10... which is a rarity.
36.) New jeans.
37.) Being loved.
38.) The laughter of children.
39.) Thinking about baby gifts.
40.) Finishing part of Six's scarf... only two months late.
41.) Teaching myself to croquet roses.
42.) Six listening the first time. 
43.) Learning from my mistakes.
44.) Unsolicited voluntary hugs.
45.) Crazy random happenstances.
46.) Not actually being crazy.
47.) Not actually living with six teenage boys.
48.) Peace of mind.
49.) Hope concerning the future.
50.) Old friends that remember to call.
51.) New friends that don't seem to mind my oddities.
52.) Godmothers.
53.) Being loved so much that people fight over me.
54.) Loving someone so much that you miss them when the are gone.
55.) Being loved so much that people miss you when you are gone.
56.) Knowing when to give up and walk away.
57.) Not living with regret.
58.) Amazing hair days.
59.) Being short.
60.) Humility.
61.) My awesome car that doesn't look anything like an old time taxi.
62.) Not having to watch the Richard Scary videos with Four and Six.
63.) Time to think.
64.) A lack of suicidal squirrels.
65.) Hugs from Ten.
66.) Permanent markers.
67.) Eight's perseverance.
68.) Not being sick.
69.) A joyful singing voice.
70.) Noise canceling headphones.
71.) A blessed escape.
72.) Clean laundry smells.
73.) Not killing the cat.
74.) Figuring out how to spell Latin words in l33t.
75.) Flowers on the trees that foretell spring.
76.) A funny Boston accent that makes Four laugh.
77.) Well behaved car seats that I installed myself
78.) An un-whiney Six to accompany me to the store.
79.) Store employees who thought she was cute and not clumsy.
80.) No one seeing my goddaughter drop the loaves of bread.
81.) Noticing when she left my purse behind.
82.) The polite, unprompted asking of a free sample.
83.) Happy people.
84.) Kindly gentlemen who didn't step on mine or Six's toes.
85.) Getting home in record time.
86.) Funny pink flamingos to make me laugh- cause this is Texas.
87.) Not getting hit by the red car which I didn't see.
88.) Polite children.
89.) Not dropping ten cans of "frijoles negro refrijitos"
90.) Not being yelled out by Eight.
91.) Stealing the last of the lime rice.
92.) My own green cup, unsullied by morning cups of coffee.
93.) Understandable classical music while on hold.
94.) Kindly telephone operators.
95.) Not being on hold forever and a day.
96.) Yummy, albeit hastily prepared lunch.
97.) Questions about storybook characters that I can answer.
98.) Not screwing up.
99.) People wanting my attention
100.) Being loved.

Friday, February 24, 2012

Unsent Letters February 2012

My dearest prayer warrior,
   I suppose I should grow accustomed to thinking of you as Sister Mary Angela, but whenever I picture your delightful laugh, held within your mischievous grin as you raced down the stairs ahead of me to class, all the while calling back to me to remind me that I was a "glum slowpoke" I cannot imagine some cloaked figure, enshrouded with the mantel of a nun.  It's been seven months since you entered and years since you first told me that you were going to enter a convent and I remember that I uncharitably laughed.  Surely God would not call one such as you away from society, where you would undoubtedly change the world for the better?  Worse yet was the day when you told me you were entering a cloister and that we would never speak again, but I had learned not to doubt you.  Surely God had a plan for you and one still for me.  I remember being jealous because you had known God's calling for you for so long whereas I still seem to be floundering about in search of my calling.  I remember when we said good-bye and I questioned how I would get along without you.


    So many farewells filled that day but mine to you was perhaps the most lasting.  I know now that this is the life that God has called you to, knowing from before you were formed in the womb, that you would be his beloved, a true bride of Christ, but knowing this and accepting are not always symbiotic.  I know that if you truly love something you must set it free, or more importantly (and perhaps the same thing), give it up to God.  Anyone who knew you before you entered cannot help but know that there is a God, that He loves us, that He has a plan for us, and that He is watching out for us.  God brought you into my life to show me that much can be accomplished by loving every person as if they were Christ- you showed me that, my little warrior.


    I thought I had affected your life by sharing your days in school, but now I realize that you changed my life more by sharing with me your joie de vivre.  You showed me that battles, both in the world but also within the soul, can be fought and won through prayer, and I thank you for fighting for mine.  You showed me that farewell maybe lengthy but goodbye is not forever when God is at your side.  I firmly believe that you are the living embodiment of joy (if not always kindness) and I sometimes wonder if you are really Azarias?


    In this life time I do not dare believe that I shall meet you again, but in time I hope to meet you again in the presence of our heavenly Father.  Perhaps we can race up and down the heavenly stairs as we once did at University?  I pray no one notices us playing behind the organ again, but if God created you to be my friend, I am quite certain that He has a sense of humor and will not be too angry.  I miss you, my dear, and I think of you often.  Pray for me even though I know you will never get this.  I love you, my prayer warrior, my friend, my Lina.  And don't forget, hurry up, slowpoke- we might be late.
-Gabrielle

Wednesday, February 22, 2012

The Grass is God's Handkerchief

I love books.  I've always loved books.  In elementary school I didn't have any friends so I turned to the only things I could think of on school property that didn't get a choice if I was there or not- books.  Some I would read once, others I would read over and over again.  Like familiar faces my books became my friends.  From this crazy idea was born the convoluted idea that maybe I should study books in college.  After all, I was the only kid on campus to read all the books in the library by the fourth grade.  I was wrong.

My freshman year of college was a learning experience based loosely on my core classes.  As my Mother likes to tell people, I learned a lot that year, but very little of it was in the classroom.  The next year I became a serious student and really hunkered down to my major classes.  Half of my classes were Literature, and three of them were with my favorite professor, Dr. Rommel.  Standing over six foot most of the students on campus had a healthy fear of her.  She normally wore long dresses and tall heels and spoke using such terminology as "who is your audience?" "look at it through the eyes of the author", and my favorite, "dig deeper."  A few students called her "General Rommel", a joke I didn't quite understand a the time.

Some time over that year I realized that no matter how much I studied and how hard I worked, Literature was just not coming to me as easily as it should have.  What was even more crazy was that for as hard as my Literature classes were there was inverse relationship that all my History classes were a breeze.  Instead of taking a hint I decided to double major.  During my last semester of Sophomore year I took an American Literature class.  It was one of my smaller classes and I was the youngest student taking the class and the only sophomore.  I was the only one who ever did the reading, I was always the first one in the classroom and I was the only one who sat in the front row.  There were no men in the class and Dr. Rommel ruled that class like she did everything- an undying passion for teaching her students.  I was one of the few people who liked her.  She jokingly addressed me as "the history major" whenever she had a history question.  I rarely knew the answer but I enjoyed the class and I enjoyed trying.  I doubt I remember much of that course as a whole except for one class-  Walt Whitman's Song of Myself.  I didn't actually remember who wrote it or what it was called and I probably would have forgotten about it entirely except for one line.

The grass is God's handkerchief.


One might think that the way Dr. Rommel repeated his words and that specific line that our lives depended upon the outcome of this knowledge.  She paced back and forth, questioning us, prodding us, trying to get us to voice our thoughts.  Like usual, everyone behind me shielded their eyes and pretended not to notice as they studiously wrote notes.  I snickered.

Immediately Dr. Rommel rotated back to my part of the classroom.  "Well, what do you have to say?"
If I had any lick of sense I might have shied away, or try to become very small in my seat.  I didn't.  With her gaze she implored me to share my thoughts concerning Walt Whitman as tried hard to stop laughing.  Everyone behind me gave me warning looks, all the while questioning if I had gone nuts.
Remember, the line was "the grass is God's handkerchief."

Finally I managed to smother my laughter enough to voice, "Well at least now we know why it's green."  Every set of eyes on the classroom looked at me in shock.  No one understood.  So I had to explain.  No one laughed.  Except for me.  I'd like to say that I had enough self confidence to defend my position, to challenge their questioning gazes, to answer their stares.  Finally I had gotten the message and sunk down in my chair.  And I might have stayed there except for Dr. Rommel who stood up and announced, "Now she has a perfectly arguable position," as she continued on with class.  I considered her words.  She was right though, as usual.

After class I went to see her.  I was very confused and who better than my adviser to help me sort them out.  I told her that I never had a problem speaking up in History class.  I could argue against the most outspoken boys in school about the most ridiculous of subjects.  I could play devil's advocate to my heart's content.  I could do research and my research made a difference in class.  I never had to question my understanding of history.  With Literature I was usually lost in space.  I still remember what she said.  Just because I wasn't as good at Literature didn't mean that I was bad at it- just that I was better at History, and maybe I should pursue it completely.  The next day I declared my history major and worked stuck with it till I graduated.  I changed that semester.

Thursday, February 16, 2012

Fifty ways to ruin macaroni and cheese

If ever there were a title for my unwritten biography, this would be one of the first runner ups.  It is a tragedy and a curse that the women in my family are usually inept at cooking.  When you combine this with our natural affinity to not follow simple instructions my brothers and I might have been doomed in the kitchen had it not been for the simple saving grace of my eldest brother.  The gentle giant that is my eldest brother has always been something of a mystery to my parents.  The giant stands at just over six feet tall while my parents cannot boast anything taller than five foot, five inches between the two of them.  If you inspect my grandparents the conversation becomes even more confusing as my father is the tallest member of his family by quite a few inches (my grandmother was four foot two) and my mother's parents weren't that tall either.  In fact, if the giant didn't look exactly like my father, except for being eight inches taller) one might question my brother's paternity (I sometimes wonder if he came from BFG).  In addition to his height, the giant has one more mysterious quality which we question- unlike the rest of my family he can cook.

Growing up he liked to experiment in the kitchen, sometimes with my Mother's knowledge.  We'd wait until date night and then we would have a party in the kitchen- the Giant would experiment, Jip would be at the laptop playing DJ, Baby would be playing, Boyo would be doing whatever it was that he did, and I would be on damage control- i.e. I cleaned up.  We would look forward to date night with the enthusiasm that most children would wait for Christmas because as soon as the parental units were gone we would have a dance party in the kitchen.  If the parental units ever discovered what we did while they were out, they never let on and never complained, so long as the Giant didn't go crazy with his creations. 

In person the giant is kindly, careful, friendly, and always a gentleman.  In the kitchen he is pushy, controlling, and orderly, if not clean.  We, his siblings, might not forgive him for his culinary tyranny if not for his creations and the constitutional rule that anything edible must be shared by all parties.  For the most part this worked out for as the giant is an expert at making pasta, seafood, casseroles, breads, desserts, meat and potatoes, salads, vegetarian, potpies, regular pies, cakes, cookies, meat lovers, porkless, porkful, soufflés- if you can think of it he can make it, with one minor exception- from a box, simple as that, macaroni and cheese.  

1.   1. Undercook the noodles. 
      2. Overcook the noodles. 
      3. Burn the noodles. 
      4. Scald the noodles. 
      5. Sautee the noodles. 
      6. Forget about the noodles.
      7. Set off the smoke alarm. 
      8. Accidentally leave the lid off and get dog hair in it. 
      9. Rinse the noodles too much. 
      10. Forget to rinse them at all. 
      11. Use goat milk. 
      12. Use fake butter.
      13. Use water instead of milk. 
      14. Use salt instead of butter. 
      15. Add chili pepper. 
      16. Spill in whole peppercorn by mistake.
      17. Add a chili pepper.  
      18. Wash out the butter. 
      19. With soap. 
      20. Leave the top off and someone tossed in a toy car. 
      30. Add the cheese too early. 
      31. Add the cheese too late. 
      32. Forget to mix the cheese. 
      33. Drop the package for the cheese into the pot.
      34. Drop the box into the pot. 
      35. Mix it in anyways. 
      36. Forget to mix the butter. 
      37. Try to mix the cheese, noodles, butter, milk, and hot water altogether. 
      38. Try to mix them all separately. 
      39. Stack them like a seven layer dip. 
      40. Bake it in the oven. 
      41. Forget the cheese. 
      42. Forget the butter.
      43. Forget the milk. 
      44. Forget the water. 
      45. Forget the noodles. 
      46. Forget to turn off the stove. 
      47. Forget to turn on the fan. 
      48. Forget to drain the water.
      49. Serve it up like crunchy cereal. 
      50. Serve it like soup. 

Now it stands to reason that most of this probably didn’t happen.  After all I am his sister and I have to rib him as best I can from four states away, but in the interest of truthfulness you must know I could not have exaggerated everything, right?  Anyway you can imagine some of the ways, and a great many that I am sure that you can’t, he can ruin macaroni and cheese with the best- or worst- of them.  I like to think that he has trouble following directions, like most of the engineers in our family, but he can follow recipes as well as his preferred method of making it up as he goes along.  The giant is the only person I know who can make a mistake while cooking and it turns out fabulously.  Most everything I know about cooking I learned from him and no matter how I try he could whip the pants off me in the kitchen.  It’s not fair.  And it never will be.  Except for the fact that I can make mac and cheese.  

And so we suffer through it, his chicken that is so amazing it almost tastes like pork, his spicy chicken soup that could cure any cold, his beefy casseroles, his surprisingly good lentil chip dip, and his beyond heavenly shrimp sauce.  Hmmmm…. When people ask me what I miss most about California I say good food.  I’m sure they assume I mean my favorite restaurants, but really I mean the giant’s cooking… with the exception of macaroni and cheese.    

Thursday, February 09, 2012

Potato Salad

This was written in 2006 when I was still a minor.  I like to think that my writing has improved.  I'd like to point out that I was a wee bit crazy at this point.  I would also like to point out that it's still true.  Most people think of Valentine's Day and if they are alone they sulk and if they are in a relationship they stress.  Seven years later, when I think of Valentine's Day I still think of Michael.

How many times since the war started have we passed over the stories of a soldier’s death, or a civilian’s martyr? How many pangs have we forgone in the attempt to keep our own perfect little worlds from shattering? How often have we tried to shut out the darkness and the sadness? We need to reopen our hearts to the pain, so that we don't block out someone in need. Here’s the story of my wake up call.
Yesterday, Valentine's Day, my Mother was waiting for some sandwiches to be made at the supermarket to feed the throng of teenage boys that always seem to accumulate around her. A woman came up behind her and since she was just picking up four containers of potato salad my Mother spoke to the lady behind the counter to assist the woman first. In an effort to make conversation my Mother asked, “So, are you having a party?”
The woman looked at my Mother and answered, “Not exactly. My son died in Iraq on Valentine’s Day and all the family is coming into town today.”
The woman began to cry and my Mother went and held her tightly. “You know he’s in heaven now?” my Mother reassured her. My Mother continued to try to comfort the lady as the woman behind the counter (who didn’t speak or understand English all that well) watched on in confusion. The woman began to sob and managed to say, “I know he died doing what was right, but I would do anything to have him not be a good guy and still be here with me.”
My Mother asked the lady, “What was his name?”
And she replied, “Michael.” Apparently he died in transit going to the hospital and he held his rosary and he was wearing his medals.
Please say a prayer and then pass this on if you could. Now is not the time to forget and tomorrow isn’t either. Please continue to pray with me for our soldiers’ safety.

Thursday, February 02, 2012

What they said...


The time has come, the Gabbie Lady said, for some funny recollections based mostly in truth of things that the smalls have said.  
"That would be like... great" -10, a long, long time ago. 

"Well don't grab the bottom, you dope." -GL
"I'm not dope."- six, when she was five.
"No dear, you are not." -GL

"I think you need some tea... and some sugar... and some stuff that goes on top of sugar." -six, when she was Five

"Oh no! Someone broke the little ball that SOMEONE gave me!!!!!" -Four

"Water is not air" -Ten when she was two after choking on water.

"Seven, will you ever wash my socks." -GL
"No." -Seven
"What if you get married?" -GL
"No." -Seven
"You don't think you'll ever wash your wife's socks?" -GL
"No." -Seven

"What are we having for lunch?" -Eight
"Cold mush... hot sauce... and the grossest kind of beans I can think of." -me
"Cool." -Eight

"And what was Christopher Columbus looking for when he set sail?" -Tia
"Texas!" -Four

"And Saint Gabrielle, pray for us." -Seven
*This one is especially funny to me because he does it every night.  I chortle and think, he's not talking about the Archangel, but rather the saint I am becoming.*

"You are all my minions." -Four
"No, you are the shortest so you have to be our minion." -Seven
"No, because I told you first." -Four

"See, those are dolphin babies.  Those are dog babies.  And those are elephant babies." -me
"Elephants don't have babies.  People have babies." -Four

"What are we having for lunch?" -Eight
"Jim." -me
"Yeah!" -Seven

"We saw a dragon egg today." -Ten
"You mean a Komodo dragon?" -Tio
"No, a dragon egg." -Ten
"An ostrich egg?" -Tio
"No, it was a dragon egg." -Ten
"How could it be a dragon egg?" -Tio
"It was the egg of an extinct dinosaur like creature... that might've resembled a dragon." -me
"I told you we saw a dragon!" -Ten

"We learned about how the sinks is near the period in Egypt." -someone else's kid

"Why do you think they are called beaded lizards?" -me
"Because they are always beated up." -Six

"Why do you think all the hippos have scars on their backs?" -me
"Mating season." -Ten
*What was better was that when she said this she said it loud enough for everyone in the room to hear and more than one adult turned and laughed.  I was not one of them laughing.* 


"Rematch!" -Seven *as they toss a lightsbaer at Joja J.B.*
"Ow!" *as it lands on him.*


"SHARKS!" -Eight
*while watching an educational movie.  I encourage the kids to ask questions and to tell me what they see.  Frequently what they "see" is not actually what they are seeing.*
"They can't be sharks because they don't have a dorsal fins." -me
"Finless sharks!" -Eight

"I'm going to give Joja* J.B. a lightsaber." -Seven, *"uncle" in Russian.*
"No, we don't want a fair fight." -Eight
*The little darlings were going to ambush their weirdest uncle when he came to visit.  It certainly gives incentive not to come and visit.*

"Manatee!" -Eight
"No, that's a Dugong." -me
"No, it's a whale!" -Six
"Actually they just said it's a Dugong.  It's related to a manatee and looks like a manatee but Dugongs live in salt water and manatees don't." -me
"It's a dolphin!" -Four

"WE can't attack Princessa Sarah* or the baby but Joja J.B. is fair game." -Seven
*Their favorite name for their prettiest aunt.*

"What are we eating for lunch?" -Seven
"Whoever asks that question next." -me
"Hey, go ask Gabbie what we are having for lunch." -Seven