Category Archives: OMG

Décolleté is Fun to Say

Mama and I were discussing First Communion dresses. I felt that some of the specimens I had seen on the racks when searching for the V-meister’s dress were a little inappropriate.

“For example, spaghetti straps. Can you imagine?” I complained to Mama, who agreed that the world was indeed going to hell in a handbasket as evidenced by the latest First Communion fashions.

“And it was slim pickins’ just to find something with a cap sleeve,” I lamented. “I had to buy the V-meister a bolero jacket for the sake of human decency.”

“Times are changing,” Mama agreed. Then, sensing an opportunity to segue into a topic that has evidently been consuming her, she asked me what I myself would be wearing to the V-meister’s First Communion.

“And what about you?” Mama said. “Will you be bringing your décolleté tomorrow?”

“My what?”

There was a moment of uncomfortable silence.

“Do you know what a décolleté is?” Mama asked, using the French pronunciation.

“Well, yeah.” But what was Mama implying?

“It’s lovely, of course. It’s just that, don’t you think, especially in church, a low neckline can be a little distracting?”

I have never been distracted by my décolleté. In fact, I was only half aware I had one. Still, I assured Mama that I would be wearing nothing short of a turtleneck and hung up in a hurry.

Now I am paranoid. Every morning when I get dressed, I look down to see what’s the what. Most days everything seems to be tucked away neatly, but you never know how your décolleté is going to act in a given situation. I have had to take certain measures, such as walking around with my arms crossed and standing no less than five feet away from a person when we are talking. Also, I no longer permit myself to lean over.

Tomorrow, I am going to Nordstrom to get fitted for a Shakespearean collar.

 

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I Saw a UFO

When the children and I returned to our campsite overlooking Lake Raystown in the scenic Pennsylvania foothills, it was already dark and my husband was pacing back and forth.

“Where have you guys been?” he asked me. “I was about to send out an APB.”

“P-Dawg,” I said solemnly as I took a seat by the fire, “I just had a transcendental experience.”

“Did you see a UFO?” my husband dead-panned.

“How did you know? Did you see it, too?”

Here the P-Dawg rolled his eyes. “It was just a wild guess. But go on,” he continued, in what I couldn’t help but notice was a patronizing tone of voice, “Tell me what you saw.”

“Well. You know how sometimes a person will tell you about seeing some kind of weird luminous object in the sky that is definitely not an airplane or a hot air balloon or even a weather satellite?”

“Yes . . .”

“And what you tend to do is smile and nod. Maybe you’ll say something like, ‘Wow! That’s incredible,’ but what you’re really thinking is, ‘This person is a total nut job who probably also plays D&D and goes to medieval re-enactment fairs.”

“Yes . . .”

“Well, I know how those people feel now, the ones who no one believes.”

“Okay.”

“I took the kids for a walk down by the lake and while they were having a blast with the playground all to themselves, I sat down on a nearby rock and watched the sun set between the mountains. It was a gorgeous sunset, all salmon and coral blending into lavender gray within this perfectly balanced frame of water, mountains, and clouds around it.”

“Uh-huh.”

“And I felt totally content. The sight of that beautiful sunset completely eradicated those first few not so great days of our vacation, when I had to adjust to living in squalor and taking public showers, and when our reunion with our friends got rained out and when our side storage compartment opened up on the turnpike and we lost some of our stuff.”

“Go on,” said the P-Dawg.

“And just as I was thinking about what a perfect ending that sunset was to our vacation, this ORB OF GOLDEN LIGHT came up over the top of the mountain and started moving towards me.”

“Sounds like Ball Lightning.”

“It was about half the size of a full moon, I’d say. At first I thought it was a hot air balloon or something because the edges seemed like they were burning, but as it came closer I could tell it obviously wasn’t that. It was a glowing ball of fire. And I’ll tell you something else, P-Dawg. I saw it right there in front of me plain as the nose on your face.”

“I bet it was Ball Lightning.”

“It was moving towards me, but I felt no fear. Instead I got up from my rock and started walking toward it. It was the strangest thing I’d ever seen in the sky and I just had to find out what it was.”

“Ball Lightning” the P-Dawg said.

“I did not feel as though I was in any danger. It was one of those times when you think, ‘If this is the mothership come to take me home, well then so be it. I stared at it for several minutes and just when it got close enough that I thought I’d finally be able to make out what it was, it suddenly receded into a tiny pinprick and disappeared.”

“Look up ‘Ball Lightning’,” my husband said to me.  “Also, ‘Foo Fighter’,’Saint Elmo’s Fire’ and ‘Will o’ the Wisp’. I hear it happens pretty often when the conditions are right.”

“Have you ever seen it?”

“No.”

“Well. If it’s so common, how come they never mentioned it in my Earth Science class?”

Some of you are probably wondering if the Ball Lightning had a message for me.

It did not. But on that last night of our camping trip, in the tranquil breath between day and night, in front of misty mountains against a canvas of pink light, I felt for a moment as though all was right with the world. It made our whole trip worth it.

And now whenever I walk past the microwave, it starts going automatically and my hair stands on end.

Just kidding.

 

Of course, I didn’t have my phone or camera with me. But the Ball Lightning looked something like this:

 

You can look at some of the more mundane photos from our trip on my Flickr page here. One of the kids deleted most of the photos from my camera, so I have very few pictures from the inside of the camper and the three days we spent in DC.

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Saint Peter, a Priest, and a College Student are in a Boat. . .

One summer during college, I went on a retreat with my Catholic youth group. And not just any retreat, but a canoeing retreat. It took place at Canada’s stunningly beautiful Algonquin Provincial Park and I regretted it from the moment I realized I’d have to row a canoe and occasionally even carry that canoe, plus my worldly belongings, over my own head.

It was hot, there were swarms of bees, and you couldn’t even catch a break when we stopped to rest because that was scripture reading time. The campground, when we reached it, wasn’t so much a campground as a small secluded island with no plumbing or electrical outlets to plug your curling iron in. We cooked by fire, put iodine tablets in the river water to cleanse it, and slept on the forest floor in tents.

Despite all that, Algonquin was pretty impressive. I was with my closest friends, had my eye on a handsome Quebecois, and was appreciating the beauty of creation despite myself. You can’t help but feel closer to God when you paddle by a single moose standing in shallow waters with mountains and the setting sun as backdrop. Or when you’re kicking back by the fire with a brewski and some chips.

On the last day of the retreat, after we’d packed up the campsite and put out the fires, we had the opportunity to receive the sacrament of confession. The prospect of dragging out your sins without the benefit of a confessional window to hide behind was daunting to say the least, but our chaplain – Father Sunshine – was a stand-up priest who had good rapport with young people and was always quick with a kind word or joke. Besides, after three days in the woods, we felt humble and changed. One by one, we took the plunge.

I was the last to go and when my turn came, I went to town. There was no end to my transgressions, no sin left behind. Big ones, small ones, I lifted each one individually and cast it off like refuse into the abyss. In the past I’d questioned the necessity of confession as a sacrament, believing that no mediator was needed between me and God. But there is something about laying your faults bare, about lifting them up and giving them away, that is spectacularly liberating. At least, it was very good for me.

Afterward I felt like a new person. My backpack was suddenly lighter, there was a bounce in my step. But even more importantly, I knew that in just six short hours, I’d be showering and sleeping in a real bed. What I didn’t know was that while I was going through my litany, everyone else in the group had paired up. One by one, the canoes and their occupants set off towards home base as the wind picked up and a steady rain began to pour.

Father Sunshine and I were the only two left.

He looked at me, I looked at him.

“I guess we’re buddies” he said.

Next thing you know, I’m in a boat with my confessor. It’s driving rain and I’m doing my best to keep the canoe moving forward in a straight line. Father Sunshine is patient and gives gentle advice, but in his heart of hearts I know he’s marveling at my sins. It’s a predicament to say the least, only made worse by the fact that we’re drifting farther away from the other canoes in the middle of a storm.

The only redeeming thing about the situation is that I’m about to die a saint.

After awhile, even father Sunshine starts looking worried and suggests we ask Saint Peter to keep an eye on us and give us faith. Saint Peter, of course, is the apostle who with God’s help rowed his boat safely ashore in the raging sea of Gallilee while Jesus slept.

Even in my terror, I couldn’t help but notice the poetry of the situation. Especially when, after dispensing his advice, Father Sunshine put down his oars and lit up a Marlboro Light.

“Keep rowing,” he told me, “I have faith in you.”

I don’t know how we made it out alive, but it was the best penance I ever did.

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When Animals Attack

It’s easy, when you live in the suburbs and drive around town in the relative safety of your mid-size SUV, to forget your smallness in relation to the Earth at-large.  You start to feel confident that a seat belt, a prescription, and the good sense to steer clear of gangs, is insurance enough against harm. Sometimes it takes almost getting gored by a ferocious buck on a hilltop in Michigan to put everything back in perspective.

Despite swearing I’d never go back after the heat/humidity/mosquito/lice debacle of 2010, I spent the weekend at camp. This time the weather was perfect and there were no vermin. We arrived on Friday night and spent the evening chatting with friends by the fireplace, drinking spiced beverages, and playing Lithuanian Trivial Pursuit as people on a fall weekend in the woods are wont to do.

The next day was gorgeous – sunny and mild – and we spent most of it outdoors. The V-meister ran gleefully hither and yon, collecting all manner of things living and dead inside her backpack while I took an uncharacteristic reprieve from breathing down her neck.  The P-Dawg did manly chores like gathering firewood and moving a keg from the car to the freezer, and I forced Jonas to go on a hike with me around the lake.

Later, when the children were otherwise occupied, my friend V (yup, she was there too) and I decided to take a short walk to the top of a nearby hilltop, where we sat down on a bench to chat. We were generally minding our own business and remarking on the pleasant time we were having, when V halted mid-sentence and said in an urgent tone, “J, (that’s my nickname) What should we do?

I looked up just in time to lock eyes with my own mortality in the form of a gigantic and very fearsome buck wearing antlers long enough to catch a radio signal with. He was standing about fifty feet away from us across the clearing.

“Shhhhhhhh! Don’t move!” I hissed at my friend V. “Don’t. Move.”

No sooner had I spoken than the earth began to rumble and shake as the buck started to charge in our direction. My friend V and I sat paralyzed on our little bench while visions of our short, yet not entirely unproductive lives played before our eyes. For a brief, terrifying moment, the flimsy veil of continuity – so easily forgotten in everyday life – was lifted, and we were reminded of our humble places in the celestial pecking order, the fleeting, arbitrary nature of our time and place on Earth.

We were about to be eaten for lunch.

As it happened, the buck was not particularly interested in a couple of grain fed thirty-something moms wearing North Face jackets. It had its eye on something in the woods directly behind us and missed us by six or seven feet. Once we realized we were out of danger, my friend V began to laugh maniacally as is her tendency in life and death situations, while I took off running for the bottom of the hill, leaving her to contemplate the harrowing encounter in her own way.

Later, we told our friends the buck was ten feet tall and foaming at the mouth.  And I said that if it had actually tried to attack me, I would have simply grabbed it by the horns and ridden it rodeo style until help arrived.

But I’m really glad it didn’t come to that. It’s probably healthy to catch a glimpse of your own mortality every now and again, but I would actually prefer to keep that curtain closed for a long, long time to come.

Me

My Friend V

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