HILARIOUS

Newt Gingrich failed to collect the 10,000 signatures that were required for him to appear on the GOP primary ballot in Virginia.

Virginia.

The state where Gingrich lives.

 

In the words of Rick Perry, "Oops!"

In the words of Gingrich's campaign manager, Michael Krull, “Newt and I agreed that the analogy is December 1941: We have experienced an unexpected setback, but we will re-group and re-focus with increased determination, commitment and positive action.”

The Gingrich Campaign slips up collecting signatures for a Republican primary ballot, and it's analogous to Pearl Harbor?  A “date which will live in infamy” in American history?  An assault that killed 2,500 people and wounded 1,000; damaging or destroying 18 American warships and almost 300 aircraft?

You read that right.

 

According to Newt Gingrich's campaign manager, their primary ballot blunder is equivalent to an Act of War that thrust our nation into World War II.

 

Mitt Romney views the fiasco differently. He describes the Gingrich goof as being more like an hilarious episode of I Love Lucy when Lucille Ball futilely attempts to keep up with chocolate candies that are moving too quickly down a factory conveyor belt. "I mean, you got to get it organized.” Romney told reporters.

I couldn't agree more. Note to Presidential candidates: You 'got to get it organized.' 

Better yet, you need to get a grip.

On reality.

The blur of debates and news stories featuring Presidential candidates these past many months would be hilarious- if it wasn't so alarming.

Our country desperately needs bold leadership to tackle a multitude of challenges in the New Year: job creation in a rapidly changing workplace, the unemployment crisis, the deficit, energy and environmental issues, upheaval in the Arab world,  tax and education reform, infrastructure repair and expansion, restructuring of Medicaid and Social Security, immigration-to name just a few.

While our nation's conveyor belt- replete with trials-revolves on overdrive, our assembly-line leaders chew them up and spit them out, or tuck them under Uncle Sam's overstuffed partisan hat to ignore. Just like Lucy so ineptly handling all those chocolates.

Hilarious. 

 

When Steve Jobs died in October, The Onion's satirical obituary read in part: Steve Jobs, the visionary co-founder of Apple Computers and the only American in the country who had any clue what the (blankety blank) he was doing, died Wednesday at the age of 56. "We haven't just lost a great innovator, leader, and businessman, we've literally lost the only person in this country who actually .... knew what the hell was going on," a statement from President Barack Obama read in part, adding that Jobs will be remembered both for the life-changing products he created and for the fact that he was able to sit down, think clearly, and execute his ideas—attributes he shared with no other U.S. citizen."

Hilarious.

 

Fact is, lots of U.S. citizens can think clearly, execute innovative ideas, and innovative solutions to problems. They just don't seem to be working at the top levels of government.

The state of our nation's politics has stooped to the level of Keeping up with the Kardashians and The Jersey Shore. We are mired in a National TV Reality Show that could be entitled Politicians on Parade. Our leaders resemble The Mad Hatter, Goofy, Pluto, Pinocchio and Snow White traipsing down Main Street USA in a Disney Parade of Dreams- rather than leaders of vision who will inspire ordinary people to do extraordinary things.

It's December 29, 2011.

 

I say we give ourselves two more days of the Reality TV nonsense that is our national discourse. Then we work to find patriots, innovators and leaders who are wise, tough and courageous enough to lead us back to reality.

 

Finding such leaders won't be hilarious.  But it sure will fill a nation with delight.

QUING Hereby Decrees:  It's almost the New Year. Let's count down to 'Reasonable'.

CLUTTER

Married six months shy of two decades. But Husband still surprises.

My Christmas surprise: out of town family is planning a visit. On the day after Christmas. On the day before son’s early-morning surgery.

Surprise!

Me: You're kidding, right? We just had 30 people for Christmas dinner. The house is trashed. Dishes, platters and glasses are all over the place. Squashed lasagna noodles are crusted on the floor. THERE ARE NO CLEAN BATH TOWELS!

Husband: They won't care about any of that.

Me: I care. Call and ask if they can make the trip on Wednesday. Or Thursday. Friday. Saturday.

Husband: Don't worry about it. Plans are all set. They'll be here at three.

  
End of discussion.

Is there a superlative for livid?

I had just been punted into the Cannot-Win-Zone. Of course I'd like Husband's brother and family to visit! We rarely see them. They can visit and stay as long as they’d like. Just don’t pull into my driveway during my Day-after-Christmas-Collapse.

Why? Because I want to sleep past seven on the day after Christmas. I want to hang out with my kids- without time constraints or pressure. I want to serve leftovers. I don't want to clean, cook or make pleasant conversation- with anyone.

Reasonable, right?

  
Truth be told, the most compelling reason to keep visitors out of our house on December 26th is that Clutter Rules: especially on the day after Christmas. Clutter rivals Laundry for most hated entity imaginable.

Open a closet- rolls of wrapping paper will fall on your head. Venture barefooted into the family room obstacle course- smash big toe into a chess board or computer that's been left under a pillow that shouldn't be on the floor. Try to answer the phone. I double dare you to run from room to room, reaching into five empty phone cradles to locate the ring-a-ding before that call shoots off to voicemail.

Clutter Rules.

 
Disclosure: My in-laws are surgical-unit-neat. Clean. Tidy. Clutterless.

We are fly-by-the-seat-of-our-pants-life-is-a-busy-adventure-let’s-work-practice-finish homework-read-write-visit-or-cook-a-huge-meal-and-have-a-dinner-party-CLUTTERED.

I gave up on perpetually organized closets, drawers, counter-tops and kids bedrooms long ago-when 24 hour days lacked enough time to clean, cook, discard, organize, take care of kids, keep a job and get any sleep. I try not to sigh audibly when I visit a friend’s home and I can see counter tops. I break a commandment (Thou Shalt not Covet thy Neighbor’s Clean Garage) every time I glance across the yard and see my neighbor's Big Boy Toys hanging neatly in a row.

My Clutter Tipping Point- is the one remnant of my pre-kid organized life. Once the CTP shifts into overdrive, I become a cross between a woman in need of an exorcism and the Tasmanian Devil: i.e the most popular person in my house. Overdrive always occurs the day before a party- or an out of town visit.

In-laws arrived Monday afternoon. The moment I saw my nephews, I stepped from Cannot-Win and She-Devil zones into Reality. I remembered how terrific it feels to have kids you love-but too seldom see- walk into the house and feel right at home. We noshed on leftover crab cakes and dips, talked through our relative checklist, then moved on to a more important matter: Mexican or Pizza?

Cousins ran off to X-Box. I apologized to Brother-in-law for the chaos of the surroundings and the schedule. “Wish we could have done this mid-week,” I said.

“I kind of like showing up during all the commotion,” he answered. “After we cleared out my in-laws’ house last spring, we decided to get rid of as much stuff as possible. It’s been a cleaning and discarding frenzy in our home ever since.”

My first interpretation of that comment: "If I was one of your kids and you left me this houseful of stuff to clear out, clean out, and throw out, I might hate you for all eternity.”

But upon further reflection, I'm thinking that my brother-in-law was reminding me that every once in a while, it feels good to skip order and choose the moment; however untidy that moment may be. Commotion, chaos, and clutter is the stuff of life; a signature of a living, breathing family. 

So too, is spontaneity; the kind of spontaneity that entices a family to hop in a car and travel twelve hours, just so they can have dinner with loved ones they haven't seen in far too long.

Reality check. The perfect gift to give this hostess at Christmas. 

Next year I hope my Brother-in-Law will bring it two days after Christmas!

QUING Hereby Decrees: It's Christmastide. Family trumps tired.

GIFT

 

Magic happened this Christmas.

It was under the tree, but I didn’t put it there.

It was at the feast, but I didn’t bake it.

It was in the music, but I was not singing.

It was a mighty lesson. I finally paid attention.

Life happened.

Death came in threes; ignoring deadlines, plans, and preparations- but gifting perspective.

The control freak, planner, executor- awakened to the 48-Hours-'til-Christmas-Crunch-Time in a humbling fog of heartache. Doer was forced to become teacher.

Kids did not simply frost cookies. They poured and measured, cut and baked.

Kids did not simply roll meatballs for the Christmas lasagna. They learned to mix meat and crumbs, to spice and stack.

Kids did not simply run down the stairs to discover piles of beautifully wrapped gifts on Christmas morning. They boxed and tucked, taped and ribboned.

Kids did not simply tear open gifts to discover treasures inside. They planned, purchased, and wrapped gifts for each other- without any suggestion or help.

Christmas dinner company was arriving, and I looked up from the stovetop. Clutter had disappeared. Tablecloths and napkins were ironed. Place settings were set. Floors were swept and scrubbed. Chandelier sparkled, candles glowed.

The kids who I usually carry on my shoulders had rescued me.

 
Rescued Christmas.

Tragedy briefly shuttered my heart this Christmas. It also opened my eyes. My incessant doing was taking away from my kids’ learning to do for themselves. My incessant doing was keeping my kids from learning to do without me.  

Should life happen.

Late Christmas night, as I rinsed the last goblet and handed it to my daughter to dry, she reflected, “Christmas is so different now, Mom. Not like when we were young, and we dreamed about Santa and all the gifts he’d bring.”

I looked into her not quite adult eyes, and saw a flash of child. “Yes, you’re all older now," I agreed. "But it’s so much more fun! Santa didn't bring the best gifts for Christmas. You and your brothers and sister brought them: drum sticks from Disney, college t-shirts, a bobble-head goalie, certificates for lunch and a stroll through the art gallery. The presents you bought for each other were the best gifts under the tree. You made all the Christmas magic!”

  
A month ago, as the Christmas season began, I was wishing that my Christmas gift list still included Playdough, Legos and dress-up.

I longed for a Kid Christmas, and that is exactly what I got.

My kids did Christmas. Magnificently. All these years while I was doing, they were watching. I fell into the wings, and they stepped up as the Main Act. I forgot the words to the songs, and they sang them for me. Startling and thrilling to observe.

For eighteen years, Christmas has been about my kids. This year, my kids gave Christmas back to me.

Channeling Dickens, I shall honor that gift in my heart, and try to keep it all the year.

QUING Hereby Decrees:  It's Christmastide.  Much, much love to you and yours.

QUING Parties at the Palace with POMMY'S

I will admit to having purchased a few punch bowls in my day.  In fact, when my kids were little, I purchased a new punch bowl every time one of them, a cousin or a friend cracked the ladle into the bowl while pouring punch and capowie!- no more punch bowl.

 

Ultimately Husband caught on.  "Do we really need another punch bowl?" he asked years ago as I tried to sneak from car to basement while hiding a rather large bag that was shifting behind my back like a pendulum. 

"Of course we do," I countered.  "Punch is festive.  It makes a celebration a celebration!"

My four children were on hand for that exchange. They still shout out that quote whenever we have a party and I pull out the punch bowl.

Next week, I'll serve drinks in red martini glasses. I'll fill them with POMMY'S. They are easy to make and sweet to sip. Festive. Like punch!  ENJOY!

POMMY'S  PUNCH

(fills Six Martini Glasses)

24 ounces Pomegranate Juice

8 ounces Vodka

2 heaping ice cream scoops of Rainbow Sherbet

1TBL Lime Juice

Lime Slices for Garnish

Mix juices, vodka and sherbet in a blender.  Serve over ice and garnish with a slice of lime. 
For a festive red cocktail, that guys will like, too, try plain old Pommy- on the rocks, or blended with crushed ice.     

POMMY'S 

(Makes one drink)

3 ounces Pomegranate Juice 
2 ounces Vodka 
4 ounces (Diet) Sprite or 7-Up
Splash of Lime Juice

COUNTRY HOUSE

What happens when you play hooky, right before the holidays?

 

Surgeon tells son that his basketball-bludgeoned-broken-nose needs surgery-next week.

Doctor utters the words 'Slim and None' in my presence. Sees my expression. Orders MRI.

 

Wake for beloved friend is three hours long. No skipping out.

Teenage daughter gets lost- and rear-ended- at midnight, on a city block where police don't get out of their cars for fear of death. 

 

All in 24 hours.

. 

Baileys on the rocks, anyone?

Waiting (for 2 1/2 hours) in the doctor's office this afternoon, I was thinking of presents not yet purchased, cards not mailed, dough in the fridge and what-am-I-going-to-make-for-dinner? 

And then I remembered: I've been here before. Almost every Christmas. There won't be a whole lot of time to sleep these next two days, but stuff will get done. Magic will happen.  

Just like it does every Christmas.

At least the stockings are hung by the chimney with care. And the house is 'Kid Christmas'- waiting for a spontaneous visit from a friend.

So, COME ON OVER!

Have a cup of tea.  A glass of wine.

I would love to chat- if you promise to talk while I bake.  Or wrap. Or write addresses.

Just please don't mention the excess of holiday decorations.  Husband hears that all the time!

YOU'RE HERE!

C'MON IN!

DON'T WORRY ABOUT YOUR SHOES....

IT'S A SLUSHY MESS IN THE SNOWMAN ROOM, REGARDLESS.

SHE SAW YOU COME IN.  YOU ARE GOING TO HAVE TO PET HER.

MY FIRST HOLIDAY DECORATION

SHALL WE SIT IN THE KITCHEN?

COFFEE OR TEA?

COULDN'T RESIST THE BEARD BALLS...

YES.  I STILL KEEP THEIR CRAFTS....

I'M WASHING DISHES AND SHE WANTS TO GO OUTSIDE...

TO KEEP WATCH FOR HER DEER FRIENDS AND MR. FOX

LET'S HEAD DOWN THE HALL....

NUTS A CRACKIN'!

ENTERING SANTA ZONE

SIT DOWN.  I'LL START A FIRE!

HOW MANY SANTAS?   NO IDEA!

THIS GUY ALWAYS GETS MISTAKEN FOR THE REAL THING

MY FAVORITE ROOM

DINING ROOM BOUND

LET'S TAKE OUT THE GOOD STUFF.  IT'S 5 O'CLOCK SOMEWHERE!

PREPARING FOR THE FAMILY CHRISTMAS DINNER

LIVING ROOM BOUND

DO YOU PLAY?

DO YOU SING?

A ROOM FULL OF CRECHES

MY FAVORITE CHRISTMAS PRESENT EVER

SANTA WILL FIT!

CHRISTMON TREE... SACRED ORNAMENTS ONLY

THE VIEW FROM MY DESK

PENGUINS AREN'T SUPPOSED TO BE IN THIS ROOM.....

DARKNESS IS FALLING

SLEEP IN HEAVENLY PEACE

TO ALL A GOOD NIGHT.  MERRY CHRISTMAS!

WISH LIST

He spent years in Africa as a missionary. Lived in a village where guns were ubiquitous, security services minimal, and violence, poverty and disease staples of daily life.  But the people were magnificent. Humble, hard-working, devout. He loved and was inspired by them. They changed him.

Father Bob returned to the United States- to our super-sized stores and strip-mall abundance. To culture shock. The man who church-goers used to follow from church to church- just to listen to his sermons; the gentleman who had his own chair at my family kitchen table- who captivated us for years with brilliant conversation and great humor-  returned home from a far-way land with a haunted, knowing look in his eyes. He had seen and lived reality, and far preferred African village life to American life.

 

A school principal, Father Bob was called to be a Consolata Missionary because of his devotion to the Blessed Mother, and his desire to serve all people of the world-particularly those who were marginalized and abandoned.  An advocate of justice and peace, he traveled the world defending human rights. He made a difference to countless human beings by encouraging them to work hard and use their talents, smarts and resources to positively impact their corner of the world.

Father Bob was a beloved member of my family; a heartline rather than bloodline relation.  He was a man who listened to a kid's crazy dreams and told her to get moving and make them happen; a priest who had Mother Teresa and her Sisters of Charity- as well as half of Africa- praying for that grown-up kid's pound-and-a-half preemie to survive.  

Father Bob walked the walk. He encouraged everyone he met to look outward to the neighborhood, city, and world that was so desperate for compassion, hope, kindness, aid. His very presence reflected a greater purpose and plan. Be mindful. And act.

A month ago, Father Bob stood beside my mom and me in Room 209 and administered a final sacrament to my dying aunt. He was preparing to relocate to New Jersey- to assume the role of Provincial of North and South America. Instead, this past weekend, Father Bob's enormous heart stopped beating as he was saying his final mass. 

He will not return to the African villages he loved and missed so much. He will not continue to be a wise and determined voice for compassion and justice. Thousands of us who loved him will have to remind ourselves to be mindful and act. We will have to step up and do Father Bob's important work for him.

My sister poignantly stated that our beloved friend is on a direct flight to heaven. Imagining such a flight- and landing- takes the edge off profound and unexpected grief.  But I don't know anything about heaven. Haven't read any books or testimonials from folks who have visited and returned.  I know what my faith and the Bible tell us, what philosophers posit. I know a whole lot of people think the concept of heaven is nonsense. 

Not I.  Today, on behalf of all of us who will celebrate Christmas, Chanukah and the New Year missing someone we love, I am exchanging my Christmas Wish list for a Heaven Wish list. Like most wish lists, this one is subject to change, daily.  Questions or concerns must be referred to someone way above my pay grade. 

Heaven Wish List 2011:

1.  Guidelines for Admission: You loved. You were loved. (Especially when it was really, really difficult to do either.)

2.  Rules Posted: No illness. No hatred.  No narrow-mindedness. No discrimination. No bullying. No judging. No narcissism. No being mean. Swim (skip, run) whenever you want.

3.  A Wing of Divine Love and Understanding: Unconditional love abounds, as do the answers to every 'How?' and "Why?' question that humans find incomprehensible.

4.  A George Bailey Family and Friend Wing: includes all individuals who touched or were touched by your life.

5.  A Beloved Pet Wing: Free of bad smells, bad breath and uncontrollable itching.

6.  Music, Art, Literature, Science, Philosophy, Sports, Theater and Technology Wings: individuals with the most brilliant minds and talents in history roam, chat, invent, sing, and paint with the rest of us.

7.  A Passions Wing: Best kitchens, knitting needles, guitars, skis etc. for whatever you loved doing on earth- or never had a chance to try.

8.   A Complaining, Whining, Grievance and Forgiveness Wing: lots of staff and cubicles- for obvious purposes.

9.   Wine, bread, strawberries, basil, and really good chocolate- that doesn't smell or taste like a pharmacy.

  

10.  Beaches. Mountains. Stars. Lush vegetation and oodles of flowers (and holiday decorations- but only on holidays.)

Direct Flights when it's time to go Home.

 

Heaven.

QUING Hereby Decrees:  RIP beloved Father Robert Rezac. IMC