Category Archives: Uncategorized

Fish Fry Fridays

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One of the things I like best about Lent is our Catholic tradition of hosting “Fish Fry Fridays.”

Back in the day, Catholics had to abstain from all meat on Fridays — every Friday. But when the Church relaxed its rules (permitting meat on Fridays except during the 40-day period of Lent and on Ash Wednesday), Catholics turned to fish. Reason tells me that was probably to help a struggling fishing industry somewhere, but oh well, fish is a good choice.

Who but a kid can exist for a whole day on peanut butter-and-jelly sandwiches or macaroni-and-cheese?

In many parishes, it’s the men — often members of the Knights of Columbus — who do the cooking and serving at Fish Fries. Usually, you can find the ladies or the youth group helping by carrying trays for senior citizens, taking up the money, cleaning tables.

It’s nice when everybody gets involved. Kind of homey.

Wise organizers of parish Fish Fries encourage lots of active participation — something about many hands making little work.

And generally, the group hosting the Fish Fry returns a portion of the proceeds back to the parish.

So everybody wins.

The menu typically features any or all of the following: deep-fried pieces of fish, hush puppies, French fries, baked potatoes, coleslaw, applesauce, baked beans, green beans, grilled cheese sandwiches, bread, rolls, lemonade, iced tea, hot coffee, cold beer, and desserts.

Catholics and non-Catholics alike come out to enjoy Friday Fish Fries. Many stick around for the socializing; others opt for carry-out.

But staying is part of the fun.

Fish Fries offer a chance to get together with folks you might not see every day.

And they’re excellent for would-be politicians seeking to “press the flesh” while supporting a worthy cause!

Most parishes hold Fish Fries at the school cafeteria or their parish hall. Those facilities are already paid for (or in the process of being paid for!); they seat a lot of people, are close to the Church, and have things like TVs and kitchens, bathrooms and game rooms for the kids.

As for the time, Fish Fries typically occur during the dinner hour. Parishes often try to hold their weekly Stations of the Cross observance then, too, to “capture” the early or late diners.

With so much fun and good food, Fridays seem more of a celebration than a punishment!

The Big Dance

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I guess there’s a reason they call it March Madness.

Watching the NCAA men’s and women’s basketball games, I’m struck by how different the game feels from what we played as kids in P.E. class.

Besides being taller (w-a-a-a-y taller!) than most of us were, these young men and women are tougher. More aggressive, even.

Sure, there’s a lot riding on the outcome of their games. Prestige, trophies, money, commemorative rings, bragging rights.

But what’s with those other changes?

  • Chest-bumping. The guys don’t have a corner on this market; even the women are getting into the act, slamming themselves up against one another after somebody does something commendable. I know they probably wear those binding sports bras, but I cringe every time they do it.
  • Tattoos. Again, you kind of expect to see some of the young men sporting tattoos, but when the women start falling into that fad, I shudder. Isn’t it enough to have small tattoos that can be concealed? Why must they decorate their entire arms with graffiti? I mean, one day some of these people are going to be working in offices, banks, legal firms, medical plazas. Might they (or their employers) regret their “artistic” indulgence? Besides, I’ve got to confess that the unadorned arms, in my opinion, look cleaner. Just sayin’.
  • Traveling. Taking even one step with the ball without dribbling was considered a traveling foul for us in P.E. Now we see players take huge lunging leaps toward the goal, and the refs seem unfazed.
  • Penetration. Why is this word a sports announcer’s favorite word? You always hear the male announcers use it — you can hardly watch for five minutes without hearing it — but now the females are coming on board with it. They almost make it sound nasty.
  • Clock. The NCAA doesn’t use an automated clock for these championship games. Surprised? So was I when I read about it this morning. All of the teams who get to the championship level are good. Real good. And they deserve to have their contests monitored by something other than a timekeeper and a stopwatch. Especially when a first-class timing system wouldn’t cost much and would eliminate so much confusion.

Who Goes to Hotels to Sleep?

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Why do some people act worse than animals when they stay at a hotel?

Take last Friday, for example.

I’d picked up My Favorite Domer for Mid-Term Break and, rather than fighting traffic, we checked into a chain hotel with plans to watch college basketball and get an early start home on Saturday.

I’d stayed there before and found it okay. Nothing fancy, mind you, but clean and readily accessible to the shopping/dining spots we were visiting.

No sooner had we settled in to watch the games, the NOISE started.

Our room was located near the end of the hall, far from the typical noise-makers: ice and soda machines and elevator.

But some parents must have decided everybody should share in the delight of their little darlings, as the kids charged up and down the hallway, screaming like banshees and slamming their room door every chance they got.

A few minutes after this began, MFD looked over at me and asked, “Do you smell smoke?”

Fleeting images of us re-donning our day clothes, re-packing suitcases, and evacuating the premises went through my mind as I shook my head. Then it wafted my way.

Cigarettes, on our non-smoking hall.

I called the Front Desk and was told our entire wing was non-smoking. “If we catch them,” he added, “we’ll assess them an extra $75.”

Ooh, I’ll bet that would’ve scared them — not!

So we turned up the TV and clicked on the heating/air conditioning unit to block out the noise and disperse the smoke.

I also called down to the Front Desk again to complain.

Nothing did any good.

Along about 11 p.m., the kids started crying at the top of their lungs. Their parents must not have known they were over-stimulated and up past their bedtime.

Finally, just before midnight, the smoking ceased, as did the noise.

When we checked out the next morning, I voiced my displeasure to a new Front Desk clerk, who was somewhat more sympathetic. I couldn’t help noticing the No Pets Allowed sign and told her, “I’d rather have stayed with dogs than endure those screaming kids.”

How Come…

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I’m up to my ears designing today, but I know I’ve got to post something. How about a list of questions, most of which don’t have easy answers?

How come…

  • Nobody I know ever wins the Publishers Clearing House sweepstakes?
  • You rarely see an adult with a face full of freckles?
  • A bad haircut takes forever to grow out, but a good one sends you back for a trim in two weeks?
  • The bigger the dog, the more it thinks it belongs in your lap?
  • When men are presented a tough job they have no experience with, they shrug and tell you that of course it’s doable; but women will take their time, examine every aspect, and say it might be possible?
  • Mascara sticks so well to skin around your eyes, but fades from sight on your lashes by noon?
  • Cats think nothing of traipsing across the yard, even if they smell “dog” there?
  • You send in a small donation to one charity and suddenly, demands for your funds start pouring in from charities you never even knew existed?
  • Kids home from college on break stay in the shower until the hot water runs out?
  • Doctors give you an appointment day and time, expecting you to be there, but seem nonchalant about forcing you to wait past that time to see them?
  • You just can’t make your car re-create that funny noise when you take it in for service?
  • People at funerals always say the deceased looks like they’re sleeping, when they’ve never actually seen the person sleeping at all?
  • There are so many awesome bloggers out there, yet very few have nabbed book contracts?
  • The tinier the swimsuit, the larger the woman who wants to wear it in public?

The Evolution of Restrooms

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“You can’t go in there!”

I overheard this as I was eating a sandwich at one of our fast food places. I know fast food isn’t good for you, but this blog isn’t about eating!

When I looked up, I noticed a mother, accompanied by her two young daughters and their brother, heading into the ladies’ restroom. It was the littlest girl who made the warning, adding, “Boys aren’t allowed.”

That took me back a dozen or so years to the time when My Favorite Domer was little and I, too, faced the dilemma of “potty time.”

Back in the day, there were only two choices — the Men’s Room or the Ladies’ Room.

A little boy is on the way to becoming a man, but he’s not there yet. He still needs mom’s help, her warnings not to touch anything “because it’s not clean” and her focus (“this-isn’t-time-for-playing-in-the-water”).

And he needs to be protected from all those perverts lurking in the Men’s Room.

Because mom knows that’s where they are.

So she takes him with her to the Ladies’ Room.

As a youngster, he doesn’t particularly care one way or another. He just has to potty. But somewhere around elementary school age, he knows boys use the Men’s Room and girls use the Ladies’ Room.

He balks at having to go into a room for girls and do that. “I can do it myself” is his war-cry.

So mom sends him into foreign territory alone. Standing sentry by the door, she waits on pins and needles for her charge to emerge. Her biggest fear is when some big, burly guy approaches the door and attempts entry.

Should she simply smile and tell him the room is occupied?

The entire room? Nah, that wouldn’t work.

So as he opens the door, she hollers, “Are you finished in there, honey?”

Son dashes out wearing a red face; big, burly guy chuckles, and mom races with son to the car.

To await the next time.

This isn’t any easier on dads who escort their young daughters on jaunts outside their home. I can remember at least once being asked by some blushing dad to watch his daughter for a few minutes while she pottied in the Ladies’ Room.

Guess that’s why there are family bathrooms now. What a cool idea!

Meself Memetastic

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Woo-Hoo, Happy Dance! I just got an award!

This morning while reading some of my favorite blogs, I came to my friend Hippie Cahier and there was my blog’s name!

I’ve been chosen. No more sitting on the sidelines while the cool, popular kids get picked for the basketball team!

Woo-Hoo. Again.

I got something called the Memeststic Award (pronounced “meem-tastic”), and here’s the proof:

memetastic award

I’ve seen this thing around on blogs for a while now, and I’ve gotta say, Awesome! Thanks! I’m honored!

And to think I was planning on doing only Web Design today!

Anyway, this prize comes with a bunch of qualifications, to wit:

1) You must proudly display this disgusting graphic, with its Comic Sans font and its jumping, celebrating kitten created by jillsmo (she’s the one who created it; I guess she has the right to call it “disgusting”).

2) You must list 5 things about yourself, 4 of which must be bold-faced lies. That means one must be true. Quality is irrelevant.

3) You must pass this award along to 5 bloggers whom you like, don’t like, or don’t have an opinion about. You can list what you like or don’t like, of course, but it’s not necessary.

4) If you fail to follow any of the above rules, Jill will hunt you down and harass you unceasingly until, she says, “you either block me on Twitter or ban my IP address from visiting your blog. I don’t know if you can actually do that last thing, but I will become so annoying to you that you will actually go out and hire an IT professional to train you on how to ban IP addresses just so that I’ll leave you alone. I’m serious. I’m going to do these things.” Methinks she probably means it!

5) Once you’ve complied with everything, you need to link to the Memetastic Hop so Jill can keep track of where the award goes.

Now for my Memetastic Lies (remember, one of these is True!!):

1) Alas, I’m tone- deaf. Can’t carry a tune in a bucket. All that and Irish, too!

2) I became the star of cooking class in the eighth grade when I took one look at that sink full of dishes and asked, “Where’s the dishwasher?”

3) Not bragging, but I got my private pilot’s license before I got my auto driver’s license.

4) I have no sense of direction. I’d get lost on the way to town, were it not for my trusty GPS.

5) Shopping for shoes is a real problem — I wear extra narrow widths (that’s AAA). Can you say “online shopping at Zappos”??

And now — ta da! — for my nominees to receive the next Memetastic Award:

1) Lynne Spreen at Any Shiny Thing. She’s a writer and retired Human Resources guru, as well as a new grandma.

2) Linda at Crone and Bear It. Despite her being a rabid Ohio State fan, she’s funny and has an adorable Golden Retriever named EmmaLou.

3) Working Tech Mom. She manages 500 tech professionals and has a family. That exhausts me!

4) Kim Holloway at Stuff Southern People Like. She makes me laugh, she makes me miss Mississippi!

5) Izziedarling at The Whatever Factor. Oh so funny, oh so witty, and such a magnet for bird poop!

Now get cracking, people! You’ll never plow a field by turning it over in your mind (old Irish saying).

Come Back Home

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At church yesterday morning, I was shocked to hear our priest point out that the number of people (parishioners) attending weekend Masses was down — way down.

So I glanced to my right and left and found he was right. There were lots of vacant spaces in the pews.

Our diocese has a new bishop, but to my knowledge there has been no relaxation on the requirements for church attendance on weekends and holy days. And I’m sure news of that magnitude would have caused at least a small furor!

That got me to thinking about why people avoid church services on Sunday (or Saturday, for us Catholics):

  • Weather. Yes, it’s been horrid, and we’ve had more than our share of ice, snow, and cold, but people still get out to do what they want. Some run to the bank; others to their weekly hairdresser appointment; still others to the mall or Wal-Mart or to cards with their buddies. Sorry, this one won’t fly!
  • Age. I’ve heard some of the older members excuse themselves because they’ve “earned a rest,” or because they ache, or because they don’t feel like leaving their comfortable home and driving to church. Where in the Bible does it say we get to “earn” a respite? I can understand if a person is truly ill, he/she doesn’t belong in church, but “not feeling like it” doesn’t fly!
  • Schedule. Some people stay away from church because they don’t like the times of the services. Really? Since when is that an excuse? If your boss says you’re to report for work at 8 a.m., do you get to tell him you’d rather sleep in until 10? I think not!
  • Anger. Ongoing criticism of church sex scandals, anger with a clergyman from the distant past, slights perceived or real, disagreement with church policy, etc. aren’t valid excuses for avoiding church, in my book. Now I’m sure some people really have a bone to pick — maybe they’ve been personally hurt, or know people who have. But living with that kind of anger can only make them ill. No church is perfect because it’s made up of imperfect people. You can find something to complain about anywhere, if that’s what you look for.

I suspect there are valid reasons for missing church — being in the hospital, or maintaining a vigil at a loved one’s deathbed, are two I can think of. But it saddens me when people avoid the community of church, the nourishment of the Eucharist, the graces extended, and the opportunity to praise and worship.

Freedom of religion is a blessing — just ask someone who doesn’t have it!

What Goes In, Comes Out

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I’ve heard it said that no good deed goes unrewarded. But I have to ask: Does this look like a reward to you?

Bird droppings on patio

After this week’s “Monster Storm,” I noticed a flock of robins racing each other to see who could find shelter on the sunny side of our house near the back door first.

Poor little things, I thought. They’re freezing.

Not having any wild bird seed on hand, I raced to the bread cabinet — nope,our loaf was too fresh to share and besides, no telling how long we’d be house-bound in this weather.

I checked the pantry. Pay dirt! A box of old wheat chex just waiting to be tossed out.

Not wanting to disturb the flock — which by now had grown larger and more sleepy-eyed — I went upstairs, s-l-o-w-l-y cracked open a window, and dumped the cereal into the snow.

Then I watched, eager for my tidbits to satisfy.

When the birds failed to show interest, I shrugged and went back to work.

Ingrates, I muttered.

Eventually, I had to let my poor doggin out to potty. The flock immediately dispersed, swarming to the holly bushes in one corner of the yard.

The bushes my late father insisted we keep so the birds would have something to eat during the winters.

Glancing around to see if all the stragglers had departed, I felt my mouth drop. Piles of bird poop covered the stoop, the concrete, and everything in between!

Grrr, I muttered, as I tossed on a coat and mittens, then tried (unsuccessfully) to clean the “potty.” I guess I’ll have to wait until spring, when I can put warm soapy water on it and do the job right.

In the meantime, since these fat robins are already dining on holly berries, they can just forget about my trying to provide them with a healthy snack.

Calling all Parakeets — Ready, Aim, Fire!

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Oh my gosh! Imagine my surprise at opening today’s newspaper and seeing my picture staring back at me!

Some time ago, our newspaper sent a reporter and photographer to my home office to interview me for a careers feature that runs on a regular basis. Now, I knew they were doing the article, but I’d forgotten which day they said it would appear.

It was today!

Small businesses like mine rarely can afford big-time advertising. We do what we can — phone book, online, etc. — but it’s far too costly to do TV (and even newspaper advertising is out of reach for many).

So to have this much exposure can be a real boost to a business.

It could prove to be overwhelming, too, but I’m not going to think about that. I’m going to enjoy this while it lasts, realizing (as a former newspaper-person myself) that today’s paper too soon becomes tomorrow’s bird cage liner!

Age is Just a Number

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Earlier this month, our local newspaper interviewed me for a careers feature they run periodically on businesses in our area.

After my name, the first question was, “How old are you?”

Now I can’t speak for others, but that’s a question I never answer — ever!

It’s right up there with “How much money do you make?” and “How much do you weigh?”

After a certain age — for women, I think 35 — you shouldn’t have to answer it. I mean, my son is 19 so you do the math! If you want to think I had him at 16, be my guest!!

Probably because I work in a traditionally young person’s field, I don’t want to age myself out of business. Nor should I have to.

Age is a funny thing, really. When we’re kids, we’re always looking forward to the next birthday. We’re not “twelve-and-a-half;” we’re “almost thirteen!”

And when we become young adults, we never feel compelled to fudge on our age. Any time I got carded for trying to buy a drink in my twenties (yeah, I know — young and dumb!), I couldn’t fish out my drivers license fast enough!

So when is it that we become more secretive about our age?

For some, it’s “middle age.” While a few flaunt it without shame — letting their hair go totally gray, embracing their “spare tire” or bald head — others re-double their efforts at chasing youth. They join gyms, invest in hair dye and Botox, or dump their spouse for a younger model.

I’ve known people who’d never ask for a Senior Discount and others who think even buying gasoline should qualify for one!

Perhaps the truly old people are the luckiest. They can commiserate about their age-related aches, joke about their “senior moments,” spend countless hours reminiscing about the Good Old Days, and remind us that “age is just a number.”