Have you ever fantasized about your perfect date, or job or vacation? I have, but for me it has always been about the perfect Christmas. As I child, I watched with wild rapture, the beautiful music filled Christmas specials on television. The shows were filled with beautiful people in beautiful houses wearing beautiful clothes singing beautiful Christmas songs. It was, simply put...beautiful. Everyone looked perfectly happy. In fact, they looked perfectly everything!
Thanks to Andy Williams, I tried desperately for years to convince my mother to convert to Catholicism. Why, you might ask? Simple, because every year at the end of his Christmas special the whole Williams family and all their friends would pile into horse drawn carriages, cover up in fur blankets (I know...how politically incorrect, right)? and travel across a beautiful snowy countryside to a quaint little village church for Midnight Mass. Mormons never have midnight mass. It never occured to me in my youthful innocence that this was a scene that whether I was Catholic or not, we had little chance of duplicating in Bakersfield, California, I just knew I wanted desperately to do it.
As the years passed, Hallmark Christmas movies added fuel to the fire and when Derek and I married and had children things only got worse. I knew exactly how everything was supposed to go. For instance, the day after Thanksgiving, our whole family would put on our matching Christmas sweaters (nothing tacky mind you, just a simple, solid red cashmere) and we would head to a beautiful snow covered forest where we would laughingly select the perfect tree. The children and I would sing Christmas carols in perfect harmony while Derek wielded an ax with practiced ease and chopped down the most beautiful tree in the forest in two mighty whacks. As the tree gently hit the ground in a puff of snow, Derek would flex his muscles and smile a brilliant smile as the children and I applauded and cheered. He would drag the tree back to the car and tie it to the roof and off we would go, back home to drink hot cocoa, sing more carols, and decorate.
In all fairness, we did go to one of those Christmas tree farms one year, but we were in the San Juaquin Vallery in California, so...no snow. We walked through row after row of trees in 80 degree heat looking for the perfect one only to discover that it didn't exist. Chi hit Colt on the head with a branch he found on the ground and Samantha started crying about pine needles sticking in her sock. After finally settling on the least lopsided tree, with the least bare spots that we could find, Derek started hacking away at the trunk. After nearly plowing the ax blade into his own ankle a couple of times he finally started hacking wildly at the trunk in much the same manner that I would envision a drunken Civil War surgeon might hack away at a hapless soldiers wounded limb. Eventually the bruised and battered tree surrendered its trunk and Derek dragged the pathetic plant 1/2 a mile back to the car. It fell off the roof twice on the way home. Everyone was grouchy and the decorating was left to me.
Christmas's came and went, presenting us with a wide variety of scenarios, none of which look even remotely like a Christmas that Andy Williams would attend. To be fair, I will say that we had many wonderful, touching and beautiful Christmas's. The question, now that I think about it was not really ever Christmas itself, but had more to do with the preparation for said holiday. Year after year I would desperately try to create that beautiful and magical family moment, but every year yielded it's own set of trials that kept me from that perfect evening.
When we lived in the Philippines, we were pleased to hear that Christmas Trees had been brought by ship from America and would be available for purchase in the BX parking lot. We arrived eager to hand over our $75 dollars...in 1989! Okay...I was probably more eager than Derek was. We selected a suitable tree, took it home and decorated it and within three days it became a highly flamable tree shaped porcupine. Or maybe one of those iron maiden things designed for torture. I had to ban the kids from getting within 10 feet of it just so I wouldn't have to take them for tetenus shots later! Upon closer inspection of the tree we realized that the thing had been spray painted green. I'm pretty sure it had been cut down somewhere in Vermont the April before.
Fifteen or twenty years into our family Christmas's, I realized that it was probably a lot easier to just get the decorations up myself and focus on the fun to come later. Not romantic, not anything like any Christmas special I had ever seen, by imminently more practical.
So year after year, I trudge out to the garage and drag the boxes in. Sometimes Derek will take pity on me and drag them in for me. I'll turn some Christmas music on and quietly set about creating the perfect Christmas scene to delight our children. This will be our 32nd Christmas together. I have fibromyalga, a bad back, and arthritis, so dragging boxes laden with garland and singing Santa's is a little tougher than it used to be, but a couple of weeks ago, my five year old granddaughter, Julia, looked up at me with shining eyes and said breathlessly, "Do you know what I love so so much Nana"? I said, "No, sweety, what do you love so so much"? "I love how you decorate the whole entire house for Christmas! It looks so beautiful".
What do you do when an adoring five year old sets the bar that high? So, the other day, I opened the garage door intent on heralding in another Christmas just for my grandchildren. I didn't wear a red cashmere sweater, we didn't tromp into snow covered woods to select a tree. I could barely work my way through an overcrowded garage desperately trying to find which of the boxes held our decorations. I managed to find a number of boxes, but the Christmas Tree taunted me from the very top shelf a mile away on the other side of the garage. It would have to wait until Derek could get it down for me.
Eventually, Derek did retrieve the box for me and I began unpacking the artificial tree that we had succumbed to on clearance a few years ago. Prelit even. I took care to spread each individual branch so they didn't look clumped together as I put the thing together. My back hurt.
I worked painstakingly to find each plug and insert it into the main line. My shoulder hurt.
No matter how hard I tried, I couldn't get the tree to light properly. Some of the lights came on, but others stubbornly remained dark. I finally pled for help and Derek and our nephew Ken took over. I sat dejectedly in the soft, cushy armchair facing the tree. Was this really too much to ask? Just some decorations? I wasn't even really asking for help. I surrenderred and told Derek not to worry about it. We'd just leave it as it was. To his credit, he did not give up. He went off in search of one of those little light testers.
That same evening, a great friend and her two children came by as well. My friend, Audrey saw my plight and started examining each and every light as I wallowed in self pity. I suspected we would not be taking a horse drawn carriage to midnight mass or decorating the perfect tree because that's just not how things went for me.
Colt wandered in and hunkered down next to my friend. A little while later, Audrey informed me that a number of the wires looked as though they had been chewed. Some of the bulb sockets were even flattened out. Colt admitted the culprit was probably his dog, Minion, whom we had taken in for several months while he and his wife found a place of their own.
I raised my white flag. Then as I sat dejectedly and looked on, I saw my son Colt pull out his real sword (another story for another time) and he and Audrey launched into a full blown attack on the tree. Little by little they got sections of the tree to light up. In the end, we still had to add a few lights to fill in the gaps, but when they stepped back to reveal a beautifully lit tree, my eyes misted over.
I would not have traded the most perfect Christmas Special evening for the time I spent watching friends and family rally around to do a job they were not particularly interested in for no other reason than to make me smile.
Christmas has never been about beautiful decorations or perfect moments. It is a quiet, humble time when we reflect on sacrifice and family and the trials of a pregnant woman about to give birth to the son of God.
I saw a perfect love in the faces around me as I cheered them on and applauded their efforts to give me my Christmas moment.
I love you all. Thank you for my storybook Christmas evening. Nothing could be better.
Tuesday, November 27, 2012
Tuesday, March 22, 2011
Wisdom, compassion and patience wrapped in a soft fur coat.
`The world lost a good and worthy soul today. His name was Zachary Binx. He was preceded in death by his good friend Bryte and he is survived by the entire Hester Family and more recently his rescuer, Jeannie Musick. Zachary, more commonly known simply as, 'Binx' was sixteen years and eight months old. He was our dear and beloved cat. I found a 'cat years' calculator on line and am told by it that Zachary Binx was roughly 84 years old by human calculations. He was a venerable old gentleman.
Binx's membership into our family began on Samantha's ninth birthday. We had just moved to England, and Samantha begged to have a cat when we got settled in. Binx came from humble beginnings as a simple farm cat. Little did he know, curled up amongst his tiny British litter mates that one day he would travel the world and end up living in Nebraska.
On her birthday Samantha stood with skinny arms outstretched and eyes closed tightly as commanded as I deposited the tiny, furry bundle into her unsuspecting hands. She was ecstatic. She immediately declared that she would name him Zachary Binx as an homage to the great Zachary Binx of Hocus Pocus fame.
Zachary Binx had many fine qualities. Patience would probably top the list. I know first hand of his infinite patience based on the number of times I found him dressed in a nighty, tucked away into Samantha's wooden cradle or bundled in her arms as she read books to him. I would pop my head into her room and there he would be, lying on his back with a night cap on. He would look up at me with pleading eyes that shouted, "Please just shoot me now". But there he would stay. You see, he loved Samantha dearly and would do anything for her; even endure great indignities so long as it entertained her.
Binx was also a great provider. As mentioned, he loved Samantha completely, but realized early on that she wasn't much of a hunter, so out of concern for her well being (and much to Samantha's great dismay), he would go out most every day and hunt, not for himself, but for her. After a successful hunt, he would proudly deposit a freshly killed dinner at Samantha's feet. She was not amused. However, she had read a book explaining that cats only do this when they really love their humans and so she endured his frequent gifts of mice, baby rabbits, and the occasional hedgehog.
Restraint was another of Binx's many strengths. In 16 1/2 years, I never heard Binx hiss, I never saw him bite (a human...he bit plenty of other critters), and the only time he ever scratched anyone (intentionally at least) was when Samantha convinced Chi that Binx, just like the rest of us, needed to be baptized. I think that under the circumstances, the laceration that marked Chi's stomach for years to come, was completely justified, most especially since we believe in baptism by full immersion.
Binx was also a great friend. Our neighbors had a cat too. His name was Jasper and they were best buddies. Each afternoon, Jasper would come to the lounge door and paw gently at the glass. When I slid the door open, he would sit very nicely on the stoop and say, most politely, "Is Zachary Binx about? I thought we could go out and have a romp in the lilac bushes." I would then ask him to wait while I summoned Binx and he would curl up patiently on the concrete. I would run off to find Binx where ever he was, (most often trapped in Samantha's doll stroller) and ask him if he would like to run off for a bit with Jasper, to which he would reply, "Why that would be lovely, thank you". Binx would follow me back to the lounge where he would welcome Jasper heartily and as they headed across the back garden, Jasper would shout over his shoulder, "I'll have him back by two" and off they would go. Upon their return, Jasper would thank me for allowing Binx to have an outting with him and state that he would be back at the same time the next day. This was a routine that they followed for many months.
Binx was also a warrior. He got into frequent scrapes with some of the local feline crowd, but one night he came home quite late looking much the worse for wear. By morning his face had swollen horribly and he was looking quite ill. I took one look at him and bundled him into the car and whisked him off to the vet. I told her that I thought he'd been in a cat fight, but after examining his wounds she informed me that he had not been in a cat fight and that by rights, he should be dead. As it turns out, he had ticked off the wrong rat, specifically, a Norwegian Wharf rat, also known as a brown rat. On average, they are about a foot long and apparently kill cats for entertainment. She was amazed that Binx had come out of it, beat up, but alive. I think he pretty much steared clear of anything larger than a field mouse after that incident.
Surprisingly, empathy was one of Binx's greatest strengths. This tough little country cat, had such compassion for others. Our English Setter, Bryte, became terribly ill, and developed an absess on her side after drinking water from a stream near a chemical plant. As Bryte lay on her bed, ill and in pain, Binx would lay beside her, curling up with her and licking her wound frequently to help heal it.
I'll be honest, the original plan did not actually involve taking Binx back to America with us when we moved back. The idea was to find him a loving home right before we left.
Then he did an amazing thing. When Samantha was twelve, she contracted Meningitis. She was terribly ill and battling the infection left her too weak to even walk for weeks after she was out of the woods. When she was home and ensconsed on our living room couch, he would not leave her side. Twice a day, day in and day out, he would excuse himself to use the litter box and eat and then right back to Samantha's side he would go. Sometimes he would curl up nuzzled into her neck, other times at her feet and sometimes pressed against her side, but never more than a few inches from her. He would talk to her and tell her that she would be well soon. He would recount tales of his adventures with Jasper. Go ahead, try and convince me that cats don't talk. I won't believe you. He comforted my very sick daughter. He made her feel better. We bought him a plane ticket to Nebraska.
There are so many more stories. Dozens of them, because inside an average sized cat, dwelt and huge heart and an above average soul, but I think you get the idea. Time passed, Samantha went off to college and then got married. He stayed with us. He lived a long and healthy life up until about a year ago, then time began to take it's toll. He started losing his eyesight and developed arthritis, much like me. Our house became difficult and daunting for him. It turned into 3,000 sq ft of stairs and hallways and rooms and in spite of putting litter boxes on every floor, he had issues with finding them. I work from home and clients aren't really fond of the smell of cat pee soaked carpets and we had to start casting about for options. My sweet and huge hearted sister stepped in and offered to take him to live in her apartment on a trial basis. Never once in eight months did he pee on her carpets. The vet said our house was just too intimidating for him and that he was more comfortable in a smaller, more confined space. He and Jeannie quickly became the best of friends. I am so grateful to her for rescuing him and giving him eight months of unqualified love.
In the past couple of weeks he deteriorated rapidly. A mass was found. He quit eating. Pancreatic cancer was suggested. Today, we decided to show empathy to a soul who had shown so much to others and we let him go.
There is a big hole now where he once was, but as Samantha said when I called to tell her, Bryte will be there waiting for him and what stories they will have to share.
Thank you Binx, for sixteen years of you.
Binx's membership into our family began on Samantha's ninth birthday. We had just moved to England, and Samantha begged to have a cat when we got settled in. Binx came from humble beginnings as a simple farm cat. Little did he know, curled up amongst his tiny British litter mates that one day he would travel the world and end up living in Nebraska.
On her birthday Samantha stood with skinny arms outstretched and eyes closed tightly as commanded as I deposited the tiny, furry bundle into her unsuspecting hands. She was ecstatic. She immediately declared that she would name him Zachary Binx as an homage to the great Zachary Binx of Hocus Pocus fame.
Zachary Binx had many fine qualities. Patience would probably top the list. I know first hand of his infinite patience based on the number of times I found him dressed in a nighty, tucked away into Samantha's wooden cradle or bundled in her arms as she read books to him. I would pop my head into her room and there he would be, lying on his back with a night cap on. He would look up at me with pleading eyes that shouted, "Please just shoot me now". But there he would stay. You see, he loved Samantha dearly and would do anything for her; even endure great indignities so long as it entertained her.
Binx was also a great provider. As mentioned, he loved Samantha completely, but realized early on that she wasn't much of a hunter, so out of concern for her well being (and much to Samantha's great dismay), he would go out most every day and hunt, not for himself, but for her. After a successful hunt, he would proudly deposit a freshly killed dinner at Samantha's feet. She was not amused. However, she had read a book explaining that cats only do this when they really love their humans and so she endured his frequent gifts of mice, baby rabbits, and the occasional hedgehog.
Restraint was another of Binx's many strengths. In 16 1/2 years, I never heard Binx hiss, I never saw him bite (a human...he bit plenty of other critters), and the only time he ever scratched anyone (intentionally at least) was when Samantha convinced Chi that Binx, just like the rest of us, needed to be baptized. I think that under the circumstances, the laceration that marked Chi's stomach for years to come, was completely justified, most especially since we believe in baptism by full immersion.
Binx was also a great friend. Our neighbors had a cat too. His name was Jasper and they were best buddies. Each afternoon, Jasper would come to the lounge door and paw gently at the glass. When I slid the door open, he would sit very nicely on the stoop and say, most politely, "Is Zachary Binx about? I thought we could go out and have a romp in the lilac bushes." I would then ask him to wait while I summoned Binx and he would curl up patiently on the concrete. I would run off to find Binx where ever he was, (most often trapped in Samantha's doll stroller) and ask him if he would like to run off for a bit with Jasper, to which he would reply, "Why that would be lovely, thank you". Binx would follow me back to the lounge where he would welcome Jasper heartily and as they headed across the back garden, Jasper would shout over his shoulder, "I'll have him back by two" and off they would go. Upon their return, Jasper would thank me for allowing Binx to have an outting with him and state that he would be back at the same time the next day. This was a routine that they followed for many months.
Binx was also a warrior. He got into frequent scrapes with some of the local feline crowd, but one night he came home quite late looking much the worse for wear. By morning his face had swollen horribly and he was looking quite ill. I took one look at him and bundled him into the car and whisked him off to the vet. I told her that I thought he'd been in a cat fight, but after examining his wounds she informed me that he had not been in a cat fight and that by rights, he should be dead. As it turns out, he had ticked off the wrong rat, specifically, a Norwegian Wharf rat, also known as a brown rat. On average, they are about a foot long and apparently kill cats for entertainment. She was amazed that Binx had come out of it, beat up, but alive. I think he pretty much steared clear of anything larger than a field mouse after that incident.
Surprisingly, empathy was one of Binx's greatest strengths. This tough little country cat, had such compassion for others. Our English Setter, Bryte, became terribly ill, and developed an absess on her side after drinking water from a stream near a chemical plant. As Bryte lay on her bed, ill and in pain, Binx would lay beside her, curling up with her and licking her wound frequently to help heal it.
I'll be honest, the original plan did not actually involve taking Binx back to America with us when we moved back. The idea was to find him a loving home right before we left.
Then he did an amazing thing. When Samantha was twelve, she contracted Meningitis. She was terribly ill and battling the infection left her too weak to even walk for weeks after she was out of the woods. When she was home and ensconsed on our living room couch, he would not leave her side. Twice a day, day in and day out, he would excuse himself to use the litter box and eat and then right back to Samantha's side he would go. Sometimes he would curl up nuzzled into her neck, other times at her feet and sometimes pressed against her side, but never more than a few inches from her. He would talk to her and tell her that she would be well soon. He would recount tales of his adventures with Jasper. Go ahead, try and convince me that cats don't talk. I won't believe you. He comforted my very sick daughter. He made her feel better. We bought him a plane ticket to Nebraska.
There are so many more stories. Dozens of them, because inside an average sized cat, dwelt and huge heart and an above average soul, but I think you get the idea. Time passed, Samantha went off to college and then got married. He stayed with us. He lived a long and healthy life up until about a year ago, then time began to take it's toll. He started losing his eyesight and developed arthritis, much like me. Our house became difficult and daunting for him. It turned into 3,000 sq ft of stairs and hallways and rooms and in spite of putting litter boxes on every floor, he had issues with finding them. I work from home and clients aren't really fond of the smell of cat pee soaked carpets and we had to start casting about for options. My sweet and huge hearted sister stepped in and offered to take him to live in her apartment on a trial basis. Never once in eight months did he pee on her carpets. The vet said our house was just too intimidating for him and that he was more comfortable in a smaller, more confined space. He and Jeannie quickly became the best of friends. I am so grateful to her for rescuing him and giving him eight months of unqualified love.
In the past couple of weeks he deteriorated rapidly. A mass was found. He quit eating. Pancreatic cancer was suggested. Today, we decided to show empathy to a soul who had shown so much to others and we let him go.
There is a big hole now where he once was, but as Samantha said when I called to tell her, Bryte will be there waiting for him and what stories they will have to share.
Thank you Binx, for sixteen years of you.
Friday, March 18, 2011
A Touch of the Blarney
It occurs to me that over the years I have often been told that I am funny. I have long suspected that this was a reference to funny - peculiar, rather than funny - haha but, assuming that the latter was being implied, I would like to take a moment to clarify the reality of this indictment. It seems appropriate as this is St. Patricks day to discuss the topic of blarney. Blarney has for many years been the basis for much of our humor. I am, frankly, blarney-less. Blarney suggests a tall tale, something made up. I am incapable of fiction.
My friends I assure you, I am not funny. I have a saggy bum, turkey wings under my arms (in spite of having developed some lovely bicep muscles , the wings remain), I have arthritis in half my joints and my face has melted to the point that I am beginning to have the jowls of a Basset Hound. These things are not funny. They are a travesty .
So I am here to make this clarification. I am not funny, but life is freaking hilarious! If you can not see the humor that abounds all around us, then you should seek medical attention immediately because either your humorous or your funny bone are malfunctioning (do you see??? Bad puns are just not funny and yet there I go using them). No, I am not funny, but here is the thing. Every moment of every day I look around me and see things that are just so very amusing. I find politicians particularly amusing. I find it funny that they take themselves so very seriously and have such a withering grasp of hypocracy and yet maintain such astonishing self-righteousness. On a less global scale, I find it deeply amusing when I have one of those fraught ridden days where not one thing or two things are going to go wrong, but absolutely everything. That day when, after you have lost your keys, found them in the refrigerator, then lost your purse which you set down while you were looking for the keys, then answered the phone only to discover that your favorite aunt has passed away, then found your purse only to discover that your wallet isn't in it (you don't discover this until you are in line at the grocery store with 10 people behind you, after the cashier has rung everything up)....deep breath...that you stop; stand there staring at the ceiling with your hands pointed upward in a gesture of supplication and say, really Lord? You think this is funny? Cuz I'm just not that amused. But then, a tiny part of your brain starts to giggle and you see the twisted humor amongst that catastrophe that is your life.
It is this brand of humor that keeps us going. That entertains us when life isn't the adventure that we might have dreamed of. I have had the adventures. The world travel. The mishaps. The triumphs. The all out disasters (no really, actual bonifide disasters. Natural ones on several occasions). And I cherish every moment of these things. I love that I used to train dolphins. I love that I have been a singer and a pianist and that I have traveled and that a very large volcano erupted in my back yard. But what I love and cherish most is that I can find fun and humor and adventure in each simple day. My daughter has this gift. She and her two beautiful daughters find fun and adventure in everything they do. My other kids also have this gift. They find humor all around them. WE aren't where the humor comes from. Life is.
I have been told that I have led an adventurous life. So has everyone. It is all about seeing the adventure in everything we do and most importantly finding the humor in everything around us, because this is what keeps us sane. It isn't until we lose our sense of humor that we are in danger of losing our perspective.
So to all of my sweet friends who think I'm funny, thank you for the compliment because I think humor is a spectacular thing. But it isn't me. It's all of those people and places and situations in my life who bring humor to me, so on this day of blarney, I leave you with a heartfelt and blarney-less thank you.
............I just have to add at this point that as I finished writing this heartfelt and emotionally charged Ode to Humor, I looked up from my laptop only to discover that quite literally, in front of my face, my dog, with the stealth of a covert, black ops mission has managed to quietly shred at least 10 napkins into a pile of white fluff which has caused the room that I vaccummed less than have an hour ago, to resemble a recently shaken snow globe. All this was strategically accomplished by shredding the napkins hidden behind the 13 inch square that is my laptop screen so that I wouldn't see. Now, I don't care who you are. That's just funny.
My friends I assure you, I am not funny. I have a saggy bum, turkey wings under my arms (in spite of having developed some lovely bicep muscles , the wings remain), I have arthritis in half my joints and my face has melted to the point that I am beginning to have the jowls of a Basset Hound. These things are not funny. They are a travesty .
So I am here to make this clarification. I am not funny, but life is freaking hilarious! If you can not see the humor that abounds all around us, then you should seek medical attention immediately because either your humorous or your funny bone are malfunctioning (do you see??? Bad puns are just not funny and yet there I go using them). No, I am not funny, but here is the thing. Every moment of every day I look around me and see things that are just so very amusing. I find politicians particularly amusing. I find it funny that they take themselves so very seriously and have such a withering grasp of hypocracy and yet maintain such astonishing self-righteousness. On a less global scale, I find it deeply amusing when I have one of those fraught ridden days where not one thing or two things are going to go wrong, but absolutely everything. That day when, after you have lost your keys, found them in the refrigerator, then lost your purse which you set down while you were looking for the keys, then answered the phone only to discover that your favorite aunt has passed away, then found your purse only to discover that your wallet isn't in it (you don't discover this until you are in line at the grocery store with 10 people behind you, after the cashier has rung everything up)....deep breath...that you stop; stand there staring at the ceiling with your hands pointed upward in a gesture of supplication and say, really Lord? You think this is funny? Cuz I'm just not that amused. But then, a tiny part of your brain starts to giggle and you see the twisted humor amongst that catastrophe that is your life.
It is this brand of humor that keeps us going. That entertains us when life isn't the adventure that we might have dreamed of. I have had the adventures. The world travel. The mishaps. The triumphs. The all out disasters (no really, actual bonifide disasters. Natural ones on several occasions). And I cherish every moment of these things. I love that I used to train dolphins. I love that I have been a singer and a pianist and that I have traveled and that a very large volcano erupted in my back yard. But what I love and cherish most is that I can find fun and humor and adventure in each simple day. My daughter has this gift. She and her two beautiful daughters find fun and adventure in everything they do. My other kids also have this gift. They find humor all around them. WE aren't where the humor comes from. Life is.
I have been told that I have led an adventurous life. So has everyone. It is all about seeing the adventure in everything we do and most importantly finding the humor in everything around us, because this is what keeps us sane. It isn't until we lose our sense of humor that we are in danger of losing our perspective.
So to all of my sweet friends who think I'm funny, thank you for the compliment because I think humor is a spectacular thing. But it isn't me. It's all of those people and places and situations in my life who bring humor to me, so on this day of blarney, I leave you with a heartfelt and blarney-less thank you.
............I just have to add at this point that as I finished writing this heartfelt and emotionally charged Ode to Humor, I looked up from my laptop only to discover that quite literally, in front of my face, my dog, with the stealth of a covert, black ops mission has managed to quietly shred at least 10 napkins into a pile of white fluff which has caused the room that I vaccummed less than have an hour ago, to resemble a recently shaken snow globe. All this was strategically accomplished by shredding the napkins hidden behind the 13 inch square that is my laptop screen so that I wouldn't see. Now, I don't care who you are. That's just funny.
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