'Nother Guest Blogger Submission: The Bat!

The following comes courtesy of another one of my cousins; you met her before during my "Road Trip Nightmare". She had still another nightmare recently and I asked her to share it with you. This Guest Blogger is frightened of crickets, so I can't imagine her terror...read on:
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Holy fricking bat in my house, Batman!

It was a typical Thursday night. 8pm: I had just finished putting my children to bed [a 5 ½ year old son, and a soon-to-be 3 year old daughter] and headed downstairs for some peace and quiet. With my husband out of town, I spent a few minutes cleaning the kitchen and decided to take the opportunity to plow through some work emails so I wouldn't' be so overwhelmed in the morning. At this point, it was a little after 9pm [I know this, because I remember looking down at the clock on my computer and thinking 'WHY am I still working at 9:16pm?']. Just as I was considering getting up from the table and going to watch some television, I noticed movement out of the corner of my eye. I casually looked up – and to my horror a BAT was flying right at me!!! It scared the sh*t out of me!!!!!

I didn't see where he went (certain that all bats are "he"), and really had no interest in following him. I was more concerned with the fact that - while my daughter's bedroom door was shut, my son's was wide open and I had visions of the bat flying into his room to suck his blood dry. So I did the only thing I could think to do... I ran out of my house as fast as I could and knocked on my neighbor's door. Imagine their surprise when, late at night, I show up on their doorstep looking like I had just seen a wild beast [and let's face it, hadn't I?]

[SIDE NOTE: I actually have the choice of two neighbors to go to. One neighbor ~ I'll call him J. Edgar ~ lives directly across the street, and is a secret service agent. He leaves the house every morning – kissing his wife and two little girls goodbye – with a gun around his waist. Had it been a burglar who had invaded my house – J. Edgar would be THE guy. Braxton is the other neighbor – in sales, he does NOT carry a gun. I'm guessing Braxton could NOT wrestle a burglar to the ground as fast as J. Edgar could. ..you can see that I have carefully thought this through. But let's face it – I wasn't dealing with a burglar…I was dealing with a wild animal in my house that was possibly spitting rabies out of its mouth. J. Edgar is 5'9"…and Braxton is 6'5"… so I went with the tall guy.]

Believe it or not, Braxton knew just what to do. He has apparently had bats in his own house once or twice. He armed himself with a tennis racket and a baseball cap, and we began the walk back to my "cave".

We searched [ok…he searched, I followed] for over 30 minutes, and could not find that damn thing. Braxton tried to convince me that the bat could have flown out of the house when I ran out…but I wasn't buying it. I kept thinking – surely there has to be some sort of 9-1-1 number to call for this type of thing, right? Braxton, speaking from experience said no, that I should just wait until the morning and call an exterminator.

Now, someone please tell me, how could I possibly go to bed knowing that that beast was still in my home…ready to attack me and my children at just the right moment? I was sure he was ready to drag my poor babies to some damp, twisted "Lost Boys" cave! I was also certain that the bat KNEW my husband was out of town, and so chose this particular night to make his move.

Well, thank goodness, just as Braxton was getting ready to leave, he found the bat. He was hiding in plain sight, in my kitchen, up by the ceiling. He had blended in with my kitchen cabinets, explaining why we didn't see him each time we came into that room.

I held the door open, Braxton captured him between the racket and his cap, and took him outside. I slammed the door shut, and from my position of strength shouted 'thank you' to Braxton through the door.

Now I could sleep. Of course, my adrenalin was running like crazy, and so I don't think I calmed down and got to sleep until after midnight. When I woke up the next morning, I got on with my life…as usual. My children never knowing from what peril they had been spared.

Guest Blogger is Back!

Christmas Song of the Day: Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer

Now you know Dasher and Dancer and Prancer and Vixen
Comet and Cupid and Donder and Blitzen
But do you recall
The most famous reindeer of all

This song is special because we would sing it with Dad whenever we were in the car with him. You know, he must have had worries and anxieties but when we were little, we never knew it. We thought that there was nothing more important in the world than us and he would sing Rudolph with us over and over and over and over. I wonder sometimes if it bored the crap out of him.

Guest Blogger is back!!!

It was the day I always hoped would never come. I knew it was inevitable, sure, but I hoped nonetheless.

Growing up in a family full of girls, I was never exposed to the secret world of males. A world where groin grasping is commonplace and flatulence is funny. No, these were things I only heard of and, naturally, scoffed at. Things that had no place in my life.

Until today. When my beautiful son broke the father/son code, by sharing with me a fun little game his father had taught him...

...pull my finger.

Redemption! AKA: New Pope, Kathryn Hopes, Pop Mopes

Bee Gees Song of the Day: To Love Somebody

I live and breathe for you But what good does it do If I ain't got you, ain't got you?

Fast forward several years. So much has changed. John Paul II has gone on to the Great Beyond. A new pope, Benedict, is named to carry on his mission. I am now gainfully employed, and have since married and had my first child. Life is good. But still, something is missing.

My feelings of failure, while they have waned with the years, nag at my subconscious like a slow leak in a pipe hidden deep within your walls. Not noticeable on the surface, but creating unforeseen damage within.

Until one day, while leaving mass (at a time when I was quite diligent about attending), I came across two young girls manning a table, imploring congregants to support their missionary efforts. It seems that they were raising money for a trip to Italy, where they, as I did lo those many years ago, would have an audience with the Pope. Unlike me, however, they apparently had been clued into the “no sale of blessed items” hoo ha, and they were earning their transport by selling rosaries which they would take with them to be blessed by the Pope during their audience with him. They would then bring them back and deliver them to the congregants who had purchased them prior to their trip.

A fire lit within me. There it was. For a mere $15, I could finally deliver what I could not before. All would be forgiven. I tore open my wallet and fumbled through the bills. I had enough to purchase four. I ordered all four. (Who knew when I might run across a request for a blessed rosary again). I selected two simple brown rosaries with wooden beads and two with bright, rainbow colored beads. I asked the lovely young women, these angels of mercy and my saviors, when the rosaries would be delivered. Their trip was three weeks out at that point, and they would be right in this spot the Sunday after. I smiled and thanked them, and exited the church with a lightness I hadn’t felt in years. Everything seemed brighter, more colorful. It was as if a new life had been bestowed upon me.

Four weeks later, I arrived at church early. The young women were there. I tried not to appear too anxious as I jostled past a young couple and their three children. My angels smiled and pulled up my order. “Yes, you ordered four rosaries, Ma’am. Here they are. Thank you so much for your support.” “Oh no, thank you,” I gushed. You don’t know how much these mean to me”. I clutched them to my breast, and walked into mass.

The next Sunday was Father’s Day. What better day to present this redemptive jewel to my Father. I could see his face, tears welling up in his eyes as he threw his arms around me and told me what a wonderful daughter I was. I actually felt sorry for my sisters, whose gifts surely wouldn’t hold a candle to mine. After dinner, the moment of truth. I could hardly contain my excitement as I handed him a small bag, the rosary therein. As he pulled it out, and examined it curiously, I shared with him the fact that this rosary had been blessed by the one and only – the Pope. His face lit up. “J.P?” he beamed. That’s when I knew that redemption was a fleeting thing. “No. Ben,” I muttered. Once again, that look I had seen seven years ago filled his eyes as he thanked me and told me how much it meant to him. His feigned gratitude hung in the air like a bad odor you hoped no one else would notice. Clearly, there must be a hierarchy of popes, at least in my father’s eyes, and John Paul II was The Great One. Who knew? I figured a pope is a pope is a pope, right? No. Apparently not. I had failed once again. And the finality of it weighed on me like a boulder. There would never be a chance for true redemption. After all, JP II was dead. It would be impossible to present my father with a JP blessed rosary.

Or would it?

Tomorrow: JP lives.

Guest Blogger: European Vacation

Bee Gees Song of the Day: Spics and Specks

All of my life I've tossed with the day
The spicks and the specks of my life gone away

When Erica first asked me to be a guest blogger on her site, I was flattered and more than a bit enthusiastic at the prospect. A guest blogger! What an honor! And one that I was pretty sure she had not bestowed on anyone before me. But then the panic set in. After all, I had never blogged before. In fact, I had never even read a blog before Erica started sending me the links to hers. Would it be obvious to all who read me? Would I be a target for comparison with the more eloquent and experienced hostess of the blog site? Would I be pitied for my inability to measure up? How could I even put myself in such a position? And what could I write that would be even remotely interesting to the myriad of visitors to her blog site? I know nothing of Korean drama and haven’t (recently) run into any chain-smoking serial killers. I have concluded that guest blogging must be right on par with public speaking and death as a source of unadulterated stress.

So I delayed. I came up with excuses like “Oh, I’m very busy at work right now. No time for such frivolity.” But she knew it was all so much procrastination. How long could I postpone the inevitable? At what point would she realize that I was simply a coward? So here I sit, sweat beading on my brow; my hands shaking with every key stroke.

And what to write about? Well without any recent notable experience, I decided to share one of my favorite stories about my father, which I had occasion to recount while entertaining a client yesterday evening.

European Vacation

Ten years ago I had the great opportunity to take a whirlwind tour of Europe with a group of college students. Seven cities in three and a half weeks. One of those opportunities that you know won’t pop up again any time soon, so I jumped at the chance. Our last stop was Rome, where we had a scheduled audience with the Pope (John Paul II, for those who don’t keep up with these things). If you have not been to the Vatican for an “audience with the Pope,” I will share with you that it isn’t an opportunity to walk in, shake hands and chew the fat with His Grace. It is occasion to squeeze into a giant room with 50,000 other people and squint to see him walk across the stage and speak in a thick, Italian accent you cannot understand.

But that is neither here nor there. The significance of this visit was that it provided me the opportunity to obtain for my father the one thing he had always wanted: a rosary blessed by the Pope. Not knowing about such things, I asked him where I could acquire such a rare gift, and he assured me that you could walk into the Vatican gift shop and pick out one of thousands. Basically, according to my father, who is never wrong, the Pope walks into a giant Catholic warehouse where these pieces are stored, raises his hand, says a few words in Italian and blesses the whole lot of them. So there I am, after our audience with the pope, in the Vatican gift shop, inquiring of an elderly nun which of the rosaries has been blessed. She scoffed at me, and told me in her condescending, broken English that blessed items cannot be sold. I informed her that she was mistaken and explained to her what my father had told me. She just shook her head, made a clucking noise, and shuffled away. So there I was, thousands of miles away from home, unable to deliver on one simple task that would make my father happy. What made it worse was that, if I had known better, I could have bought the rosary ahead of time and taken in into the Pope extravaganza, where His Grace did, in fact, bless en masse all items brought in by the audience.

I felt dizzy. My legs felt weak. I contemplated my options. I could simply stay in Italy, never to be seen or heard from again. That way, the despair of losing his precious daughter would outweigh the fact that he didn’t have a blessed rosary…maybe. I could purchase one of the rosaries, and tell him it was blessed, but I was pretty sure that guaranteed a one-way ticket to hell for me, so best not to go down that road. I finally concluded that a genuine, Vatican-issued rosary was as close to being pope-blessed as you could get, and surely that would satisfy him.

Upon arriving back in the states, I immediately held out my father’s gift to him, and excitedly gave him my best sales pitch on the whole “Vatican-issued” bit. He held it up and, with perfect fatherly gratitude, told me it was exactly what he had wanted. I smiled, and acted like I believed him. But we both knew the truth.

I was a failure.

(Tomorrow: Redemption!…Or not.)