memories

Last night, I came home and glanced over the "who called" list on the phone. All telemarketers, except one ... and that one made me shriek a little bit with joy

Which freaked out Millhouse, of course.

They called back later, and we had a good, long chat, during which we found each other on Facebook, and I pulled out my photo album, and we re-lived a whole lot of memories.

And I smiled all night long, every time I woke up.

Which was often, because Millhouse kept coming in and out.

And then he threw up.

But still ... I managed to keep smiling.

Their phone call sparked a whole new set of stories that I MUST tell you, in the days to come!

(after the move, OK?)

things I found

I am packing up my office this week, getting ready to move.

Here are some things I have found:

A Zaboomafoom video. (not DVD - video) Note: I don't have kids. I have never watched Zaboomafoom.

An energy conservation box with weather stripping in it.

Two Polaroid cameras.

Drumsticks.

And a whole lotta dustbunnies.

You know how on TV, when someone moves out of their office, they have one little box with a few picture frames and knick knacks in it? And they carry it easily, without even breaking a sweat?

My office is not like that. I've been sweating. And I thought you should know.

icecubes

When you come to our house, you can have a drink, but you won't get icecubes.

We used to have icecubes. Not the big kind that slam up against your teeth when you take a sip. No, we had polite little icecubes, that did their beverage-cooling duties without a lot of fanfare. People commented on our icecubes.

Seriously - they really did.

"Oh, those little things?" we'd say, secretly pleased and proud. "The trays came with the fridge - I guess they ARE superior ice cubes, aren't they? We never really noticed...."

But a few years ago, mid-move, that fridge went somewhere else, and so did the trays.

And it's never been the same since.

It's actually really difficult to FIND ice cube trays. Maybe they come with fridges everywhere, so no one buys them separately. I don't know. I do know it's really been annoying Spike. Me, I don't care so much - I'm mostly a coffee-drinker.

So a couple of months ago, when he found some spiffy little trays in cool colours, he picked up a few. We eagerly looked forward to the vast improvement they would create in our lives. The special thing about these trays was not just that they created small cubes, and not just that the trays were all lime and orange coloured - it was that they had FLEXIBLE BOTTOMS.

(Probably some of you have flexible bottoms too, but we're not talking about that.)

The picture showed these little frozen bits of delight just popping right out of the tray, as a well-manicured thumb pressed gently from behind. Much better than the upper-body strength required to twist and crack those regular trays that ordinary folks have.

Well.

We filled them. Froze them. And then one day, I decided I would like to have a little unpretentious icecube in my iced tea. So I pulled it out, and gently applied my thumb to its flexible bottom. Nothing happened. I gave the tray a little tap, and tried again. Nothing. Looked at it for awhile. Tried other flexible bottoms, and other fingers. Twisted the tray with both hands, in the old-fashioned way. Being flexible, it happily bent nearly in half without dislodging a single cube. I smashed it on the counter, over and over again.

Nothing. Nada. Zip.

I hate those ice cube trays.

Spike is more patient than me. He demonstrated how to run warm water in just the right place, and then he showed me how his big, muscular thumb could get the cubes out without any trouble. I said I didn't want ice if it took that much work. Then I went in a corner and sulked. Then I came out of the corner, and I've just been ignoring the ice cubes since then. We don't speak about them.

Last night, Spike started slamming the ice cube tray against the counter in frustration. He looked up at me in defeat. "I hate these trays," he said.

"Oh good," I said. "Now that we're in agreement, can I blog about it?"

He rolled his eyes, which I took to mean that he thought it would be a wonderful idea.

--

By the way - we're in the middle of a move at work - so if I don't post as often as usual over the next couple of weeks, don't abandon me, OK? I'll be back! I promise!!

millhouse strikes again

BREAKING NEWS!!!

A BABY HAS BEEN BORN!

TO DAN & KIM!

IT'S ON DOUGIE'S BLOG!!

CONGRATULATIONS TO ALL!!!

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If you've been here awhile, you've heard of Millhouse. Our 17-year-old cat with serious anger issues.

I have given him his own label, over there to the left, in case you want to read up on him, but a couple of my favourites are located here and here.

He's been almost polite lately. Glaring at guests, but from a distance. Growling, but not leaping. Warning, but not attacking.

Until last Sunday morning.

Spike had a gig, and when he arrived home late at night, he had our nephew with him. Punk, as I lovingly and embarrassingly refer to him, opted to sleep on the couch. It's either there or in the basement, with the random toilet. No one wants to sleep near the random toilet. I don't know why.

Punk is well aware of Millhouse's malevolent attitude towards all things living. But I assured him that Mill would not be allowed near him, and he trusted me. (That may have been a mistake on his part.)

We kept Mill in our bedroom all night, which he was pretty happy about. We could have shut him in the bathroom, but he has a tendency to hurl his body at the door over and over again, trying to get out, and since the couch is just on the other side of that door, it could really traumatize a Punk that is trying to sleep. Plus, when Mill does that, Spike and I tend to holler at him from our bed, which could also be disturbing to overnight guests.

In the morning, when I got up, I took Millhouse with me. I don't want to get too specific, but let's just say that when I was behind closed doors - so was he. And all was well. Until he had to go. You know - "go". So I took him downstairs where he "goes" and then I came up with a brilliant idea. Just block the stairs so he can't come back up, and then I can go on with my morning, and Punk can sleep in peace. I've done it before, successfully.

What could possibly go wrong?

So that's what I did. Used all of Spike's guitars and gear to block every possible exit from the stairs. Went into the bathroom, and closed the door. Not more than 5 minutes later, came back out to get something, and there was Millhouse curled up on the floor in front of the door. I glanced hopefully over to the couch where Punk was ... no longer sleeping. Crud.

"Hey....good morning," I said nervously.

"Morning," he answered, waiting for the obvious question.

"So....I guess Mill got by the barricades?" I asked, trying not to alarm him.

"Yup," he said.

"He didn't ... um ... bother you, did he?" I asked.

"Yup," he said.

"Oh no," I groaned. "What happened?"

Turns out that Millhouse perhaps didn't realize there was a body on the couch. My best guess is that he was fully unaware of it until he jumped on top of that body. And so when Punk opened his eyes, to discover why his stomach had just caved in, he found my loving cat, standing on top of him, hissing and growling violently into his face from just a few inches away.

Punk's a pretty calm dude though. He doesn't freak out easily. He reported matter-of-factly - "I just eyeballed him until he got off me!"

VHIP's who laugh

I got an email today from my District Office.

Can I be honest here? I don't always thoroughly read and soberly meditate on every single thing that comes from the very wise, very holy, very God-like people that are higher than me on the denominational food chain. No disrespect intended - it's just that.... well, they send out a lot of stuff, as a whole. And if I thoroughly read and soberly meditated on all of it, I wouldn't get my job done here, and then I'd have some 'splainin' to do.

So I almost deleted today's email. And then I saw it. A video link, which had been recommended by a Sectional Presbyter, who wanted to remain nameless, in case someone got offended by the humour.

This really caught my attention, because Sectional Presbyters are Very Holy and Important People (VHIP's), and I wasn't aware that they were allowed to have a questionable sense of humour. Except for my friend, who still is my friend, despite becoming a VHIP in the last year or so. I was going to name that person, but they may not want to be associated with me after this post.

And so, of course, I clicked the video link. And I laughed. I snorted milk through my nose. (No I didn't. But I thought about it.) And then I felt, that in support of this nameless VHIP who is a Sectional Presbyter, I should share it with you.

Disclaimer: If you are not, and never have been, in any kind of a charismatic Christian setting - you may not see the humour in this.

Another Disclaimer: If you ARE part of the charismatic Christian world, and you don't think that sometimes we should laugh at ourselves - you also, may not see the humour in this.

If you're still here, after those disclaimers, grab a glass of milk and enjoy.

grab a glass of milk

So many comments in the last post. Personally, I thought it was one of my least interesting posts, but apparently you disagree.

AND....did you notice the new commenter? Rick? His profile says he's from Oregon. I wonder if he knows my Famous Author Cousin? Anyway....his blog is worth checking out....it's right here. It will fill the hole left in your heart by the lack of artistic endeavour on my blog. I don't do art. Nope, nope, nope, nope!

Anyhow, many of you were rather taken by the thought of milk squirting out a pastor's nose. A pastor's nose is no more holy than all of your regular noses, you know. And I KNOW that you have all squirted milk out your nose at some point or another.

But maybe you haven't in a long time.

Maybe you need to laugh.

So....I give you....Paul Hunt. Who, I bet, would get along great with Kurt Browning.

what they don't tell you

You get an education. You get the necessary credentials. You get the job.

And then 15 years later, you're still learning what they never said you'd have to know.

So if theological and pastoral educators out there care to hear from someone who's been in the pastoring trenches for awhile, I have a few things to say:

1. Pastors need to know how to buy alarm systems, phone systems and photocopiers.

2. Pastors do not need to know how to arrange flowers for when parishioners come to tea. (Seriously. It was in one of my textbooks.)

3. Pastors need to know how to set mousetraps, set up chairs and push a mop.

4. Pastors do not need to know Hebrew. (Although we SAY we do - it makes us feel smart.)

5. Pastors need to be technologically, culturally and politically savvy in all areas, at all times.

6. Pastors do not need to know the kings lists. (I say this with all due respect to Professor B., who made us memorize them, and thus helped us realize how the little stories fit together into one big story. Still. No one has actually asked me to recite a list of Old Testament kings and how they died, since graduation.)

7. Pastors need to know everyone's names. Everyone's. Instantly. Even if you haven't seen them in 25 years.

That's all for now. Oh wait, one more, and it's a must.

I don't know why none of my profs addressed it. Because if you don't have this skill....well, I don't know if you'll survive.

It's essential.

Any guesses?

You must, absolutely MUST KNOW, how to laugh. As much as possible. If you snort milk out your nose, even better.

Blogging's good too.

election

October 14.

I've actually marked it on my calendar.

A federal election is taking place in our lovely nation.

I don't know yet if I'm happy or annoyed about that, so perhaps you'd like to influence me at the poll to the left.

I know I WILL vote - but I don't know yet for whom.

I know I'm still mad at Chretien, for what it's worth.

Which is not to say I'm loving anybody else.

I would probably vote for SOMEONE who would do SOMETHING POSITIVE with the land disputes.

Here's what I'm going to do.

Are you ready?

I'm going to go buy some clothes with my birthday money.

And think about elections on another day.