"Can we call Daddy on his cell phone?" they asked their mommy, still believing.

"No," she answered, and a new belief slowly dawned on their upturned faces.

"There are no cell phones in heaven."

“For what, when you went out into the wilderness, did you expect to see? A reed shaken by the wind?” (John the Baptist)

For what, when you hunted down the innocent and the unsuspecting, did you expect to kill?

Mere bodies, without spirits to cry out from the white dust of their deaths?

Or mere flesh, whose souls were somehow unconnected to the very souls of the brothers and sisters they left behind?

"There was a noise, a rattling sound, and the bones came together, bone to bone...and breath entered them; they came to life and stood up on their feet--a vast army." (Ezekiel 37)

Remember the prophets, and the Valley of Dry Bones, and wonder.

For we are yet one people, one flesh, one mind. One breath.

We'll always remember where we were.

Please, dear God, let us also remember who we are.

If you’ve never had a structural engineer or a foundation specialist inspect your newly-damp basement floor, and then tell you that you need a sump pump, count yourself among the innocents.

A “sump pump” sounds like a lot of fun, doesn’t it? Certainly, “pump” is a cheerful, enthusiastic word, whether when used as a verb or a noun.

One pictures a little girl with long braids and plaid ribbons swinging up to the sky and back, pump, pump—unable to imagine in her most horrifying dreams that there is such a thing as sump.

That said, if you’re considering losing whatever remains of your sump pump virginity, take my advice: Don’t.

You can never go back.

"Wait a minute," my husband says, "now you're putting words in my mouth..."

"Oh, yeah?" I shoot back. "Well, you should be happy! I could have made your words a lot worse."

We hear them singing loudly, raucously, purposefully, outside our door this morning. We wander out onto the porch, coffee cups in hand, trying to identify the source of the clamor, since from inside the house it sounded like an eighteen-wheeler whirring down our meandering road.

“Isn’t it amazing how full the trees still are at this time of year?” I ask, for in my mind, by the first of September, things should be starting to change. The beauty of the 100-year-old lush green oaks distracts me from our original mission.

Suddenly, as if trees could hear, the leaves begin to fly away, first by twos, then by tens, and finally hundreds at a time, singing with all their hearts.

The autumn has yet to begin, and already the fall is upon us.

I’m starting to think that the Final Exam in “Successful Marriage” isn’t really about finances, or in-laws or hormone replacement therapy, like they tell us.

Shrinking retirement accounts and itty-bitty-bladder syndrome, we can get through. Male-patterned baldness won’t kill us, even if it’s mine.

I’m starting to think “the test is in the nest.”

Being members of the “sandwich generation” used to frighten me. You know, the period in a middle-aged couple’s life when their kids and their parents are all needy at the same time. But guess what happened while our independent moms neglected to need us? The kids moved out!

The “big stuff” really has made us strong over the course of these past 25 years, but it’s the “little stuff”—the little people—who’ve made us fun.

We’ve got a few years left with our youngest son, and we won’t be hurrying him from the nest before it’s time. But we won’t try to stop him when he’s fit to fly, either.

In the meantime, we’ve become returning students of each other, Doug and I.

We’re facing pop quizzes daily, examining the Teacher’s text for insight into the coming chapters, and worrying just a little about the unavoidable essay questions.

The semester may be just beginning, but we’re determined to pass the Empty Nest Test—with “flying” colors.

THINGS I'VE SAID THAT I HOPE OTHER PEOPLE WILL WISH THEY'D SAID: First in a Series

"Under pressure, I don't do too well. Without pressure, I don't do too much."

“What do you want to be when you grow up?” I ask of the eighteen-year-old girl standing in front of me. She and I go way back… way back.

“I have no idea,” she answers, as I squint to get a better look at her.

Wait a minute… she’s no young girl… what’s happened to her? Could three entire decades have passed since I’ve seen her up close?

I turn to escape her aging reflection, open the bathroom door, and run down the hall, dragging my backpack-on-wheels behind me. Breathless, I collapse in a front-row seat in “Introduction to Psychology.”

The professor stands there smiling, waiting for the other freshmen to take their seats, silent. I look around at all the eighteen-year-old faces, so like the one I expected to see in the mirror, their eyes shining with expectation.

Do my eyes still shine?

Before psych class even starts, I’m hearing voices.

What in the world are you doing here? And what is the meaning of life?

E.R. and The West Wing are always promising that if I just watch tonight's episode, it will "change my life forever."

So I watch, and I wait, and I watch some more. Nothing.

Sure, I'm entertained, satisfied for an hour, and maybe my belief system is even bolstered by the scriptwriters' obvious ideologies. But changed forever? Hardly.

The things that change your life forever, I'm finding out, almost always arrive quietly, unannounced, without fanfare. They seldom turn out to be what you first take them for, and always end up being more than you could have ever dreamed.

Chloe and Sheryl will go back home to the towns of Fintona and Sixmilecross, County Tyrone, Northern Ireland in just three days time. We've been so wrapped up in their lives, and they in ours, for these past six weeks, that I haven't once had the time or notion to watch E.R. or The West Wing.

And our lives have been changed forever.

So I've lost all this weight, right?

Well, after months of deliberating, I finally screwed up all my courage and tried on a thong.

I would have tried on a couple, but it hurt my big toe really bad.

We knew we were taking a risk-- a big one.

We knew that the chances of getting two really wonderful girls from Northern Ireland to stay with us this summer were kind of like partaking in the church's potluck-- we might get full fast, but full of what? And we'd probably regret it later.

Still, we pushed forward to become a host family for two teenagers who were willing participants in the Children's Friendship Project for Northern Ireland, an organization which pairs a Catholic kid with a Protestant one and sends them to the U.S. for six weeks. The goal is that each pair of teens will become friends, and remain friends upon returning to Northern Ireland. And maybe even change their world.

Isn't that what we're all hoping to do, really?

So we took a chance, and it didn't pan out. It's unlikely we'll ever be a host family again, since the stakes are even higher now than they were when we started.

Because, you see, no two kids could ever again touch our lives like Sheryl and Chloe have. Sometimes, you just have to stop while you're ahead.

It’s a horrifying thing to fear for one’s transmission.

To hear banging, clattering, thumping and scraping, and to be reasonably certain of its ominous origin. To dimly recognize noises from one’s murky automotive past, and to be filled afresh with the dread and anguish of facing the thing head on.

And yet face it we must.

For, you see, we live in this car. It does not merely transport us from here to there. Such straightforward utility would be shallow, indeed.

No, our car serves not only as transportation, but also as dinner table, office desk and daybed. Not to mention summer camp, classroom, emergency room and confessional.

Within its walls, we parents have suffered through the lyrics to frightening songs on the FM, while our kids were trying to figure out how to ask us about the facts of life.

Within its walls, they might have even heard us say a few choice words they didn’t know we knew. Sigh.

Admitting this car to the repair shop is a bittersweet affair. Who knows when we might see it again? Who knows what terrible procedure it may have to endure, and whether it will ever really be the same from this day forward?

Now, more than ever, we realize how bound up our very existence is with this, our car.

“Mrs. Raymond,” the mechanic says somberly when he calls many tense hours later, “I think we’ve finally discovered the problem. It’s not your transmission clattering after all…”

“But, then…what?” I ask.

“It’s your dishes.”

Oh.

Lately, I’ve taken to believing that if I just stand in a hot shower long enough, blogging inspiration will come to me. Kind of like the spring rains watering the earth, you know?

Is it me, or is everyone’s water bill going up?

Have you noticed that life loses its luster sometimes?

It plods along, moping, for weeks on end, not noticing the beauty, the growth, the joy just a few steps outside the door—or maybe even the happiness lying dormant within the walls themselves.

It used to stretch elegantly for the new, the curious, and the unreachable. But now it languishes, yawns and settles—bored—into a summer funk.

How about a couple of teenaged girls from Northern Ireland to polish up a life? To really enliven things, how about making it one Protestant and one Catholic, with two completely different backgrounds, ideologies, politics and cultures?

Sheryl and Chloe danced into our hearts a week ago, and with a flourish. They did not hesitate to shine their lights into our small, crowded, busy darkness, beguiling us with their amazement at everything they eyes fell upon.

Did they realize how immediately we brightened, how instantly we began reflecting their glow?

Sheryl loaned me her nail polish for the 4th of July, replete with iridescent twinkly flecks that outshone the fireworks.

“Ooooh, I love the sparkles!” I enthused, and the girls really thought we were still talking nail polish.

God only knows how to put the shine back on a life.

SOMETHING ELSE I WISH I'D SAID... Second in a Series

"All of my dreams are waiting for me to come true."

All I can think about is seeing the look in his eyes when he realizes the gift is for him.

Doug and I plot for days how we will spring the surprise on Scott, our soon-to-be college graduate. We are not usually extravagant gift-givers, but unbeknownst to Scott, he's going to get a new Saturn.

We contrive a perfect scenario with the car sales guy, who meets us in a restaurant parking lot across from the dealership, pretending to be a client of Doug and Scott’s. Just another guy needing a website designed.

The guy pulls up to the curb, hops out, shakes hands all around, and starts to hand off his folder of info for Scott’s consideration. As Scott opens it, the salesman says, “Do you think you could design something like this?”

Scott looks at the paper, confused, disoriented, not yet blinking. “Oh….cute…” he says, dumbly.

The paper contains a cranberry colored picture of a Saturn, exactly like the one the guy drove up in, and the URL “ScottRaymondsNewCar.com.”

Scott’s eyes still hold no glimmer of recognition of what he’s about to receive. But I can’t take my eyes off his.

Any second now…any second!

“Maybe,” the salesman continues, “you need to step over here to get a better idea of what I’m talking about…” And he leads Scott, like a sheep, to the cranberry car.

I stare, mesmerized, energized, as Scott’s eyes register the truth. One blink, the confusion disappears. Two blinks, could it be? Three blinks, disbelief of the reality before him. Four blinks, utter joy!

The heavenly Father spends eternity waiting, watching for a glimmer of recognition in His child’s eyes.

“Any second now,” He must be thinking, “she’ll receive the gift of My Son! Any second now…”

And all He can think about is seeing the look in my eyes when I realize the Gift is for me.

They will be watching for us, won’t they?

They won’t need to wear purple hats or cheesy name tags for us to find them in the crowd. They won’t need to call us on our cell phone to let us know they’ve arrived from Northern Ireland in a strange, new land, to stay the summer with strange, new people. They won’t even need to wave their arms or shout aloud to attract our attention.

We’ll be right there, waiting, a little bit anxious, but thrilled to finally meet them. We’ll be the conspicuous ones, holding the handmade signs reading, “Welcome, Sheryl and Chloe!”

We won’t be embarrassed to be so excited. The crowds both waiting and arriving won’t faze us. We’ll only have eyes for our girls.

I wonder about Jesus in the crowd, sometimes. I know He’s there forever waiting, waiting for me. Is He a little bit anxious, too? What’s that He’s holding up in his hands?

It’s the Book of Life, and He’s pointing to my name, calling me with His eyes.

And He must be thinking, “She will be watching for Me, won’t she?”

A COUPLE OF THINGS I WISH I'D SAID... First in a Series

"Heck is where people go who don’t believe in Gosh."

"Chocolate: It’s not just for breakfast anymore."

Do you know what it’s like to be blinded by the light?

It must be like the morning I slept too long and too deeply, with my face bearing the strength of the sun, which by early day was streaming brazenly through the uncurtained window.

I hazily dreamed of spinning, spinning, until I awakened to find the room spinning, indeed. It was as though my eyelids had offered my eyes no protection at all from the onslaught of the brightness—they might as well have been made of the finest tissue paper.

For hours, while my vision was impaired, I reflected on the Road to Damascus, and poor St. Paul.

Our lights went out yesterday, in a wild storm, effectively ending our various electricity-driven enterprises for the rest of the day. Just as dusk was overtaking us, and we were gathering the oil lamps, the light was suddenly back, cheerfully ablaze, as if on cue.

The hair dryer was soon in full operation, meaning Carrie was leaving for the evening, almost certainly to arrive back home with the wee hours nipping at her heels.

Later, much later, I prayed in silence, staring at the ceiling of our blackened room, alert. Our bedroom is so far removed from the road leading to our house that I did not hear the car edging closer.

And then, finally, two fleeting streaks of light above me, the reflections of the headlights of her car. Thank you, Lord…my daughter’s safely home.

I know something of what it’s like to be blinded by the light. And how it sometimes happens when I’m sound asleep.

More often, though, I’m so desperate to see any shred of light at all that I lie on my back, in abject darkness, waiting for a shining sliver to flash across the bedroom sky. With eyes wide open.

So there we were, seated around a table for seven, celebrating my son Scott’s twenty-second birthday. Two of his guy friends joined us, and somehow we got talking about the runaway sleep deprivation the three of them live with.

Nathan works at a men’s formalwear store, and usually works alone in the suburban mall storefront. He described how he sometimes falls asleep there at the counter, in front of God and everybody.

“I really hate it when I nod off in the front,” he said, and I could easily imagine his chagrin.

What if the store manager happened by just then, or the ever-vigilant tuxedo police busted him?

“Failure to appear to be an aggressive self-starter,” the citation might read. How humiliating.

“So now,” he went on, “when I realize I’m getting sleepy, I grab a huge pile of tuxedos and head for the back room…”

“I see,” I said, “to make it seem like you’re doing something…”

“No…to make a bed.”

And there it is.

“Oh…is it tomorrow?” she asks.

Somehow, her memory is slightly jogged by hearing my voice.

“Yeah, lunch tomorrow…” I intone, wishing again, as I had a thousand times during our thirty year friendship, that she’d get a calendar. “Will that still work?”

Why don’t I just record this conversation and hit the play button the next time?

“Oh, gee…” she hesitates, “they asked me to come into work, and my daughter has her ACTs, and I have to take her and pick her up, and then she has a dentist appointment, and it’s way over on the other side of town, and I have to take her and wait for her, so…”

“So tomorrow doesn’t sound like it’s going to work,” I conclude.

We only live thirty minutes from each other, but two years have passed since we’ve met. At one time, when we were young, we only lived three feet from each other, and two hours couldn’t pass without another “heart to heart.”

“Katy,” she’d whisper in the wee hours, as if there were anyone to disturb besides me, “are you awake?”

And then she’d tell me her girlish secrets, about the “crush” who was destined to be her one and only true love, and what he had said that had melted her heart. We’d giggle and scheme and talk until morning, and then face the day sleepless, but wholly sustained by friendship.

Something has changed now, though. I used to welcome the “interruption.” Now, it seems, I am the interruption.

“None of the tomorrows are going to work,” I whisper to myself, as I hang up the phone. As if there were anyone here to disturb besides me.

It’s been raining almost non-stop for the last ten days or so. I don’t follow the weather reports much, but when it rains torrentially, it’s good to stay apprised of road conditions, cancellations and flight delays.

This morning, the weather guy announced that we are under an “urban and small stream advisory.” This usually happens several hours before the “flash flood advisory,” and a couple days before everyone starts shipping out of their homes in row boats.

We have no small streams to navigate regularly, and we heeded the “urban advisory” years ago and moved to the country. Actually, we stopped off in the suburbs for a few years, although I’ve yet to hear them issue a “suburban and small stream advisory.”

My mother is a staunch city girl, though, having lived in the same home for forty years, and refuses to budge just because of some lame urban advisory, especially if it means she’d have to relocate in a thunderstorm. I worry about her.

Our grown son, Scott, talks about moving back from his small college town, into the urban core. He says tons of young people are re-populating the cities, choosing to consolidate their careers, social lives and living arrangements squarely inside the city limits.

What is he thinking? Doesn’t he watch the news?

I’ve loved the word “synergy” since I first heard it used in context back in the mid-1980s. The speaker, who was expounding upon the benefits of a powerful multiple vitamin, explained how the individual components were made much more effective by being combined precisely with the remaining ingredients.

“Each vitamin, mineral and herb is fine alone,” he said, “but put them together, and they are EXTREME. The sum of the parts really IS greater than the math would imply, folks.
That’s what we call SYNERGY!”

“What a concept!” I thought, and ever since that day I’ve strived to apply it in as many ways as possible to my own life.

Today, for instance, I’m grouchy, tired, fat and hungry. Oh, yeah, and hormonal. And did I mention fat?

Why is it, in my life, “synergy” ends up being just another way of combining “sin” with “energy”?

Maybe I should start taking vitamins…

It’s at least ten degrees below normal temperature this morning, and I’ve got to say, that’s my very favorite temperature. If God happens to throw in a brisk breeze and a fine, Scottish mist, so much the better.

It’s the kind of morning that makes me pour a second cup of coffee (actually, any morning makes me do that), unplug my laptop and head out to the front porch.

At my house, there’s no great distinction between the front porch and the back, since you can’t see a neighbor’s property from any vantage point, unless it’s mid-winter and the trees are bereft.

But it’s more sociable to sit on the front porch, don’t you think? To anticipate a car meandering up the long road to the house, to welcome a long-lost or long-awaited friend, to serve iced lemonade to a thirsty stranger.

Of course, if someone were really coming up the road, I’d have enough time to run inside, clean the whole house, and whip up a five-course meal, all before the doorbell rings.

Occasionally, though, it’s completely satisfying just to picture myself accomplishing any number of gratifying social interchanges, without any of them actually happening.

And all in the privacy of my very own bathrobe.

I have been suffering a veritable dearth of creativity. Don't you just hate dearths?

Doug was frantically putting together the graphic elements for a slide presentation for a corporate client. He’d had weeks to come up with something, but efficiently condensed that adequate amount of time into one all-nighter.

“Ooooh, I like it,” I drooled, hovering over the computer screen and attempting to assuage any lingering doubts of The Sleepless One.

“Uh, well, I think I may have lifted a couple of design ideas from this other guy’s website…”

“That’s why God gives other guys ideas.”

Did I say that?

“You’re not a baby-snatcher or a killer, are you?”

The thirty-something blonde was hostess to an upscale garage sale, which was just getting underway. She wanted to retreat to her basement to retrieve some more dispensables.

“Uh…no?” I answered, feeling somewhat guilty in spite of my utter innocence. She was the seller, after all, and I merely the prospective sellee. A complete stranger.

Then she motioned to the newborn girl sleeping in the infant seat on the garage floor, and asked if I would keep an eye on her.

Things are getting weirder.

I don’t think there’s a better way for me to embrace multiculturalism than to hang some wallpaper.

We rolled on lots of flat off-white paint when we built this house seven years ago, and, with time, it’s become even flatter and offer. Where’s the culture in that?

And since we don’t live in Johnson County, Kansas, where the rules state that everything, inside and out, must be in shades of beige, we’re branching out.

It all started when we purchased that one-and-a-half-seat recliner for our anniversary. Did I mention that it is upholstered with a tapestry depicting a French sidewalk café scene? Cool, huh? Such dimension, such depth, such…flat paint!

Then my three great kids got me three stools for the breakfast bar—with rusted, curved, iron legs and wooden seats, and a decidedly European flair.

Finally, I found myself attracted to and acquiring all these accoutrements with a grape motif—again, echoing this unmistakable leaning toward things French and Italian and booze-intensive—clearly a cultural leap.

And then, it was as if I heard the audible voice of God—leading, directing... commanding?

“Hang wallpaper!”

Who am I to argue?

We chose a paper that makes the walls look ancient, almost like stone, and quite continental. The effect makes me want to light some of those candles that drip colored wax down the outside of straw-covered wine bottles, and serve meatball sandwiches.

The hangers are here today, a father and son team. As it turns out, the older man is from Scotland, very near the town where my Dad is from.

Do you see where all this is going?

Multiculturalism, thy name is wallpaper.

Of course, I was tempted. Wouldn’t you be?

I’d been desperate to use the public facilities at the local Tires Plus store. After squatting, not sitting, on the commode, for as many seconds as it took to start feeling the burn in my thigh muscles, I grabbed for the loose roll of toilet paper. It promptly dropped and rolled across the grimy floor as if on fire.

I was left to drip-dry, while contemplating how the heck I was going to get out of there communicable-disease-free.

Ah, the lavatory, I thought. It will be equipped with water, soap and paper towels, all the comforts of home.

Reaching instinctively for the faucet handle, I stopped cold. In front of me was the grossest, filthiest, most despicably grunge-intensive sink I have ever beheld.

But I must, I thought, I need to wash my hands!

I reached out again, tentatively at first, but with steely resolve. So determined was I to be cleansed that I practically threw myself into the waiting arms of the temptor. And then I saw the sign.

A sign from God?

“Please Do Not Lean On The Sink. Thank You. The Management.”

If I leaned, or perhaps even if I touched, the precariously attached sink was as likely to roll across the floor as the toilet paper had been.

I backed away, slowly. Obediently.

I had to wonder later, though, whether the guy responsible for cleaning the Tires Plus bathroom thought the sign said, “Please Do Not Clean On The Sink.”

Behold, the power of Please.

I’d never been to a funeral for a former Catholic priest, and chances are, you haven’t either. Much less a former Catholic priest who’d been married for 24 years and had two grown sons.

It’s a little strange being lifelong friends with a guy like that. First he’s your church pastor, then he’s your high school religion teacher and counselor, always he’s your spiritual shepherd. When you’re twenty-one and he’s thirty-three and you need him to be much more grounded and stable than you are, he decides to leave the priesthood and seek happiness with a girl your age. Is he crazy, or what?

As it turns out, what.

Eight priests con-celebrated the funeral mass last night. I must say I was afraid that the Catholic Church might, through word or deed, lay hold to some “prior claim” to Bruce and his life. I was worried, for his wife’s sake, that the old Catholic slogan, “Thou art a priest forever, according the the order of Melchisadech,” might rear its head, throwing her and all of those assembled into a theological tailspin.

I needn’t have fretted.

The priest who spoke, who had been friends with Bruce since they were both thirteen and attending the “high school for future priests,” talked about Bruce’s integrity and the intense soul-searching that accompanied all his major life decisions.

“The best decision Bruce ever, ever made,” said the good Father, “was to marry Mary.”

The congregation let out a collective sigh. It was what we knew to be the truth about Bruce, in our hearts. But we needed it to be said aloud, once more, by another priest.

In honor of his death, and in honor of her life.

Doug was secretly bidding on the freshwater pearls from Tivol’s Jewelry, while I was secretly bidding on the golf day for four at a local country club.

I think there were even husbands and wives sneaking around and unwittingly bidding against each other for the same item, which could be why “silent auctions” were invented in the first place.

Doug found out about the golf day before the bidding was over, and he was so excited he upped the ante one more time himself, and won the bid.

I didn’t know about the pearls until the end of the evening, when we went to redeem our purchases. He opened the box, knelt down on one knee, and placed the strand around my neck right there in front of God and everybody.

I’m not sure I heard applause, but I know I heard fireworks.

The necklace was a bonafide bargain, but even if we’d paid retail, it couldn’t have compared with my jewel of a husband—my very own “pearl of great price.”

“Excuse me,” said Susan, when we literally bumped into each other at a silent auction the other night. We whirled to face each other, and I greeted her by name.

It’s been a year or so since we’ve seen each other, and she was clearly stumped.

“Oh…,” came a glimmer of recognition, “it’s you!”

I assured her it was, and she went on, “It’s your…your…your hair! You’ve cut your hair—it’s so cute!”

“Well, yeah, I did cut my hair, and I let it go back to its natural color…but I also lost 62 pounds, and getting my hair cut was definitely easier!”

Pride is a sin, I know, but false humility’s just as bad, right?

Besides, I just couldn’t let Great Clips get all the credit.

Carrie’s finishing her freshman year of college with a two-week chorale tour of six states. Between performances, they took a day off to enjoy Disney World.

“Mom, I just had to call you from the Magic Kingdom!”

“Carrie, I’ve just got to tell you, you’re our Magic Kingdom…”

“I love you, too, Mom.”

If you’ve never had a friend like Bruce, you’re really missing someone.

I was a fourteen-year-old kid when we first met, in the eighth grade at St. Elizabeth’s, where he was the new priest. The next year, I was a freshman at an all-girls academy and Bruce had taken a position as religion teacher.

He gave me the first “C” of my young life, and I figured out he must know something about God that I didn’t. I decided to find out.

His office was always open, or if it wasn’t, I could slip a note under his door, knowing all my adolescent concerns would be kept between the two of us. Back then, if I said, “Keep the faith, baby,” I knew he would.

When I graduated and started to drift away from the Lord, he was there.

“If you’re doing stuff you couldn’t tell your mother, you’re living a lie,” he said. And so I turned my life around, I repented, because of Bruce.

If I’d never had a friend like Bruce, I would have really missed someone.

But I didn’t miss him, until now. Yesterday, he died.

“One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine…”

I counted the hardback books carefully, aloud, for the sake of the reluctant, suspicious homeowner and her 40-year-old daughter, the sponsors of a garage sale they were beginning to regret.

The elderly woman regretted she’d been in the house when the daughter quoted me a price of 50 cents per book. The daughter regretted the day she was born.

“Mother, you didn’t have the books priced,” the daughter hissed, while I was still perusing the stacks, “so I told the lady 50 cents…”

The daughter’s attempt at self-defense was feeble enough to make her wish she’d gone to law school when she had the chance.

“50 cents? What were you thinking? Most of those still have the original price tags on them! Most of them have never been read!”

So I finished shopping, took my books to the table, and started counting.

I’ve never counted to ten to try to calm my anger, or counted to ten to deter my children from leading lives of crime. But how I hoped counting to ten would diffuse the time bomb in that garage!

No sooner did I hand over a five-dollar bill than my elder blurted out, “Well, young lady, I hope you know you’re getting a real bargain.” It was the lecture I deserved, the one I’d been waiting for, delivered with a full measure of alacrity. It hit its mark.

“Would you like to buy the books back?”

She shook her head slowly, and then turned to shoot daggers at her poor, hapless daughter.

As I walked away, I swear I heard two women, grinding their teeth, counting to ten.

Kevin just started playing tennis with the school team. When we're driving home after a match, if he's lost, I find it's better not to talk. It's crucial not to say something encouraging like, "Kev, I thought you looked really good out there today..."

He's been sick with a sinus infection, though, and he's on medicine, and I know he's not playing his best because of it.

"I'm sorry you're not feeling well," I ventured hesitantly, like someone treading on thin ice on a hot afternoon.

"Yeah," he sarcasticated, "well, I'm sorry that I suck."

See what I mean?

I had almost finished my Starbucks iced latte, made with half-and-half and sugar-free vanilla syrup. Doug had barely sipped his full-sugared raspberry mocha chip frappucino. I had so thoroughly enjoyed mine that I was becoming jealous that he had so much left still to enjoy. I wanted more.

"Lord, multiply it!" It was the caffeine praying.

Sshluuuuurrrrrrp......schoooooop! And the straw fell silent.

I stared at the cup, waiting, till the sugar-free truth sank in.

"He's not multiplying it."

God is in control, and this is good for me.

"Why are you crying, hon?" Doug wants to know.

Isn't it obvious? I'm peeling potatoes.

I know, I know. It should read "onions," right? While it's true that generations of hormonal women have hidden behind layers of onion, only the potato will cut it for me.

An onion is merely a disguise, a mask to protect the cook from revealing the true source of her tears. An onion is always on reserve in the fridge for when the emotions hit the fan, so it can be said, "Oh, I'm fine, really. It's just this darned onion."

A potato, on the other hand, is no mere mask, and it stubbornly refuses to be used to divert observers from the truth. A potato doesn't hide anything, but each slice of the knife brings honest feelings closer to the surface.

It's important to state right off that a so-called "vegetable peeler" will not achieve the desired results when one is in need of therapy. A vegetable peeler is for a woman afraid of getting down to the root of her difficulty. It is nothing more than an insipid blade flanked by two guard rails. A paring knife, by contrast, is short and sharp. In the peeling of a potato, the knife is drawn across the vegetable toward the cook in a motion designed to cause the cook to regularly consider her own mortality.

If I'm starting to feel a little sorry for myself, or depressed or volatile, I whip out a paring knife and 10 lbs. of potatoes and go to town.

I might think about my ancestors, the McKennas, and how thrilled they would have been for a potato to call their own, and my heart swells with gratitude. Who would have dreamed the McKennas would ever have it this good? Why, my potatoes aren't blackened or blighted or scarce! Just lightly salted with tears.

Forget onions! If you need a good cry, there's nothing like a close encounter with a raw potato.

"This is a really good cut for the shape of your face," enthused the stylist, as she finished my hair and we walked toward the front desk. For some sick, egocentric reason, I felt compelled to tell her I'd just finished losing 62 pounds, so she'd understand why I wanted a shorter, younger style.

"Really!" she exclaimed, which is precisely the sort of response I revel in. She added something else, but since I'm completely deaf in one ear, it escaped me.

Then she tallied up the receipt for 16-year-old Kevin and me and said, "That'll be $10 and $12."

"No," I corrected her, "he's an adult..."

"Oh, I know," (by now she seemed just slightly confused) "but I thought you were a senior..."

A SENIOR?!? I whipped out two twelves so fast her head spun.

Poor Kevin bore the brunt of my indignation all the way home, until we finally put 10 and 12 together and realized she had heard only the "62"--as in "years old," rather than "pounds lost."

The only thing worse than the blind leading the blind is the deaf heeding the deaf.