Picture of the Day

Here's some cuteness to start off the month of September

We recently came into a haul of baby clothes from our friend. Her daughter had outgrown the clothes, so we inherited them. Our friend brought them over when she came by on Monday, and our toddler daughter was intrigued by the headbands. So, we just had to put it on her!

A flower child in bloom

Needless to say, it didn't stay on very long. Rubber bands, barrettes, headbands, nothing keeps my kid's hair out of her face! My mother keeps nagging us to trim her bangs, but I don't want to. Her curls are too cute to cut!

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Cheating Death

Good evening!

Let me start off this post by thanking God that I am alive to write it. Saturday, I had a brush with death and I still can't fully wrap my head around what happened.

I'm watchin' you...

It all started on Friday when my hubby and I went to visit our friend to provide emotional support and act as witnesses because Child Protective Services was invading her house on totally bogus charges made by a former acquaintance. He contacted CPS and made up outrageous claims to get back at her for getting rid of his stuff which he had dropped off at her house and refused to come back and pick it up when she told him to (he also texted and emailed her what he was going to do, so there are legal grounds for prosecution against him for this too). Thankfully, our good deed worked and the CPS caseworker closed the case. After the caseworker left, my husband took our friend to get some cigarettes and she accidentally left her phone in the car. None of us realized that she'd done this, and it wasn't until we got home and I was cleaning out the cupholder when I saw it was there. Since it was getting dark and my hubby had to change out the grommet on the gas tank (it was very worn and leaked fuel every time we filled the tank more than halfway), I figured we'd go by her house the next day and drop it off before going to Confession. It was her only working phone and I didn't want her to be stuck without it for long.

Saturday was spent doing housework and working on the car (the gas tank was fixed, but that damned electrical short has returned!). We were aiming to go to our friend's home first and then to Confession in the evening, but first we had to stop and get gas. My husband and I observed that the tank itself was in good condition (there was not a spot of rust or perforation anywhere inside that tank when I looked into it as my husband was replacing the grommet the previous day), and he wanted to see how much gas it held when completely filled. The screen at the pump read 24 gallons when my husband had to manually stop the pump because the tank was overfilling. He was thrilled because that meant our cholomobile's gas tank was a full-size tank appropriate to a C-body Mopar (they ranged in size from 23-26 gallons)!

And that was when all hell broke loose.

As my husband was pumping air into the rear air shocks, he saw to his horror that the fuel line had ruptured on the car! Gasoline was spilling onto the concrete and if the leak wasn't stopped, the scene could get deadly in a hurry. My husband got under the car and stuck his finger in the leak to stop it while I ran into the store with the baby in one arm and a 5 gallon bucket in the other to fill with water and wash off the gasoline that was now dousing my husband. One of the assistants in the gas station also came to our aid by filling up the bucket with water and pouring it on my husband, getting me the number to a local cab company so I could call and get a ride to the nearby auto parts store to get replacement fuel line, and calling the fire department to help contain and manage the highly flammable mess.

Kaboom!

Fortunately, the cab arrived at the gas station within 10 minutes and transported the baby and I to the auto parts store. The cabbie was kind enough to wait for me in the parking lot while the boy at the register cut me a foot of replacement fuel line (Even though I had part of the original line with me for reference, I would later discover the line the teenage boy at the store sold me was the wrong size, but I didn't realize it until much later after we got home). The fire department was just leaving when I came back and paid the cabbie for his service. They had sprayed my husband down with a soapy foam mixture to wash the gasoline off of him. His clothes were ruined and he sustained first degree chemical burns on parts of his back (gasoline is a corrosive solvent!), but the situation was under control. The gas station's manager threw some sandy substance onto the ground to absorb the water and gas mixture, and my husband put the new fuel line in place. Once it was attached, we went straight home. Our visit to our friend would have to wait till Sunday. After we got home, my husband checked the vent lines of the tank and saw that they were leaking too, but this time, the situation was not as critical. The leaking vent lines were replaced, but it was mostly just overflow from an overfilled gas tank.

As we were driving home, my husband explained to me the gravity of what had just happened. Since gasoline is so flammable (and people are notorious about not following the anti-smoking instructions posted at gas stations), and here he was doused in the stuff, a careless customer who was smoking or talking on a cellphone could have set off a spark which not only would have turned my husband into a human torch, but also turned our car into a gasoline-filled bomb. The baby and I could very easily have been caught in the blazing inferno, as well as other customers and their cars. The fire department would have been dealing with casualties and alot of destruction. In fact, just before they left, the firemen thanked my husband for his quick thinking to get under the car and plug the line before calling them because his action had saved lives and property.

Angels watchin' over me

I used to wonder about how I'd react when faced with my own mortality. Would I be indifferent? Would I fight back or cry? Would I be relieved to finally cross over the threshold so few return from? Well, here I was, one spark away from meeting God face to face, and I was...numb. I'd been so hopped up on adrenaline, racing to get the replacement fuel line and water all while toting the baby in one arm, that the idea that I might die because of the gas fumes igniting didn't even register on my radar. Even now, a few days later, I still can't believe how close I came to meeting a grisly end. And, that was without anything actually happening. My guardian angel was working overtime to make sure nothing happened to us, or anyone else.

As for our friend's phone, we got it back to her on Sunday afternoon before we went to church. She was freaked out when I told her how close we came to getting barbecued on Saturday evening at the gas station because of the ruptured fuel line. Unfortunately, she couldn't come to church with us, but she was glad to see we were ok and to have her phone back.

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Some Updates

Hello dear readers!

As you may have noticed, things have been a little quiet here on the blog. This has largely been due to husband being out of town for a few days at a time over the course of these past two weeks. His job sent him to a small town near the US-Mexico border and with him not home to watch the baby while I cook and clean, I just haven't had the time or energy to write. One good thing about his business trip is that my husband got to stay in a historic hotel. A friend recommended the restaurant in the hotel's lobby, which my husband ate at and approved of mightily. It's said to be haunted (the front desk lady told my husband that an entity from the hotel followed her home and tried to strangle her in her sleep, and the colleague my husband was rooming with in the hotel room woke up in the middle of the night screaming from a terrifying nightmare. Coincidence? You decide...), but my husband hasn't seen or felt anything out of the ordinary. His demon-meter is fine tuned, but he's also well protected by the Lord.

Boo!

I also have an update on the car. It appears that the bothersome electrical short which caused spluttering upon acceleration and prevented us from going up our friend's very steep driveway for fear of burning through yet another set of wires when going over to visit her, has finally been fixed! My husband, while diligently looking over the wires in both the engine and the dash, discovered where the insulation had worn off in some wires leading to the wiper blades. He fixed it and the car seemed to behave for a few days, even with him being a leadfoot. A few days ago, he went to visit our friend on the hill and made it up her beastly driveway with no splutter or fried wires. I still get nervous going up her driveway, but now I don't have to walk up it anymore.


Also of note, I've been getting to exercise my cooking skills lately. I made some more pita breads, this time using whole wheat flour, and I rolled them to be very thin, just like how my hubby likes them. They weren't fluffy like what I'm accustomed to seeing with pita bread, and were actually quite dense. I wonder if this is characteristic of whole wheat flour, or if I didn't let the dough rise enough, but I'll try again sometime soon. Also, after collecting the last of the harvest from our tomato garden (the damn things went absolutely gangbusters!), I made homemade tomato sauce from the overripe and sun-scarred tomatoes in the colander my hubby was using to hold them. I also used plenty of fresh basil from the garden (another plant that has a tendency to go gangbusters out here), but I used too much initially and had to take out most of the leaves once the sauce had cooked down. Once it was cool enough, I jarred the sauce up and put it in the freezer. It'll make for excellent pizza sauce or spaghetti sauce once I get around to making these respective dishes.

We knew this was inevitable. Pennywise Trump finally got his coronation and shattered the GOP while doing it

Finally, if anyone cares to know, I have been keeping up with the dumpster fire known as the Republican National Convention. Like most apolitical people, I've been kicking back with my beer and popcorn, watching the shitshow rage on. I despise the walking ballsack called Ted Cruz for a whole host of reasons, but I will give him due credit for doing the equivalent of defiantly sticking his middle finger right in front of the GOP's face at the Donald's coronation. But then again, I've always subscribed to the idea that Donald Trump isn't in it to win the presidency, he's running as a troll Republican to destroy the GOP and clear the way for Hillary. I don't support Hillary for a whole host of reasons, but she's much more qualified to run this country than Trump. Besides, if she's elected, then we won't have to flee to Mexico to escape the coming hell that is a Republican presidency. Bernie did what he was supposed to do and pulled her to the left.

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First Steps

Greetings, dear readers!

Today marks a momentous milestone: the baby took her first steps!

Not quite walking, but she could pivot on one leg (which is what she's doing in this picture)

I knew this day was coming. For the past two weeks, when she'd crawl, the baby would crawl with her butt high in the air and her feet flat on the ground instead of on her knees like she normally would do. Today, when my husband took the baby out in the morning so that she could have a zoot and burn off some energy, she took three steps on her own towards him on the patio. Of course, when I went to go and observe the event, she wouldn't repeat it. Later on, however, as the baby was playing on the bedroom floor, I saw her stand up and take three steps toward the bed on her own before she reverted back to her normal crawling mode.

Monkey crawling

What makes this day even more special is that she figured out walking more or less on her own. She refused to be put in a walker, and while my husband and I would walk with her around the house holding her hands or letting her cling to our legs, there's only so much you can do to teach a kid to walk. Our pediatrician also said that when it came to walking, that it was a mind-over-matter kind of thing; even though they have the muscular ability to do it, the babies prefer crawling over walking because it gets them from Point A to Point B faster. Either way, I'm proud of my daughter. She's developing right on her targets.

Soon enough, she'll learn how to run. And that's when the real fun will begin...

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Juneteenth

Happy Sunday, dear readers!

While the rest of the country celebrated Father's Day, my family did not.

We celebrated Juneteenth instead.

A brief explanation of Juneteenth. Pic found here

Juneteenth is a Texas holiday commemorating the emancipation of the Black slaves in the state. The name is a combination of June and nineteenth, the date the emancipation was first celebrated formally in 1865. It was my husband who introduced me to this holiday in 2012, and he told me how when he was a younger man, he used to celebrate the day by eating fried chicken, watermelon with salt, and drinking cheap shitty beer. While his idea of celebrating Juneteenth came from the racist tropes of Blacks that he'd grown up with in Texas, I didn't mind eating fried chicken and a watermelon on this day. I'm not a big melon eater, but I've had watermelon every year on Juneteenth since 2012, even if beer and fried chicken were out of the question.

I did my bbq-ing last night. Pic found here

What surprised me most about my husband's choice of celebratory foods was the watermelon with salt. I knew about watermelon being seasoned with sugar (my grandma did that), and chili powder (the Mexicans did that), but not salt. Apparently, this is something only Texans did as my husband did not recall anyone in Louisiana seasoning their watermelons with salt (they did pickle the rinds, however). I didn't particularly care for the taste of salt and sweet watermelon the first time I had it, but I've grown to tolerate it.

Forget Father's Day. Sure dads are important, but the holiday has become so commercialized that it's been rendered worthless. Thank goodness my husband isn't crazy about parent-themed holidays. At least with Juneteenth, it was a holiday we could spend together as a family and somewhat relate to since both of our respective peoples (Irish and Serbs) had been utilized as slave labor over the course of history by various Western European powers. Today happened also to be the hottest day on record (a whopping 115 degrees Fahrenheit!), so it was a good day to stay inside and feast on leftover London Broil, baked beans, and watermelon. I had to kick myself out of bed super early so we could go to church early in the morning in order to get our Sunday obligation to attend Mass out of the way before it got too hot out.

And that was how I spent my Sunday.

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The Interview

Happy Sunday, dear readers. I got a pleasant surprise at the Carmelite church tonight because the African priest who's last Mass I'd attended had been so terrible (he was VERY long-winded and rambling) that I almost designated him as the first African priest I DIDN'T like, redeemed himself by being concise and orthodox with a stirring sermon about virtue. I was most pleased to see that his connection to the Holy Spirit was strong tonight. I usually have a very positive opinion of African priests (Indian ones too) because the ones I've met were well-catechized, orthodox and usually more intelligent than the average American priest I encountered. I suppose he was having a bad day that time and it just happened to be the first Mass I saw him in. Oh well. He's back in my good graces now and life can continue on as usual.

On Thursday, my husband had a job interview. He applied to work as a janitor at a local Presbyterian church, and the office called him in to be interviewed. Since there were errands to be run, I tagged along on this dreadfully hot day.

It may surprise some of you to learn that despite my die-hard Catholicism, this was not the first time I've been to a Presbyterian church. When I was growing up, my family joined an up-n-coming Serbian Orthodox church in the suburbs close to my home town. Before then, we'd been either going to the churches in the city of Chicago or the monastery in Lake County. Since the church parish was still so new, we didn't have a proper church of our own, so the managers were renting out the side chapel of a huge Presbyterian church in Deerfield, IL. I don't remember much about this place since I was a kid during the time we went there, but I remember the chapel being small, dark, and dusty with cobwebs on the windows. However, the building it was connected to was quite large. There was a hall behind the choir area which led to a kitchen and that was where the coffee hours were held. The basement was huge because that's where the Sunday school, Serbian language/culture, and dance classes were held and where the caretakers lived (they would regularly complain about the rambunctious kids banging on the door that led to their living quarters). I also remember my Serbian language teacher taking us on a tour of the building where we went past the double doors in the basement separating the part where the side chapel was to the main building, seeing the school classrooms there, and going into the actual main church itself. I don't remember exactly what the interior of the church looked like, but I remember there being alot of nice woodwork and it was dark. The second time I was in a Presbyterian church was when I was in 6th grade. It was for a comparative religions class which also included a trip to a local mosque and the huge Presbyterian church which was located in my hometown's downtown. Like my family's starter church, this local Presbyterian church had some nice dark woodwork inside and lovely stonework on the outside, though I remember looking at the tiny medicine cup-sized communion cups and kitschy-print missalettes in front of me in the pew and thinking this place looked more like the bank my parents did business with (at the time) than any church I was familiar with. There were crosses and banners proclaiming the glory of God, but not a single crucifix could be found anywhere.

Playing with her sunglasses

On this trip, I would not be checking out the church. I would be sitting in the office waiting area while my husband was interviewed. The secretary was kind and got the baby and I some water, but just like my previous trips to Presbyterian churches, the property was huge (this one was large enough to sustain a proper school). While the actual office itself was roomy and light with bright cabinets and clear windows, the waiting area was kinda dark. It had dark woodwork with kitschy stained glass depictions of biblical scenes and Christian themes lining the top of the room, but there was an entire wall which was designated as a sort of gift shop with trinkets, books, handmade quilted items, fair-trade coffees and mugs with the image of the church printed on them all for sale. The office waiting area itself was not very big, but it was large enough to walk around and the baby could crawl on the carpet without interruption. There was also a large china cabinet that held some mementos off to the side behind the chairs and on the coffee table in the middle of the room were two copies of some Billy Graham evangelical magazine keeping a "bible" company (I put bible in quotes because it wasn't exactly a Bible. It was selections from the Bible arranged to form some kind of storyline). I skimmed through the magazines and the "bible", but the baby kept me from delving into too much of this heresy by crawling around on the floor.

After the main office lady called my husband to the back for his interview, I walked around the waiting area and looked at the various things on display, both in the china cabinet and a nook across from the door. It was in the china cabinet that I first noticed a book with Cyrillic writing on the cover. Given my Slavic background, it piqued my interest and I took a closer look at it. On the shelf where the book was, I also noticed a pair of cloth dolls dressed in traditional Russian costumes half-hidden behind a folded sign explaining the items on display. I couldn't tell exactly what the dolls costumes looked like or where they were from in Russia, but I had the impression that the costumes were pre-Kievan Rus, based on the headdresses. On the shelf below was also a lacquered cup in traditional floral patterns. Below the Russian mementos was a display from Romania. There was either a place mat or a belt woven in a traditional pattern underneath a small Romanian flag and a plaque from the city of Timisoara.

The china cabinet. Not pictured: Russian cloth dolls in traditional costumes. Also, what is it with Presbyterians and dark wood?! It's too East Coast for this part of the country

The contents of both the Russian and Romanian shelves, the display signs read, were donated to the church by evangelical bible societies doing missionary work in their respective countries. I began feeling my blood pressure go up in anger as I read the sign on the Russian shelf which stated that the book which caught my attention was apparently a Russian bible and that it had been donated by a family evangelizing in Russia on behalf of the Wycliff Bible Society. These maggots have NO business poaching my people away from the REAL Church, just adding fodder to their CIA/Masonic front! I may have been suspicious of Protestantism in my previous life, but my conversion to Catholicism and subsequent marriage to my husband introduced in me a militant hatred of them, with bible-thumping evangelicals taking the lead in the hate list. Also, while reading Cyrillic is slow-work for me, the book did NOT say "Bibliya" or "Holy Bible" on the cover. It said "Hosh Habar", which Google translate says means "Aromatic Message" (Google also suggested that it was in the Kazakh dialect, which I thought might explain the costumes on the dolls, but an image search didn't match up any costumes from Kazakhstan that were remotely close to what I'd seen). Fortunately, I had the baby to look after and she provided a much-needed distraction to keep me from raging and destroying that cabinet.

Finally, after about thirty minutes or so, my husband came back. I refrained from saying anything about what I thought of the Presbyterians until we had left the church property, keeping the subject limited to his interview. My husband felt positive about the job interview, but gave it a 50-50 chance that he would be hired. He told me he was interviewed by three people, which I thought odd because if you're a qualified candidate for a job, you typically have only one interview with whoever is the person doing the hiring. Once we were out of the parking lot and away from any prying ears, I told my husband about the Russian mementos and how furious I was to see my people being led away from the Faith. I also complained how the decor in the office was in bad taste because it was dark wood with cheesy stained glass images, to which my husband surmised that because Presbyterians are outside of the Church, they can never know the true beauty of the Faith and can only resort to making copies of what they think it should be.

Well, it's been a few days since the interview and we haven't heard anything back from the Presbyterian church. My husband assumes it's a no-go and has proceeded to apply for other means of stable employment. The temp and inventory counting jobs are few and far between right now, so he's been trying to get more regular employment. So far, he's been canvassing for a political office, but that job ends the first week of July. Time to keep looking.

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The Wedding

Greetings, dear readers!

Today was a very long, but happy day. One of our dear family friends was getting married and asked hubby and I to be the witnesses to the happy event! They decided to have a civil ceremony at the new courthouse for legal reasons because while they wanted to marry in the Church, they couldn't get in contact with a priest to set up a meeting where he could do the necessary pre-marriage counseling and set the date. Their advanced ages and shaky health also meant that waiting for a priest to set a date might not be in their best interests at this time. At least with this civil ceremony, they would be legally bound for the purposes of wills and other legal matters.

My outfit for the wedding. Since it wasn't the church wedding, I didn't wear anything fancy-just a nice top and pants

We arrived at the county courthouse around 4PM. Once in, however, my husband nearly got us thrown out of the building because the security guard wouldn't let him bring in his giant sippy cup and it made my husband curse up a blue streak for which the guard threatened to evict us all. Fortunately, once we all calmed down, the security guard allowed my hubby to go and put his cup back in the car while our friend's fiancee, the baby, and I remained behind, taking off our jewelry so as not to set off the metal detectors. Once we regrouped and passed through the metal detectors, we got our things and got dressed while the couple to wed got their place number from the employee handing them out. By 4:30, we were up on the 4th floor which is where the weddings are held.

View from the top.

Being goofy with daddy

After waiting for what seemed like an hour, our friends finally got in line to get their courtroom number assigned for the wedding. As they stood in line, our friends also decided to volunteer to be witnesses for the couple in front of them. This couple was a man with his 9-months pregnant fiancee, and they apparently got stood up by their witnesses. The lobby and hallway were very crowded with couples of all ages and backgrounds waiting to have a judge seal their unions. It was not like our civil wedding in 2012, where there wasn't much of a crowd and was held in the historic old Pima County courthouse. As I observed the couples, their witnesses and guests in their various wedding attires, I suddenly felt bare because I realized that I was one of only a handful of people who did not have a tattoo. My husband noted this observation as well, and thanked his father for pounding into his head the no tattoo rule because it was something that could be utilized by the police for identification purposes.

Tying the knot

Finally, it was our friends' turn to get married. Since they were the witnesses for the couple in front, the judge decided to officiate both couples at once. It was a very pleasant ceremony and I was touched to see our friend put a ring on his wife's finger, especially since at our civil wedding, we weren't able to do that. Once the judge pronounced the couples as husband and wife, hubby and I signed the marriage certificate as witnesses to our friend's marriage. Since our friends did not tell their respective families or friends about the civil marriage, I will respect their privacy and not post any pictures where they are identifiable. Also, my husband's decision to turn off the flash on my camera and his atrocious photography skills rendered the courtroom pix blurry and the subjects semi unidentifiable anyway.

A shoe is a magnet for children

After the ceremony, we went back to his wife's old apartment at the assisted living complex where she lives for a small celebration. We picked up some fried chicken at our favorite chicken restaurant and some ice for the drinks, and had a delicious dinner of fried chicken, baked beans, cole slaw, potato salad, and biscuits. The baby ate her fill of the feast, as did the rest of us. Before our friend came to get us, I kept telling hubby to go to the store and get a fruit tart as a wedding cake, since our friend can't eat gluten and his wife isn't crazy about cake. But, we didn't get the chance to go because it was horrendously hot outside and my husband didn't want to wreck something in the car by making the trip. Fortunately, his wife bought a pack of eclairs from the store bakery. They would have something nicer for their church wedding, since that was the more important one. While we sat around and digested the food, the baby explored and played around on the carpet. She had once crawled on that very carpet several months ago when our friend's wife moved into that unit and the living room was still empty. But, eventually, little batteries ran out and she fell asleep on the way home.

One last zoot (note: I have no idea what those white colored blobs are in this picture. I saw them after I'd taken the picture, but I didn't notice any dust or bugs floating around at the time and they did not appear in subsequent pix. But since this is a senior living facility, there's no telling what it could be)

I'm very happy for our friend. I wish him and his wife the best for their new life together.

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The Play Date

Good evening, dear readers.

It was blazing hot on this Dope Day Thursday. We made our way to the clinic to get my husband's medicine and see our friends there. Even though I've been accompanying my husband to his clinic since before we were married, our subsequent transition into parenthood has gained us a few friends there who are also parents in recovery. I've written before about being the wife of a recovering opiate addict and while it's not always easy because the stigma of addiction is still so powerful in our society, most of the addicts are ordinary good people who need all the support they can get to stay clean, just like anyone else who is battling a chronic illness.

Baby get together! My husband and daughter with Little Friend and her aunt

On our visits, we've befriended a mom, her sister who lives with and looks after her, and her now-4 month old daughter. We first met them when her daughter was just a mere six weeks old and despite having been born prematurely, my husband and I have shared the ladies' joy in watching the baby grow healthy and strong. Our daughter has taken a liking to the infant and is happy to see her little friend every time we meet in the clinic's waiting room. Though the babies don't exactly play much with each other cuz, well, they're babies and they haven't quite figured out how to interact with another strange little human; they smile and reach as well as make noises at each other. When Little Friend gets a little bigger, I'll see about setting up a proper play date for our daughters to play with each other. Now that she's getting older, I want my daughter to start learning how to socialize and deal with other people her age cuz this is a very important skill for becoming a functional member of society. It'll also be good for me cuz taking care of a baby 24/7 is a very exhausting job and I need the company of fellow moms as an occasional break from the demands of parenthood.

After our clinic visit, we went to Mass and then to the home of another dear family friend. Her computer was in dire need of some updates, and she hadn't seen the baby for a while. It was while we were going up her driveway that a rather frightening incident occurred. Since our friend lives on a hill, her primary driveway is very steep and regardless of whichever vehicle we're driving, I always get very nervous going up her driveway because I imagine the car either conking out due to the grade or flipping over when going down the driveway to leave. Well, my fear came somewhat true when I saw smoke pouring out of the vents in front of the windshield and seeping inside the car as it spluttered up the driveway, followed by the horrible smell of burning wires just before we made it to the top. When we got to the top, my husband parked the car and turned off the engine, opened the hood and threw the kill switch on the battery to stop the currents. Sure enough, the alternator's lead wire had shorted and melted. It wasn't as bad as it sounded or looked and my husband proceeded to re-wire the alternator, but not before sending me and the baby into our friend's house where it was cool.

In the weeks leading up to this incident, we'd been having some problems with the alternator in the car. Whenever my hubby would goose the gas, the car would splutter and he observed the voltage dropping significantly during the hiccup. Then, just a few weeks ago, my husband had to replace the alternator after the damn thing completely busted and the resulting massive short burned up no small number of wires under the hood. After the alternator and the damaged wires were replaced, the car behaved better but still spluttered whenever my husband stepped on the gas pedal quickly. Chalking it up to him being a lead-foot, I frequently reminded him to take it easy when pressing on the gas pedal. I was feeling apprehensive about going up the driveway, and my feeling was vindicated by the shorted wire. I made my husband swear that until the spluttering problem was fixed, we were not to go up that driveway when visiting our friend. Fortunately, she has a few others that lead to the property which aren't car killers.

My daughter and one of our friends granddaughters. She was in love with my daughter from the day she was born.

The actual visit itself was pleasant enough. Our friend had her grandchildren over and they were sitting with her on the couch, watching TV. The baby got to show off her standing skills and play with our friend's granddaughters. Her youngest girls are four and five, so while they're a bit older than the baby, they're still close enough in age to make for playmates. Her preteen granddaughter also played with the baby, which was nice since she absolutely loves babies and small children. As we played, my hubby fixed the car and then came inside to work on the computer. Once finished, she paid my husband and we left to go home.

Play dates are fun. I look forward to having more of them.

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Puppy the Kitten

Hello everyone!

I've decided to post some recent pix of our rescue kitten. The baby decided to name the kitten Puppy, because everytime she sees the kitten, she says "puppy"! While I normally wait a bit to see how the kitten's personality develops before bestowing a name on them, I conceded to the baby's choice of cat name because I'm all for unique and unusual pet names. With the exception of Dreamboy, who was named for his uncle, all of our cats have unique or unusual names.

Playmates

Anyway, some updates on the little girl. Her eye infection is gone, but she has a mad appetite for Vienna sausages instead of pate cat food or my husband's various fish pastes, which he shares with the big boys as treats. She is also very playful, always wanting to play boot-n-bite with us, especially at ungodly hours of the night, as well as always getting underfoot whenever we are walking around our home. As our scratched up hands and arms attest, she is a true kitten. She is also now potty trained, and has not had a single accident since the day after I brought her in.

Her eyes are pretty well cleared up. She's got almost all of the remaining tough guck off

Puppy and the baby have a special bond too. They both like playing with each other and Puppy doesn't get mean when the baby manhandles her, as babies are apt to do. Fortunately, with some vigorous instruction, the baby is getting better about handling Puppy more gently.

Playing with the drawer handle

Our remaining big boys are also tolerant of the new addition. Its not unexpected, since one of them is obviously Puppy's father (only an orange tom can father a calico). In fact, when they feel like it, they will sometimes play with Puppy. I've caught Pest rolling around with and batting Puppy in play, just like how he would do when he was a kitten. When they're done, the big boys then just up and leave. They generally aren't aggressive towards the kitten, but when they're annoyed with being around another juvenile, they'll make sounds telling her to back off.

Time for a cat nap!

Overall, Puppy has now become well-integrated into our home. Now that its no longer necessary to quarantine her in the bathroom anymore, she can zoot around our home to her little heart's content. We've had a few scares when we couldn't find her and thought she'd gotten out, only to find her sleeping under the side table in the bedroom where she can wiggle her tiny self into or under the server rack in the living room. She tries getting out when the door is open, but we stop her. She's not ready for the big, bad world yet. Eventually, we will let her out, just like our other cats are. We generally don't like our cats to be kept perpetually indoors because my hubby feels it makes them stir crazy. Each cat has their own territory, and being outside helps.

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Moving Day

Hello everyone!

Yesterday, we made a special trip out of town. Our dear family friend is getting married, and he needed our help getting his home ready for his fiancee to move in! She can't move in right away because her lease is not up and she would incur a stiff charge if she were to break it now, but he wanted to set up a room for her so she would have a place to stay when she came over.

Our friend lives in Green Valley, which is a suburb of Tucson, AZ. I'd seen the town on maps many times, but I'd never been there. I never had much of a reason to go because the town is largely a retiree community. When our friend called us to ask for help, I immediately said yes. I wasn't sure how much I'd be able to help since I'd have the baby in tow, but I went along for the ride as much as anything. Also, since his fiancee would be there, I knew she'd be happy to see the baby and play with her for a bit.

Green Valley pecan orchard

The trip there was relatively uneventful. I never knew exactly what lay south of the Desert Diamond Casino on the Nogales Highway prior to yesterday, but there we were, cruising south past the casino and the local missile plant Raytheon. There was also a Thai Buddhist temple perched on a hill among a smattering of trailer parks, mom-n-pop businesses and semi-rural scrubland. From there, the scene morphed into pecan orchards as far as the eye could see. I knew that southern Arizona had quite a few pecan orchards as there was one I used to pass between Marana and Eloy when traveling up to Phoenix with my brother during our college days. As we wound our way through the orchards and into suburban consumerama, I marveled at how large they were, but also how much water these trees required. I thought Arizona was too dry to sustain large-scale agriculture like this. Guess not.

Once a major thoroughfare, Nogales Highway has seen better days

We would have arrived at our friend's home sooner, were it not for a poorly labeled sign for the frontage road pointing to the highway entrance instead of the actual road. Naturally, we followed it only to realize we were going south on the highway. After cursing a blue streak, my husband and I got off at the next exit and pulled into a nearby Safeway. My husband needed to use their WiFi, and cool his temper for a bit. After a few minutes in there with his computer, we had a better map and could actually navigate our way back to our friend's home. Since suburbs are never aligned on the grid pattern the way cities are, we had to go back on the highway and get off at the previous exit. We finally made it to our friend's home just before noon.

Playing with a drink coaster, just like mommy did at that age too

While my husband helped our friend move some furniture around the house, the baby and I kept his fiancee entertained. She was delighted to play and sing French nursery rhymes to the baby, but I didn't enjoy her company as much as usual. I unfortunately caught the baby's cold so not only did my sinuses feel like they were full of concrete, but I dealt with waves of nausea and being lightheaded on and off all afternoon. We had pizza for lunch, but later on after I got home, the nausea finally won. I suspect the slightly-undercooked pizza had something to do with it, but my husband ate it and he was fine! As usual, a good night's sleep did wonders for me and I felt much better today.

Despite my poor health that day, I did manage to enjoy the trip. I got to see our friend's home for the first time and expand my local geography a bit. I expect this won't be the last time we visit them. Our friend's fiancee was planning a birthday get-together for us because our friend and my hubby both share June birthdays (on different days, though). She hasn't set a date yet, but she'd call and let us know when she did. I'm eagerly anticipating this get together.

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In Memorium: My Cat White-Chin

Greetings, dear readers.

Today, my husband made tragic discovery when he woke up this morning and went into the kitchen to pour himself some coffee. One of our big boy toms, White-Chin, had crossed the Rainbow Bridge into the happy hunting grounds in the sky. He was 3 years old.

Pest and White-Chin, 2014

White-Chin's death was not totally unexpected. For the past few weeks, he was suffering from an intestinal blockage due to hairballs. Despite our best efforts at treatment and hydrating him, it was too little too late. It was always right around this time of year that White-Chin would brush by death's door because of hairballs. While he had short hair, it was very fine and made him especially vulnerable to getting dangerous hairballs when the shedding season started. We would give him lard, water, any kind of fats, and specialty hairball products to unclog him and they usually worked. This time, however, it didn't work. It was painful to hear him yowling because of the clog in his gut, yet knowing there's not much you can do to relieve it. Surgery could have saved him, but we could not afford the procedure.

Though we knew the end was coming, it's never easy when a pet passes away. White-Chin was a cat we had raised from infancy, watching him grow from a tiny helpless kitten under the care of his amazing super mommy, Powderpuff, into a fierce alpha tom. His name came from his white chin, and he had been a twin to another shorthaired tom named Zlato ("Golden boy", because of his pale orange colored fur). Like many cats, White-Chin was aloof but liked to show his affection with us by headbutts, chirps, kneading while we lay on the bed, and standing on his rear legs to stretch up onto my husband. White-Chin was a lean, athletic cat with a long body, and he liked to stretch to show it off. When zooting around outside, White-Chin would often roost on the patio, near the front door, sometimes with a smug look on his face. My husband liked to say that the cat was being "dignified" when he did this.

RIP

Before we left for the clinic, my husband dug a grave for White-Chin in the yard. He found a stone to mark it, and we held a short funeral for our deceased cat. People might think it's ridiculous to hold a funeral for a cat, but I find that it gives me closure. My husband and I have raised and cared for cats for as long as we've been together (and he'd been caring for cats long before he ever met me), and I consider them a part of my family.

In a way, finding this new minnie of ours was an omen. It was as if God was saying "I'm gonna take your kitty soon, but here's another one for you to care for." Not quite a replacement, since I don't believe you can ever "replace" an animal like you can a pair of shoes or a shirt. You can acquire another animal after the loss of one, but each critter is unique. Anyone who has spent time around animals can attest to that observation.

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Byzantium

Greetings, dear readers!

Owing to the diurnal schedule my husband has had to keep all week for work, we decided to go to Mass at an earlier time this past Sunday. I selected a Byzantine Catholic church here in town since it was a place I had been wanting to visit for a while.

Lady of Czestochowa

The first time I had ever heard of Eastern Rite Catholicism (which is what the Byzantine church in this post follows for its liturgical structure) was when I was in my early teens and my dad told me about an Eastern Rite church he'd visited in college. My father, who despite his hatred of Ukrainians for their obnoxious nationalism, had a few relatives who married into Ukrainian families and it was through this route that my dad had the opportunity to visit an Eastern Rite Catholic Church after a friend of his cousin invited him to go. Even though he had been raised Russian Orthodox and indoctrinated with all the cultural anti-Catholicism that comes with being Russian, my dad had visited Catholic churches on a few occasions. He had an idea of what to expect, but at the same time he wasn't sure what he'd see. He came away from the visit feeling ambivalent. He recognized the Eastern layout and was cool with that, but he wasn't crazy about praying for the Pope.

I first became aware of a Byzantine Catholic church here in southern Arizona around 2012, when my good friend with whom I sat and passed out pro-life literature on the main lawn of the University of Arizona campus, mentioned them to me. There were a few women in the Latin Mass church we attended who were former parishioners there, he informed me. Given my Serbian Orthodox background, the existence of a Catholic church structured in a way I was familiar with piqued my interest, but receded to the back burner of my mind as the concerns and dramas of life took over. The Byzantine church would continue to periodically pop up on my radar over the next few years, but it didn't really register until recently after a near-altercation between my husband and a rude parishioner at our Carmelite church. I figured now was as good a time as any to come and check the place out.

I did a side part, and then from there I did this crown braid. Obviously, Sunday morning's version of this hairdo was neater than this. Its been in for a few days

View from the back. This style is actually a little bit harder than it looks

In a sharp departure from my usual protocol, I actually dressed up nicely for church. Normally when I go to church, I wear my Lady Guadalupe tshirt with pants and topped off with my Lady Guadalupe bandanna. This outfit has been my default Sunday attire for the last three years. Today, however, because we were NOT going to our usual churches, I decided to put on a good first impression. I wore a nice dress and did my hair specially for the visit. I did not pack my bandanna, as I didn't think I needed it.

When we first arrived, I marveled at how small the church was. It was tiny compared to our usual churches, though realistically, it was about the size of a single-family home. We entered inside and took our seats in the back. The altar setup was very reminiscent of my childhood, though the icon wall hiding the altar was not nearly as large or elaborate as what I had grown up with. A reader and a deacon were standing at the altar doing some pre-Mass readings, but shortly after we sat down, the priest came up to greet us. Since we were new, he handed us a missalette to follow along with the Mass. I skimmed through the missalette while the baby blew raspberries at some old ladies sitting next to us. Were it not for the wording being a little different than I remembered, it could very easily have been something I recognized from my youth. As the people came in and took their seats, I recognized a number of people from the other churches we went to, including a fellow ex-Latin Mass goer! I was also pleased to see lots of children, from a newborn baby up to school-age.

With today being Pentecost, I was pleased to hear that the entrance song to kick off Mass was the same song my favorite Carmelite priest, Fr. Thomas Koller, used to sing for the entrance song whenever it was his turn to say Mass. The rest of the Mass that followed was different from what I remembered, but then again, it had been over six years since I had set foot in an Orthodox church and I had all but forgotten how a liturgy went. The music sounded different from what I had grown up with too, even though content-wise, it was the same. The priest delivered an excellent sermon, though I wound up having to leave halfway through it because the baby got cranky and needed her titty break. Thank goodness there was a kiddie ghetto, and there were quite a few toddlers of varying ages in there.  The baby got distracted by the other toddlers and wanted to play, but the one toddler she did play with kept pulling my daughter's hair, a move in which her mother and myself stepped in to separate the girls from each other. It wasn't out of malice that the other toddler was pulling my daughter's hair. The toddler herself didn't have much hair on her own head, so seeing a head full of hair on a person similar in size fascinated her. Guess my baby's luscious mop of wavy brown hair is irresistible to both biggers and littlers alike!

As for Communion, it was distributed by spoon, just like how I remembered; though I'd forgotten just how far I needed to tip my head back so that the priest could dump the wine-soaked piece of bread into my mouth. I also tried not to chew on the bread, as per what I'd learned in my Catechism class. As I passed the icon arrangement set up in the middle of the church (there's a name for it, but I can't remember what it is), I noticed a few bowls behind the icon which were covered in thin towels with geometric Slavic embroidery. It made my heart jump with joy. At the end of the Mass, we went up to the priest for the final blessing and we had our foreheads annointed with myrrh. It smelled nice, but it was different from what I remembered. The myrrh of my childhood had a far sweeter smell, as opposed to the soapy one offered here.

Russian embroidery motifs

Finally, after the long Mass was over, we went into the hall for some coffee and snacks. We socialized a bit with some of the other parishioners too, but we couldn't stay long because my hubby had to work that evening and the baby needed to go home for a nap. The ones we talked to seemed to have come to the Byzantine church as a last-ditch effort to find a reverent parish and save both their souls and sanity. I met a family who were also ex-Latin Mass churchgoers (though the church they had attended at the time was way up in the foothills of the mountains, just barely within the city limits) and the time just didn't work out with their schedules. We were also recognized by a young couple from the Carmelite church, who also shared our displeasure at the chaotic behavior of the Mass attendees there. We rounded out our visit by chatting a bit with a friend of ours from the Latin Mass church who we saw there, and talking to the priest. He seemed like a nice, intelligent man who had a strong connection with the Holy Spirit. After I mentioned my background in the Serbian Orthodox church, the priest told hubby and I that there were actually a few couples at this church who were like us: one Serbian spouse and one Catholic spouse, and the decision to attend Mass at this church was sort of a compromise in honor of each sides religious traditions. I didn't think to ask him, but I wonder if he celebrated Slava for these particular parishioners.

Overall, my experience at the Byzantine church was a positive one. There wasn't a magic "aha!" moment indicating we'd found a home parish when we were there, unlike the first time I'd set foot in the Latin Mass church; but it marked a turning point for me because I could now go to an Eastern church and the negative memories I associated with it from forced attendance in my youth didn't bother me anymore. Hubby and I resolved to return here again soon.

Not mine, but it says "Born in America, but my heart is in Serbia"

The Church isn't fond of it, but occasionally, my diehard Serbian nationalism leads me down some strange and wonderful paths. I love the Catholic Church dearly, but I want my children (and husband) to know their culture and celebrate it. I may have serious disagreements with my family, but one thing they were adamant about was not forgetting our culture and that is probably the one thing I can truly thank them for.

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I Found a Kitten!

Greetings, dear readers!

A few days ago, I posted about some kittens my husband spotted in our yard this past weekend and our initial attempts at catching and taming them. This past evening, however, it was my turn to be the cat savior. Since my hubby would be working, I decided to spend the time catching up on some recent episodes of Ghost Adventures when I heard a loud mewing coming from outside! After not hearing mews for a few days, I naturally had to go outside to check it out, thinking it was one of the three kittens.

Much to my surprise, I saw this was a different kitten altogether! Unlike the others, this one was grey and white. Also, unlike the others, this kitten came running right up to me when I turned the corner of the trailer and saw something small, grey, and furry in the garden. Naturally, I scooped it right up and after a quick scope of the yard to make sure no other kittens were in need of rescuing, I took the new kitten inside. A few days ago, while cleaning the bedroom, I found a box and laid a blanket down in it just in case of a kitten rescue. I put the kitten in that box and placed it in the bathtub. I then ran and got an opened can of soft food and filled another can with water so that the kitten could have some food and drink.

Exploring the tub

Naturally, the baby was fascinated and intrigued by the new addition! She laughed and cooed at the kitten as it feasted, then explored the tub. I picked the tub because it was easiest place to confine a strange kitten until it could be properly introduced and integrated into the home pride. Also, this way, the new kitten could be given proper medical attention and cleaning so as not to introduce some pathogen into the home pride.

Kittens and babies (note: I have no idea why the image is rendering sideways. It was taken right-side up!)

I immediately noticed the kitten had some guck on its face, so I got some toilet paper and a bit of hydrogen peroxide to clean it off. When our big boy toms were kittens, they all came down with conjunctivitis, likely getting it from their mommy. When we could afford proper medical treatment, we would get a script from the vet for eyedrops and antibiotics. If that was not an option, we treated the kittens ourselves using tetracycline, a water/peroxide mixture to wipe the guck away, and triple antibiotic cream on the surface. It worked, and the kittens were fine within a week. As I cleaned this kitten's face, I examined it a bit more closely.

Poor baby needs its eyes medicined!

The kitten appears to be female. Her bottom was too ambiguous for me to make a definite call, but I noticed she had some pale orange patches on her legs. Grey, orange, and white meant this was most likely a calico. Calico cats are overwhelmingly female, owing to their XXY genetic makeup (there are calico toms, but they're rare and almost always sterile). Though her face wasn't totally clean, I did manage to get most of the guck off before she became too squirrly for me to handle. She couldn't have been more than 4 weeks old, as her eyes were still baby-blue. Like the other kittens, until proven otherwise, I'm inclined to believe that the Siamese minnie bore this one, though I don't know if it's possible for a Siamese cat to bear calicos. Given how she ran to me instead of fleeing and how comfortable she was with being handled by people, it's pretty clear she's been socialized for human contact. I also question her maternity because the Siamese minnie is still pretty feral and doesn't like being around people much; she taught her kittens that too.

Exploring the bathroom

Napping in my lap before returning to her bathroom quarantine

Once sufficiently cleaned, I closed off the bathroom door and let the kitten explore her new surroundings in safety. I also introduced the baby formally to the kitten. The baby was delighted with the kitten, but I had to be careful so that she wouldn't get too rough with the kitten. The baby can pet her, but she still overwhelmingly leans toward grabbing (whiskers, tails, fur, etc). Fortunately, kittens are much more forgiving about manhandling than adult toms are.

Today, the kitten explored more of her surroundings and got a proper bath. I did this with Pest and his siblings when they were kittens because they had no mommy cat to clean them. While her eyes are still gucky, they are looking a bit better.

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The Palacinke

Greetings!

I hope you all had a safe and happy Cinco de Drinko yesterday. Yes, I know it's actually Cinco de Mayo, but what was originally a minor Mexican holiday celebrated locally in the city of Puebla where the famous battle took place, has been co-opted blown up into an event for the express purpose of pushing cheap, crappy booze here in the US. This is why I call it Cinco de Drinko. It's like a boozy version of President's Day.

Everyone's Mexican for a day on Cinco de Drinko!

While the rest of the nation made fools of themselves getting wasted on Mexican food and margaritas, I decided to try out my grandmother's recipe for palacinke (pron. pa-lah-cheen-keh). Palacinke are kind of like flat pancakes, very similar to crepes. I hesitate to use the word "crepes" as an analogy because to me, palacinke have more char to them than the light-colored crepes. This could just be because of the way my grandmother made them, as hers always had some char to them (she considered light colored palacinke to be underdone).

In a major departure from my usual protocol, I actually followed the recipe as it was given to me! I suppose this was probably because I was making it for the first time, and I didn't want the batter to come out too thick (palacinke batter is thin). I had tried making palacinke on my own in the past from memory, but they never seemed to come out quite like how I remembered them. Maybe now, I had a chance!

After combining the ingredients, I pulled out one of the cast iron skillets. My grandmother makes her palacinke using a Teflon-coated skillet, but since we don't have one anymore (the one Teflon skillet we had was used until the Teflon literally started disintegrating off the surface of the pan!), all I had to work with was cast iron.

The first palacinka

My husband likes to say that the use of cast iron cookware is a verifiable demonstration of one's cooking skills. Despite some recent successes in the kitchen of late, on this family recipe I failed miserably. Even though I poured some oil into the skillet, the rough surface caused the batter to adhere to the bottom of the skillet and thereby completely destroy the palacinka (singular version of palacinke). Even after I changed skillets to the smaller, enamel covered iron skillet that I usually use for frying eggs, I just could not get the resulting palacinke to stay together or fry to the point where it was cooked, but not crispy (properly done, palacinke are flexible enough to roll up). I changed the heat levels, the amount of oil and batter in the pan, and I just could not get them to come out the way my grandma made them. If they stayed together, they were hard and crispy, not soft and flexible like how she made them.

It would start out like this in the skillet...

...And then turn into this crumbly mess every time I tried to flip it!

Despite this disappointing first batch of palacinke, they were as tasty as I remembered. They tasted lovely with some raspberry jam. My husband was quite pleased with them, and encouraged me to try making them again. I suppose cast iron is not the most optimal cookware for making palacinke, but until I can find a small Teflon pan, this is all I have to work with. Maybe it is a matter of finding the right heat settings or oil-to-batter ratio. My grandma wasn't specific on what level of heat she used, but she does have a gas stove (ours is electric) in addition to the cookware differences. This will make for an interesting journey-the quest for the perfect palacinka!

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