The Honey's doing better. We saw the NP and she's got him on Adderall for attention deficit. That's what he really wants to be treated for. When he can't concentrate, he can't read and then he can't post what he wants to say in the forums. It was either that or Ritalin - which he's had in the past. That worked really well, but then there was some sort of shortage (I can't remember but it had something to do with the manufacturer not wanting to go generic, I think) - anyway, there was a great hullabaloo and he was without his prescription, along with God knows how many other people, mainly kids.
They only do this with neuro/mental health, because, I figure, if you complain, they'll just say you're crazy - who's gonna listen to you? But enough of that. This is working so far and I'm happy that he's in there, typing away, with Maler on full blast, busting his eardrums.
I talked to my sister yesterday. My brother-in-law is better heart-wise, but now he's Type II. If he can lose the weight, like some 80 lbs or so, he'll be like Duane and can manage with diet and exercise. He's on Metformin like me; I hope it works for him. It has a tendency to upset your gastrointestinal tract. This one guy said it felt
like a moose was loose
in his gut - nobody has been able to describe it better. Anyway, they're going to a class - a diabetic cooking class, for Bev. It's so droll. You've been cooking since you before you were in the double digits, and now you're going to be told you're doing it all wrong. I love visiting my sister. She makes chicken paprikash; she can make pierogies from scratch, she's had more practice. MIne will nail you to your seat, they're so heavy - I could never get the dough right. Mom used to say, make sure you do before you serve them to company. They eat kielbasa, sauerkraut and potatoes at her house, boiled in the pot. I'll bet she even makes stuffed cabbage, the twerp. It's this time of year that I miss all that. Besides the nut and poppy seed roll, and all those cookies, damn.
Oh, and Duane has decided that he no longer likes pizza. Made by anybody - he's not into it anymore. No
Papa John's, no
Donatos, nothing store bought. *sigh* That was my go-to meal when I got caught short. It's not a bad thing - it's not really good for us. But, on a cold night, it could be wonderful. And that's mainly from when I was a kid, and there were five other people to feed. The connections to the past are mainly food, but that's what's so easy to remember. The smell, the texture, the taste - just a whiff and back you go.
Speaking of going back, the DNA kits went into the mail today. I hope we did them right. It'll be 6-8 weeks before we get our results. I wonder if we'll know sooner if we screwed up? I told Bev; she doesn't care. Ain't that American?
What the hell - we're here! I'm just not that pedestrian, I guess. But I did check off that I don't want to be contacted by people that match; Duane does. I said, okay, you talk to them. I do want the genetic, anthropology, etc. - anything that will help science I am right on board with. Anyway, I had tears in my eyes as I pushed them through the slot at the post office. All those people I don't know who made me what I am - it is beyond cool. I'm so excited.
And then, on Saturday, a Franciscan priest gave a talk on the life of Saint Francis. He's done all kinds of research on him; he is convinced, and he may be right, that Francis suffered from PTSD (he was a soldier, which is easy to forget, when you're filling those birdbaths with the little tonsured/brown-habited statues standing in the middle.)
Boys in Assisi were put to work killing pigs for practice. You'd get a knife, and stab in just below the ribs and up into the heart. Eleventh century city states were fighting each other - the word about nationhood, from Muhammad, hadn't gotten around to there yet - and Francis killed people. He suffered for it, doing penances that he's never put on anybody else, fasting four times a year for all the men he'd slaughtered in battle. And this went on until an angel appeared, and said, that's enough.
Father also thought that the stigmata came from Francis's worry over his friend, the Sultan Malik al- Kamil. Things got a bit dicey for him, and there was nothing Francis could do. These two guys really hit it off; I could feel, right away, that they became wonderful friends, brothers from other mothers if you will. And Francis could do nothing, but internalize his fear and concern for his best friend, and it came out in these bleeding wounds of the Cross. *tears* I've really come to love this man, and that program Saturday just made it all the more so.
Father Quigley didn't pull any punches. He stated that the Church was going through a really evil time; it was making money hand over fist from the Crusades.
Sign-up, sign-up your farm, get a plenary indulgence! Cut your time in Heaven's waiting room! Or, better yet, buy them! When you get back, if you get back, sign-up again! And if you die, the Church gets your farm! We'll put your wife in a convent! Lies were told that should have shamed the Hierarchy. But, they didn't.
I've known these things, but I couldn't tell my friends in the Fraternity. It really took a cleric, with the parish priest sitting right there. I don't think it ever occurred to most of them why there was a Reformation. Luther wasn't a bad man; he was a disgusted man, and he had ever right to be. How much of this will stick and stay with them - I don't know. But it seems to me that the people who needed these facts, who should hear these truths, are never around to hear them. Always, always present at gatherings, conferences, programs, but let the cell phone ring and they leave the room, missing the most important points. Always on the phone, from landline days in my community, during Feasts, Assembly meetings, and firesides! Made me want to scream! It still does. But, there were some thirty people in that room on Saturday at Saint Francis of Assisi Catholic Church, all of them part of the Secular Franciscans in some capacity, and I know they will not soon forget.
sara