Shhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh

That, my friends, is the sound of decompression.

All week long I've paid the price for foolishly thinking that throwing together a nice scrapbook/album for a major event the day before it was due was somehow a good idea. The book actually turned out quite nicely. Of course, it would have been ever so much more enjoyable had I actually put the time into it an hour or two at a jag, instead of pulling a 14-hour blitz! (Didn't get a picture of it. Maybe M will let me borrow it back later for that, but right now she has much bigger fishies to fry--like getting married next week!) Ever since last Saturday when the Shower of the Century took place, I've been recovering from my self-induced burnout by being really under the weather and, if possible, even less productive than usual (read: slower and lazier.) It's all culminated this weekend in the worst allergy attack I've ever experienced...my poor immune system, what have I done to you?

All right now--this is the last time I castigate myself for it. Movin' on.

Always does it for me!

Artsy inspiration + necessity + these guys =






Now please don't interrupt me, world, till I get this project done. Michelle's shower is tomorrow!

"She meant to..."

Please put that on my tombstone.

I don't know why I always do this to myself. I say I'm going to take control next time and give myself plenty of precious time to complete something and have it done well. But then along comes a phone call/Facebook message/email/tenant problem/irresistibly adorable grandbaby/flash of inspiration/ drowsiness/ chocolate craving/ interesting Web site/sparrow outside the window and that's it.

And now I'm up against another deadline for something major, and everything is going wrong.

I guess that means, in Sharon World, everything is as it should be.

In other news: I had a delightful birthday yesterday, thanks to my loving friends and family. The calls, cards, flowers, cake (!) and little notes mean a lot to me. I know I don't deserve you.

(I especially don't deserve a certain Bratabreadasaurus Regina--and I'll leave her to ponder the many layers of meaning in that statement.)

'tis Himself we honor today!

This has nothing to do with the real Padraig (Patrick) who, for some reason, folks think should be memorialized with goofy hats, drunkenness, and bad singing. However, it does have cute bears and Riverdancing--so what's not to love?

Mother, Interrupted

Six years ago today--already enough years in the cycle to have gone around the week--our beloved son Jeremy, trying to save his dog, accidentally slid off a cliff and into Eternity.

Time does not heal. Sometimes it cruelly slices into itself, demanding the present return to the past and feel the void of the future. Sometimes it mocks the living, either fading or exaggerating memories. Always and ever it represents the chasm between those who left and those who remain: all that was and cannot be revisited; and all that was not and can never be experienced.

Ultimately, though, time cannot fully steal. The love that was known remains unextinguished. The fullness of the unique life that was his can never be denied.

I celebrate Jeremy's life every day of my own. On this day, I recall that he went for a hike with his close friends because an irresistible day of splendor in early Spring called him out of his bed and to his final destiny. I marvel that he, who lived with suffering and death so close at hand after having his kidneys destroyed by the horrible train incident when he was 14, stepped out of time and into his Father's arms so quickly and painlessly. Irish and I hold each other close, even closer today and weep again...not only for our loss, but also from from the joy of the unshakable confidence that unites our spirits with his even across time and dimension: "I AM THE RESURRECTION AND THE LIFE."

Sick

Crying Fowl-er

We haven't had cable in years. The upcoming digital conversion doesn't affect us whatsoever, as we only turn the thing on for movie nights. I'm a bit behind in TV pop culture, though I do occasionally watch a few favorite shows online. The last few weeks, I've heard murmurs about The Most Hated Man on Television, AKA The World's Worst Father. Although I seriously doubt his candidacy for the latter, the former moniker has some justification. The Web is wild with the story, as even a TV hermit like me has heard about it.

Sadly, some of the people in those exotic environs known the San Francisco Bay Area reside in a self-contained, delusional bubble of egotism. Barely regarding the rest of the USA as being of the same species--let alone their fellow citizens--they become pitiable legends in their own minds. Their unchecked narcissism results in some of the most boorish behavior ever publicly displayed--as in the case of Mr. Fowler.

Thanks to ABC and a program I have never watched, what has been heretofore remained mostly secreted behind a glitzy but tattered curtain of "limousine liberal" hypocrisy has been exposed far more adroitly than any blustering talk radio personality could have imagined. And thanks to the Internet, the story will never die.

What two adults have done to lower themselves as human beings, all the while turning self-congratulatory mental cartwheels for having achieved such "superior" status, is in the end their own choices. They themselves are doomed to live with themselves; no one else has to. However, what they have done and are doing to their children is comparable to a crack addict pimping their offspring for the next fix.

Unless Steven Fowler grows a conscience, quite a few therapists will be kept employed when the his daughter and son come of age.