More on word-faith and our homeschool confession

I have had so many thoughtful and encouraging emails from friends, family and fellow homeschoolers since I wrote the post I titled Reality Cheque on December 29. That post was a manifesto, of sorts, giving details of our financial situation and our committment to homeschool the girls through wallets thick or thin. (Just in case you wondered, thick is easier.)

It was interesting to note that several of the emails I read all made the same point about God's will and financial prosperity: If God intended for financial prosperity (and bodily health) to be signals that His will was being carried out, you'd sure never know it from the precedent set in the Bible. Noah, Abraham, Jacob, Moses, David, the prophets, the apostles, Mary, Joseph and most of all, Jesus -- all of those people were given some kind of tough path to follow. But God set each one upon His chosen course for their lives and then gave them the strength to run the race, as St. Paul described it, in spite of the obstacles they encountered.

One of the hallmarks of mature Christianity is perseverance through trials, the ability to press on toward the goal to win the prize.

Yesterday, I spent several hours making out lesson plans for the World Literature class I teach for the Teen ARCHES group. The students will be reading the literature of the early Church as part of their independent study work for January, and one of the things they're supposed to read is the Didache.

The Didache (pronounced dih-dah-KAY) was compiled in around 66 AD, which is not quite thirty-five years after the ascension of Jesus. It is subtitled The Teachings of the Apostles. It is a short piece that was never considered as part of the canon of the New Testament scriptures because nothing new is taught in it -- it is a reiteration of things that people already knew but had not yet written down, so the doctrine expressed therein is presupposed. The Didache served as a handbook for priests and is divided into three parts. The first part, known as "The Way of Life and the Way of Death" was a catechesis that a priest would use to test a catechumens' knowledge of the Christian faith before baptizing them or their children. The second part describes the liturgy of the early Church and the sacraments, while the third part is a how-to manual for receiving fellow Christians, traveling preachers and prophets into the community.

One part that stood out to me very strongly was this passage from the eleventh chapter (from Part III, which is titled "Concerning Teachers, Apostles and Prophets."

1. Whosoever, therefore, comes and teaches you all these things that have been said before, receive him. 2. But if the teacher himself turns and teaches another doctrine to the destruction of this, hear him not.

Even back then, there were heresies to watch for. The Gnostics, the Manicheans and the Aryan heresy of the Visigoths were either getting started or looming on the horizon. Those heresies still continue today in one form or another, mostly because the devil is not very creative.

I'm not sure if today's word-faith heresy that could so easily distract a Christian from the path God has asked him to follow is part of one of these, part of another, or wholly new. I don't know. I'm a reader, not a scholar. But I do know a clear warning when I hear one: If the teacher teaches another doctrine that detracts from or destroys what Christ taught, hear him not.

Word-faith theology (or prosperity gospel, or health-and-wealth or whatever you want to call it; the terms are interchangeable) was not and has never been part of the Christian faith. It's a lie concocted with a little bit of truth and is capable of deceiving "even the elect," as Jesus said. In fact, it is such an intricate lie that you can say to one person, "I don't believe in this health and wealth stuf you're trying to sell me" and they may well say in indignation, "What I'm telling you has nothing to do with all that health and wealth balderdash! I'm trying to teach you about the word-faith confession!"

They don't even know. That's how deep this heresy cuts, how powerful the deception.

For you homeschoolers who wrote to me to tell me about your struggles with this, either in your own lives or with your families who think you're either sweetly naive or downright stupid to continue homeschooling your children in the face of pressing financial issssshewwwwws, take heart.

Jesus also said that the truth would set us free. Continue to reject what is false and live what is true. No matter what your bank statement or your medical records say, God is in control and He will provide. You may wonder what in the world He's thinking. You may wish that His ways weren't so inscrutable at times. You may wish that God would come knocking at your door in the manner of the Prize Patrol from the Publishers Clearinghouse Sweepstakes. We do, here at our house. But we can't deny that we have always made it through one way or another. There have been indications along the way that we have not been abandoned. You haven't been abandoned either.

And someday, we can look forward to meeting Him face to face, knowing that we had roots that were planted deep in good soil. We didn't wither and burn when trials tested us. Oh, we might have drooped over from time to time and maybe looked a little wilted, but all in all, we were healthy plants.

We believed that the course He set for our families was to homeschool the kids, no matter what. So we stuck with it, in spite of not having enough money to keep up with the piano lessons, or being permanent, humble fixtures on the local parish's Thanksgiving basket list. In spite of disconnect notices that make us scramble in the sofa cushions for loose change to pay the bill and feet that need snow boots so that you can stop loading your kids on your back like a pack mule on the way out to the minivan. The minivan with 250,000 miles on it.

All those things will be so worth it when we hear Him say, "Well done, good and faithful servant. Enter into the joy of your Lord." THAT will be the reward. THAT is when we will live in perfect health and prosperity. That is the promise and the hope of heaven.

Celebrating the 80's

My husband and I both cackled in glee when we were going through the television programming the other night, trolling for movies to record since this Hollywood writers' strike is shutting us out of our favorite shows (I've been patient so far, although if the strike interferes with The New Adventures of Old Christine, scheduled to start in mid-January, I am going to be SO TICKED.)

Anyhoo, we both looked at one another and intoned in a nasal monotone that any youth who came of age in the 1980s will immediately recognize: "Byeeewwwller.... Byeeewwwller.... Byeeewwwller..."

We are treating the girls to a television viewing of the John Hughes mental health day classic, Ferris Bueller's Day Off. Matthew Broderick is as adorable as ever and Jennifer Grey still had an actual nose that gave her face grace and character (are you listening, Amy Grant? Yeah, I've seen your new nose, too.)

This movie is doing quite a bit to complement the many joys of homeschooling. Ferris, Cameron and Sloane have to ditch school in order to see parades, eat at restaurants and go to the art museum. We do all those things as a matter of course, as well as tons of other interesting things like French class and Italian cooking lessons and history bingo and Shakespeare workshops. Thank you, Ferris.

Ooh, I have to go. Ferris is getting ready to lip-sync Wayne Newton's "Danke schön" on the float, which means that the "Twist and Shout" scene is imminent.

Bueller.....Bueller.....Bueller....

The nose of a beagle

Hershey, our boy Beltie (half beagle/half Sheltie) was in the living room with my husband this afternoon, watching football. Or to be more precise, my husband was watching football and Hershey was watching the bowl of potato chips my husband was snacking from. Both were very intent; my husband hoping that the Redskins would beat the Seahawks, Hershey hoping that my husband would drop his entire bowl of chips on the floor and maybe a rack of lamb along with it.

Hershey is terribly hard to resist when he's begging. He's too empty-headed to do a cute trick, such as sitting up like a kangaroo, so he just stands there, his shoulders and ears drooping, his eyes wistful and pleading. He is quite clearly communicating this thought: "How could you sit there, eating your chips, while your very best dog stands here starving to death?"

Or maybe he's just thinking, "Please food please food please food please food please food..."

At any rate, my husband finally took pity on him and tossed him a chip. Hershey is usually pretty good at catching morsels of food in mid-air, but he missed that chip. It fell amidships on his broad back.

Hershey turned around and around and around, smelling the chip, but unable to find and eat it. He continued this maneuver, sometimes putting his nose to the floor in an abortive attempt to track it, until Aisling finally screamed in frustration and got up from the card game she was playing with Meelyn, plucked the chip off his back and fed it to him.

"You are the stupidest dog," she said fondly.

Hershey wagged his tail gratefully and pranced around the living room with his white boots. "I know!" he seemed to be saying cheerfully, savoring the taste of a cheddar and sour cream chip on his lolling tongue. "I know! I really am, aren't I?"

I am so glad we don't have to count on him to track our meat through the forests of pioneer Indiana.

Please pass the liniment, or maybe the scotch

Whichever is closer.

I've been awake since, like, forever today. I was up in the middle of the night after a particularly horrid nightmare that wouldn't let me go back to sleep. When I did fall back to sleep, I woke up some time later with a crick in my neck.

Not a stiff neck - a cricked neck. Like, every so often, sharp bolts of pain would shoot down my neck into my shoulder. This is wont to happen when I sleep weirdly on my pillow. Ever since being whiplashed in the car accident that severely injured me at age 21, my neck has had a mind of its own. It is bold, brash and demanding and if it were a person, it would wear tight t-shirts with saucy messages on the chest and its thong would be showing out of the back of its low-rise jeans. It wants to be positioned in certain ways on the pillow and if I don't comply, it bullies me.

So I went along all day, feebly gulping down some ibuprofen and it just hurt, that's all. But it was Friday and my husband and I were going to go out and spend a couple of hours together, and I was NOT going to miss that treat. My neck hurt when I got into his car. Owie.

We were eating burgers and fries together about two hours later and all of a sudden, I noticed that my neck did not hurt at all. Not! At! All!

"Honey, here's something strange," I said to my husband, putting my hand on my neck in the place that had formerly hurt.

"Have you recovered from your mild bout of the plague?" he asked politely, knowing quite well my frenzied tendencies toward hypochondria. "And how's your beri-beri coming along? You haven't mentioned it in several hours."

"It's not about the bubonic plague or about beri-beri," I said with dignity. "It's my neck. It is suddenly well, like there was a disruption in the space-time continuum that sent me to Lourdes and back within the last, say, forty-five minutes."

"You haven't been to Lourdes," he said, rolling his eyes. "It's just that you're away from Meelyn and Aisling and you've been gone long enough for some of the tension to drain out of you while we ran errands and grabbed a bite to eat."

That was the first time I realized that children can literally be A PAIN IN THE NECK.

Getting this off my chest

Before the Christmas season is over, I just have to say this.

You know the song "Mary, Did You Know"? Well, I do not like that song. I just don't. It has a pretty melody and all, but I find the words unendurably grating. It seems to imply that Mary was so dense, she couldn't figure out that something unusual was happening.

Mary was:

~visited by an angel and told that she was going to conceive and that her baby would be called the Son of the Most High

Mary knew:

~that she hadn't had sexual intercourse with a man; her words to the angel Gabriel confirm that she not only hadn't had sex, but that she wasn't ever going to have sex. "How can this be?" she asked the angel. "Since I have no knowledge of man?" Not only did she not have any knowledge, she knew she was never going to have knowledge. Otherwise, what would the big deal have been, in finding out she was going to have a baby? Wouldn't most Hebrew brides expect to have babies? In that case, wouldn't the her response to the angel's announcement been, "Oh, that's sweet. Thanks for telling me." The news of an impending pregnancy would only give you pause if you hadn't had sex and knew you were never going to have it, as in, "How in the world is THAT going to happen?" Which is kind of what she said.

Mary went:

~ to go see her relative Elizabeth and heard Elizabeth cry out, "Who am I, that the mother of my Lord should come to me?"

Mary traveled:

~to Bethlehem with Joseph and gave birth

Mary entertained:

~some shepherds, who showed up unannounced in the stable with a story of hearing angels singing "Glory to God in the highest!" and being told that the Savior had just been born in Bethlehem, and

~three wise men (perhaps astonomers or astrologers) from afar, who followed the star of a king, bringing with them rich gifts of gold, frankincense and myrrh.


And all of this happened when Jesus was a baby.

In a recent homily, Father said, "Mary did ponder things in her heart, but that's because she didn't know how God's plans for Jesus would unfold. She didn't ponder all these happenings in her heart because she didn't understand what was going on with her baby. Of course she knew who he was."

She knew. God picked her from before time began to be the mother of His son. She was the new ark of the new covenant. She knew.

CousinFest '08

The emails have started up just today about dates and locations for CousinFest '08. Susie would like to serve as hostess again, which is more than good of her. She also says that she wants to keep us for an extra day this year.

I have to confess, this sounds lovely. It always seems like we barely get started before we have to leave when we only have two nights together.

So! The calendars are out! Carol, Susie, Lilly and I are making plans for the summer.

Not very Sorry! (TM)

I've been playing lots of games with the Meelyn and Aisling during this Christmas vacation, Sorry! being one of our number one favorites. Strangely enough, we've never had a Sorry! game at our house before; this one was a present from sweet Virginia, who handed it to me at the HISTO game in mid-December, all wrapped up in pretty paper. I was very glad to get it because we've only been able to indulge our love for this board game while visiting Nanny and Poppy.

Anyhoo, the girls and I were playing today and our fortunes were going backward and forward in the usual manner of Sorry!. It is a very unpredictable game and you never can say how things will come out.

Aisling was the first one out of her Start zone. She crowed and whooped over this, doing a lot of trash-talking: This continued pretty much through the rest of the game. She sent me back to Start with a lot of saucy commentary, ju-u-u-st when I was getting all four of my red pieces into the home stretch.

She laughed and mocked, acting like that little girl in James Whitcomb Riley's Little Orphant Annie, the one who got dragged away to her doom by a horde of demons. Yeah, I went there. She carried on and on, not paying much attention to the fact that I had drawn a #1 card, which allowed me to exit my Start zone and was proceeding quietly around the board.

My coup de grace was when we were both there in our Safety zones. Aisling was still honking and braying, but a little nervousness around the eye betrayed her. She drew a #12 and couldn't go. I desperately needed a #5....and I drew one! The winnah!!!!!

Or, the second place, to be exact. Meelyn had won first place about ten minutes previously and was watching our showdown, cheering happily when I won.

After playing cards and board games for an hour, I am ready to send them upstairs to read or play video games or whatever. My motherly duty, when it comes to games, goes in increments of sixty minutes. Then it's time for a break.

MOVIE REVIEWS: Four old movies I saw this week

My husband is an old movie buff.

I am not.

He likes movies that have an actual plot, where sometimes things blow up, where good wins over evil.

I like movies with Jennifer Lopez. If you ask me, "Shelley, what makes a good movie?" I will automatically answer, "Jennifer Lopez. If Jennifer Lopez is in the movie, it is good. Unless it is that horrible one she starred in with Ben Affleck. But even Jennifer Lopez is permitted one stinkerfilm.

He doesn't mind if movies are in black-and-white.

I do. Deeply.

This week, because of his birthday, I grudgingly told him that I would watch some old, black-and-white movies with him, so he spent a lot of time going through the programming, trying to find a few that wouldn't have me sneaking off to the kitchen to "get a drink of water," which in this instance means "going to the kitchen with my book hidden under my sweatshirt to sit at the table, read and eat cookies until he comes out to find me and gives me an accusing look."

He taped The Bells of St. Mary's, The Shaggy Dog, The Bishop's Wife and Mr. Smith Goes to Washington. I thought I'd do a few brief reviews of these four from notes I took while watching. Otherwise, they might conceivably melt into one big, grey blur.

The Bells of St. Mary's -- Adorable movie, with Ingrid Bergman as Sister Benedicta and Bing Crosby as Father O'Malley. Snickered to self while watching, thinking that Bergman, in her desire to be alone, should have played the part of an anchorite, or at least a cloistered nun. Cannot get out of head that Bing Crosby, as jolly, gentle priest, was actually a mean drunk in real life. Find this creepy. Cannot believe the effrontery of smug doctor who thinks that Sister Benedicta, an adult with a mean uppercut, should not know that she has tuberculosis. Jerk. Ended well. If you're not worried about the idea of infectious lung disease being spread to all the schoolkids. Yikes.

The Shaggy Dog -- Annette Funicello was adorable, as I mentioned. So was the dog. Some of the scenes with the dog were actually very funny. Two big worries in this film: 1) What has happened to Robbie, Chip and Ernie? This cannot be right. Is Dad leading a double life as an allergic, grumpy fussbudget? My world is reeling. 2) Found it very difficult to get used to Fred MacMurrary as a grump. Anyone so handsome, with such a nice smile, should not be such a sourpuss. Maybe he's feeling guilty about leaving his three real sons with Uncle Charlie while he sneaks off for clandestine weekends as a "postman" with his wife and other kids. Want to cry.

Mr. Smith Goes to Washington -- Graft, corruption and Karl Rove, is that you? Surely not, as Karl Rove and I are both Republicans and everyone knows that Repubicans don't lie, cheat or commit outrageous acts of self-serving cheaty-ness. At least, that's what Grandad told me. Feel very nervous about admitting this, but Jimmy Stewart kind of irritates me, him in his rubbery-faced aw-shucksness. Husband may demand that I sleep on couch tonight. This was a pretty good movie, although I kept wondering where Mr. Smith was peeing during his 23 hour filibuster. Maybe he passed out from dehydration or perhaps renal failure? Absolutely indignant at horrible ending to movie. Sure, it ended well, but it seems like about twenty minutes were left on the cutting room floor. Could we not have seen some retribution and restitution? And how about a wedding? AND WHAT HAPPENED TO THOSE BOYS THAT WERE RUN OFF THE ROAD? General opinion of living room is that Frank Capra dropped the ball and left it in the Lincoln Memorial or similar.

Extra: Living room amazed and had to do a re-wind to see the shot of the White House with no enormous iron fence in front of it. The whole place was just open, suburban-lawn style, as if you could just walk up to the door and ask the First Lady if you could borrow two eggs and a cup of sugar. Know, of course, that citizens used to be able to do such; what an innocent world. Also disturbed by the sight of ugly awnings over the windows on the distaff side of the White House. Must have made the rooms really gloomy. Glad someone had the sense to remove those.

The Bishop's Wife -- Wondered why, if divorce is allowed in Episcopal church, Mrs. Bishop didn't leave a note for His Reverence propped up against the sugar bowl and take off for Reno with Cary Grant? I mean, really. David Niven obviously has priorities screwed up; living room thinks he should marry that selfish old biddy that runs the parish after Reno divorce goes through. Wish self could wear sweet little hats and big, dramatic hats and hats with a cunning fur trim; would especially like to be wearing an attractive hat while being taken to lunch at Michele's by Cary Grant. Living room pleased to see Zuzu from It's a Wonderful Life in the role of Debbie, the Littlest Bishop. Do we have better fertilizers nowadays that grow real Christmas trees? Have never seen such ridiculous looking things, all scrawny branches and bare spots.

A quick note on the French toast

I didn't like the French toast made with the Italian loaf this morning. I sliced the bread just a tiny bit thicker than sandwich bread is cut, but because the bread is so much more robust -- dense? -- it didn't tear when I lifted it from the pan, but then again it didn't really cook all the way through, either.

The outside of the bread was crispy, but the inner part was a little bit gummy. You know, with uncooked egg, warmed slightly. Wet bread. GAK!!!!

I swallowed my first bite with difficulty and handed my plate to my husband, shuddering. He chided me for being such a twitchy goose, but was jolly pleased to eat his portion and mine.

This recipe is too good to throw out, so I think I'll try slicing an Italian loaf thinner next time. The cinnamon and nutmeg flavors with the sugar, eggs, vanilla and milk make the nicest egg-noggy batter. It's really delish, but ONLY if the bread is cooked all the way through.

A really cool (warm?) Christmas gift

My parents got me the niftiest thing for Christmas -- five pounds of rice enclosed in a rectangular flannel bag.

"Huh?" you might say. "Whatever for?"

I shall tell you, so listen closely at the ingeniousness of this marvelous thing.

At the end of a long, cold day in a big, cold house, you take your flannel bag of rice and put it in the microwave for two minutes. When the timer beeps, you turn the bag over and zap it for two more minutes.

At the end of that four minute period, you have a nicely warmed bag of rice that you can wrap your nightie in and stick inside your bed to make a cozy place to put your chilly feet.

I've found several other uses for it though. It is very nice to heat it for two minutes and arrange around my neck, if my neck feels stiff. Or even if I feel a little cold (for some reason, if my neck gets cold, the rest of me is cold, no matter how warmly I'm dressed), the bag of rice is perfect.

I've also heated it up and put it on the floor for my toes to rest on. I did this the other evening when we were watching The Bells of St. Mary's and felt deliciously warm all the way through the movie.

It's nice to put on your tummy or your back for period pains. I've even stuck it inside a pillow slip and put it in Wimzie's crate to warm her little mattress so that her poor old bones won't be stiff and achey.

Mom told me that a lady at their church sews these things up for a trifle. I absolutely love it and have used it enthusiastically every day so far. What a fun, unusual, useful gift.

Thank you, Nan and Poppy!

Oh, %$#&

My husband went up to bed about forty-five minutes ago because he put in a full day at work today and got up two hours before the rest of us so much as stirred a toe out of bed.

As he was passing around the good-night smooches, I said to him, "Doesn't it feel good to go to bed knowing that we can just about get caught up with your paycheck next week?"

He looked disconcerted. "Oh. I meant to mention that to you earlier....but never mind. We can talk about it in the morning."

I was instantly electrified. "What? What do you mean 'mention it to me earlier'? Tell me now."

Do you remember the two trucks my husband sold that I put under the heading "Mysterious Ways" in my post titled "Reality Cheque" a few days ago? Well, one truck was delivered on Saturday and the other was to be delivered today.

The buyer of Truck #2 was a young man in his early twenties. My husband was a little nervous because he couldn't get the young man's credit approved -- this is not the kind of thing you look forward to telling customers who come to the dealership, all excited about getting their new vehicle. He tried to call him at his house, but there wasn't an answer.

When the guy showed up for his appointment, he had his father with him. My husband broke the bad news, but the young man didn't seem too worried.

"Oh, that's okay," he said easily. "My dad will co-sign for me."

"Really?" asked my husband, looking at the dad.

"Sure," said the guy's dad.

My husband said that he passed the paperwork across his desk for them to sign, but the father balked as he looked it over.

"Say," he said, frowning. "This isn't the original price you quoted."

"Excuse me?" asked my husband, bewildered. He had written down some figures on the back of a business card and given it to the young guy the previous Saturday; of course, they didn't have the card with them to verify that my husband had changed prices. But of course, since he is a car salesman, right up there with politicians and lawyers as the least trusted professional, he was the one who was trying to pull a fast one. Right?

"These aren't the same numbers," reiterated the father, pushing the papers back across my husband's desk. "You said you'd give him $xxxx for his trade-in, and that's not what's written here."

"No, that's not right, sir," my husband said. "This is the price I quoted, right here." He looked up just in time to see the son shoot a quick look at his father and then at my husband. The young man shifted his eyes away from my husband without meeting his gaze.

"We're just not going to buy this truck, then," declared the father. "This isn't right."

At this point, my husband felt that he was impaled on the horns of a dilemma. In a case like this, what you'd really like to do is tell the customer to bite you and go inflict their business on some other lucky dealer. But in times like these, you have to hold on to what you can grab. Plus, no dealership wants a customer to leave and go blabbing around that such-and-such dealership tried to cheat them.

"Let me go talk to my manager," said my husband.

"I thought that might change those number back," the father said smugly. Again, his son glanced at him and then looked at my husband, again failing to meet his eyes.

"I'll be right back." At that point, my husband, who has been doing this for enough years that he can spot a on a mile away, knew that the son knew the truth. What he didn't know yet was if the father was truly mistaken, or whether he was being played.

The manager of the dealership groaned when my husband explained the situation. "If we sell them that truck at the price you say you quoted, we aren't going to make a single penny on this deal."

"I know," my husband said quietly, mindful of listening ears in the showroom"But what do you want me to do? Which is better? To 'sell' this truck and make no money, or to not sell the truck and have him leave saying that we cheated him?"

In the end, they decided to change the numbers to the price the father claimed his son was originally quoted.

"I'm sorry for the misunderstanding..." my husband began as he came back to his desk.

"Misunderstanding?" snorted the father. "There's no misunderstanding here. You changed the numbers, that's all."

My husband just held his tongue.

As the dad and the young man were getting ready to leave in the new truck, the father made a smirking sort of comment to my husband, the kind that salesmen learn to roll off like ducks shed water, but would have me shaking his hand and then kneeing him in the goodies. Bye! Be sure not to come back when you're ready to trade that baby in, y'hear?

The son lingered outside for a moment as his father complacently settled himself in the passenger seat. "Listen," he said to my husband. "I know my dad was way off in there. Thanks for being patient with him, dude."

And my husband stood there and watched them roll of the lot, taking in the fact that -- as he suspected -- the son knew all along that his father didn't know what he was talking about, but instead of doing the honorable thing and correcting his dad, allowed his father to sit there and accuse my husband of cheating them. And then, there is the part about how, in order to protect the good name of the dealership, the manager and my husband re-worked the whole deal so that the customer was satisfied, even though not a penny was earned from the transaction.

In other words, my husband spent about three hours selling this truck to a client and he didn't make a single penny in commission. So much for getting almost all the way caught up on our bills.

I know this isn't a very postive way to start the new year, but sitting here and typing this out has taken some of the load off my chest. If I didn't know that my mom would beat me about the neck and shoulders with a Bible, it would have been much more colorfully worded: As an English major, I really enjoy those robust, full-bodied Anglo-Saxon epithets. It's a pleasure putting them to use, in homage to my mother tongue.

But anyhoo, I want to point out that people think car salesmen are the cheats and liars out there, yet they themselves are capable of being the biggest cheating shady-dealing swindlers you've ever heard of.

The other day, my husband had a deal completely written up with a customer. The financing was done; all the client had to do was sign the paperwork and take delivery of the vehicle. He came to his appointment, and before signing, he asked my husband for an add-0n that was valued at about $730.

"Oh, man," my husband told me he said. "I'm sorry. I must have missed that you wanted that on your truck package. I can have the body shop take care of that in a couple of hours, and I'll have to write the deal up again..."

"Oh, no, I don't want to buy it," said the client in surprise. "I just want you to throw it in, you know, like for free."

For once, my husband said, he was completely dumbfounded and just sat there looking at the man who honestly thought the dealership was going to hand out a $730 freebie. Coffee mugs, yes. Nice little vanity plates with the dealership's name on them, yes. 2008 calendars, yes. At trick-or-treat time, they even gave out free pumpkin carving kits to the kiddies who came in with their parents. But give-aways totaling $730? Uhmmm, no. But thanks for asking, you freak.

"I can't do that," my husband said firmly.

"Oh, come on," the customer said, giving my husband a jocular nudge. "Why don't you just take it out of your check?"

Why don't you just take it out of your check?

My husband thought of a number of things to say, beginning, of course, with:

"What check?"

Followed by:

"I'll take it out of my check if you'll explain to my children why we won't be able to buy groceries for the next three weeks."

Hot on the heels of:

"Why don't you take your *[expletive deleted, used as an adjective]* *[expletive deleted, used as a noun]* out of this building before I decide to kill you with my bare hands, my friend?"

Oh, it's not like I'm bitter or anything. Just another day in the life of a car salesman and his family. Happy New Year. Hee!

New Year's Day -- 12:07 check in

The four of us watched Bill and Megyn at Times Square for the last half hour of 2007, our annus horribilus in some ways, but in other ways, not so bad.

This is the seventeenth New Year my husband and I have welcomed in together.

We counted down the last ten seconds with the girls and then we held up our glasses -- two with sparkling cider and two with fruity Asti. My husband intoned with an ironic grimace: "To a better 2008!"

"To a better 2008," the girls and I choruses, raising our glasses.

I went out on the front porch, which is thankfully protected from the worst of the wind and rain. "HAPPY NEW YEAR!!!!" I shouted into the wind.

Our neighbor across the street stepped from the shadows of her front porch and waved wildly. "HAPPY NEW YEAR!!!" she shrieked.

"FROM YOUR LIPS TO GOD'S EARS!!!!" I screeched back, and went inside, shivering.

I went out to the kitchen and found my husband staring into the depths of the wine bottle. "That sure went fast," he commented, turning it upside down. A single drop plopped into his glass.

"What? The year or the wine?" I asked, leaning my head on his chest as he put his arms around me -- a long reach.

"The wine," he said, grinning. "That was one lo-o-ong year."

"Yep," I said, and hugged him very tightly.

I have to post this: we're getting ready to play a game of Sorry! before we turn in. Oh, and I have to make the French toast -- we liked it so much on Christmas Eve that we've decided to do it again, only with an Italian loaf this time.

Happy New Year! See you in the morning!