Monday day I was at a Michael’s store in Mesa. The cashier was a young woman, dressed up like a cat as it was Halloween. There was a woman ahead of me, and I was next to pay. Try as I might, I couldn’t help but overhear the conversation between the cashier and the woman ahead of me.
Cashier: Are you a member of our Rewards Club?
Customer: No. Is it easy to join?
Cashier: Yes. You just need to give me your email address and your phone number.
As this conversation was taking place, I was thinking that perhaps I should consider joining the Rewards Club since I buy so much yarn. The conversation continued….
Customer: Ok. My email address is J-U-L-I-E…..
Customer: No. It’s J-U-L-I-E….
By this time I was ready to yell at the cashier, “It’s Julie, for God’s sake. Julie.”
The customer patiently spelled it again, and the cashier finally got it. Then she started on the telephone number, with the same sort of result. By this time, I had decided that the Rewards Program was a no-go for me. If the cashier struggled with julie, the whole kzmclain thing would do her in.
When the Saints Come Marching In
My favorite priest at our church in Mesa – All Saints Catholic Parish – is Father O’Neill. He is elderly, one of three priests from somewhere cold who retired in AZ, and work at our parish. He is probably 80-something, and speaks in a deceptively gruff voice. I say deceptively, because he has a wonderful outlook on life, and gives joyful homilies that never fail to feed me spiritually. November 1 is the Feast of All Saints, and is dedicated to all of those holy people who are models to us of how we should live our life. Or at least that’s how I always looked at it. Fr. O’Neill reminded us that we all have the potential to be saints while we’re here on earth. At the beginning of all masses at which he is the presider, he greets the congregation with a cheerful, “Greetings People of God.” On Tuesday, the Feast of All Saints, he greeted us instead with, “Greetings Saints-in-Training!”
Go Cubs Go
I babysat for Austin and Lilly last night because Mark was out of town on business and Maggie had to work. As you know (unless you are a hermit living deep in the woods somewhere in northern Canada), last night was Game 7 of the World Series. The Jensens are serious Cubs fans, as Mark spent his formative years growing up in Chicago. As is typical, he has passed his love of the team on to his wife and kids. Six-year-old Austin’s bedroom’s focal point is the W flag on his wall. His bedspread and pillows boast the familiar red, white, and blue Cubs logo. At some point prior to the game’s start, Austin brought out the cast-off telephone he uses for games and music, and turned on the Go Cubs Go song. It’s quite jazzy, and he knows every word. And he has choreographed quite an exciting dance to the whole thing. We watched the game together, but at 8 o’clock, I put him to bed. The Cubs were winning handily at that point. Maggie came home a few minutes later, and happily went upstairs to see if he wanted to watch the end of the game with her. After all, the Cubs were about to make history. Except then they weren’t. He finally went back to bed after the score was tied and the Cubs seemed destined to lose. But, at the bottom of the 10th inning — yes, I said the 10TH INNING — they pulled out a win and made many of my family members very happy. The Curse of the Billy Goat is over.