January 6: Hobbits, Special Hot Chocolate, New Cartoon

It's Sunday, and I spent most of the afternoon in a movie theater, watching The Hobbit with my daughter.  I promised to take her to a movie while I was on vacation, and she wanted to see Peter Jackson's latest foray to Middle Earth.  Thus, it was popcorn and Bilbo Baggins.  My daughter loved it and now wants to watch the entire Lord of the Rings trilogy.  All 500 hours of it.  Thank God winter lasts until June in the Upper Peninsula.

I'm at home now.  My son is in bed, and my daughter is practicing her flute.  After I'm done blogging, I'm going to make myself a big cup of my favorite drink in winter.  I call it special hot chocolate.  It is  hot cocoa spiked with Bailey's Irish Cream.  Let me tell you, it takes the nip out of a January night.  Heck, it takes the nip out of a July night.  If you drink enough of it, it can make you believe a January night is a July night.  For tonight, I simply want to end my day with a warm, chocolatey hug.

I've started reading Stephen King's novel 11/22/63.  It's my book club's January selection.  I've been told once I start the book, I won't be able to put it down.  My wife loved it.  My best friend Wonder Twin loved it.  Even The New York Times loved it.  Well, I'm almost a hundred pages into it, and it's getting interesting.  It still seems like it's in need of about a 500-page edit.

Maybe Saint Marty is in need of a special hot chocolate attitude adjustment.

Confessions of Saint Marty

August 31: Getting Through With the Day

My whole goal for this last day of August is to survive.  Yes, this week has been horrible.  School.  Work.  Church.  Everything sucked on many levels.  Today, I have to go grocery shopping.  My car is at the garage being repaired, to the tune of $800.  Tomorrow, I volunteered to help out at the Marquette Marathon.  I have to be there at 6:30 a.m.  The only good thing about that commitment is that I will be done by 8:30 a.m.  On Sunday, I will be playing with my praise band at the local Labor Day Blues Fest.  That, of course, is a volunteer gig, as well.  Pretty much, if you're keeping tabs, my entire weekend is shot, except for Monday.

I don't know how I'm going to pay for groceries, car repairs,  back-to-school supplies for my daughter, and my mortgage.  There's simply not enough money to go around.  Now, I could go all Saint Peter or Paul and say that God will provide.  You know, all that stuff about the birds or the air never having to worry about where their next meal is coming from.  Yesterday, however, a bird fell out of a pine tree by my dad's house.  It looked like it had been torn apart by a cat or crow.  That didn't give me much confidence in God's providence.

So, Marty will be retaining his title as the patron saint of worriers.  Hallelujah.

Lord, don't let a crow get me today...