June 23: Freewheel a Lot, Surprises, Adrenaline Withdrawal

Zaphod and Ford talking about Zaphod's thought process of finding the mythical planet, Magrathea . . .

"Research.  Government archives.  Detective work.  Few lucky guesses.  Easy." [said Zaphod.]

"And then you stole the Heart of Gold to come and look for it with." [said Ford.]

"I stole it to look for a lot of things."

"A lot of things?" said Ford in surprise.  "Like what?"

"I don't know."

"What?"

"I don't know what I'm looking for."

"Why not?"

"Because . . . because . . . I think it might be because if I knew I wouldn't be able to look for them."

"What, are you crazy?"

"It's a possibility I haven't ruled out yet," said Zaphod quietly.  "I only know as much about myself as my mind can work out under its current conditions.  And its current conditions are not good."

For a long time nobody said anything as Ford gazed at Zaphod with a mind suddenly full of worry.

"Listen, old friend, if you want to . . ." started Ford eventually.

"No, wait . . . I'll tell you something," said Zaphod.  "I freewheel a lot.  I get an idea to do something and, hey, why not, I do it.  I reckon I'll become President of the Galaxy, and it just happens, it's easy.  I decide to steal this ship.  I decide to look for Magrathea, and it all just happens.  Yeah, I work out how it can best be done, right, but it always works out.  It's like having a Galacticredit card which keeps on working though you never send off the checks.  And then whenever I stop and think--why did I want to do something?--how did I work out how to do it?--I get a very strong desire just to stop thinking about it.  Like I have now.  It's a big effort to talk about it."

I could never exist like Zaphod.  I'm not a freewheeling kind of person.  I get ideas, work out how best to execute the ideas, and follow through.  For me, life is about planning and putting those plans into action.  If I don't do this, I get anxious.  I don't enjoy feeling unprepared. 

For example, this morning, as I was taking my shower before heading out to church, I suddenly realized that it was my Sunday to play the pipe organ for the service.  There I stood, shampoo dripping into my eyes, in a sudden state of panic.  My pulse rate increased.  My breathing quickened.  I was on my way to a full-blown anxiety attack. 

Here's what I did--I quickly finished my shower, got dressed, ran out the door, drove to church, and practiced for a good 45 minutes before the service began  (Usually, I practice three or four hours the day before until I feel comfortable with everything--the music, songs, and organ settings.)  I played under a state of almost terror.  But, I made it through the hour with very few noticeable mistakes.

At the moment, I'm still recovering from this morning's adrenaline rush.  Now that it's all over, I'm feeling drained.  My body is going into adrenaline withdrawal, which means I could take about a two-hour nap. 

That is what surprise does to me.  It gives me hours of absolute worry and fear, followed by several more hours of recovery.  I may feel normal again by about eight o'clock tonight, just in time to get ready for another day of stress at work tomorrow.

Yesterday, I set myself up for stress.  I had a lot of things on my to-do list:  blog, mow my lawn, pick out church music, play for Mass, create the discussion guide for my Book Club meeting, and then clean my house.  It was an exhausting day, but I did manage to get all of those tasks done.  Surprisingly.  As I was heading into the bathroom with a bucket and sponge, I really had second thoughts of continuing.  However, I persevered and finished my work.

Here is what I have to accomplish for the rest of the day:  print out my discussion guide, throw together and meat-and-cheese tray, and take a nap.  Then Book Club.

Hopefully, no more surprises for Saint Marty today.

June 21: A Really Miserable Time, Fight or Flight, Challenges

The crew of the Heart of Gold deals with the death of a sperm whale on the surface of an alien planet . . .

"Come," said Zaphod, and started back down into the crater.

"What, down there?" said Trillian with severe distaste.

"Yeah," said Zaphod, "come on, I've got something to show you."

"We can see it," said Trillian.

"Not that," said Zaphod, "something else.  Come on."

They all hesitated.

"Come on," insisted Zaphod.  "I've found a way in."

"In?" said Arthur in horror.

"Into the interior of the planet!  An underground passage.  The force of the whale's impact cracked it open, and that's where we have to go.  Where no man has trod these five million years, into the very depths of time itself . . ."

Marvin started his ironical humming again.  

Zaphod hit him and he shut up.

With little shudders of disgust they all followed Zaphod down the incline into the crater, trying very hard to avoid looking at its unfortunate creator.

"Life," said Marvin dolefully, "loathe it or ignore it, you can't like it."

The ground caved in where the whale had hit it, revealing a network of galleries and passages, now largely obstructed by collapsed rubble and entrails.  Zaphod had made a start clearing a way into one of them, but Marvin was able to do it rather faster.  Dank air wafted out of its dark recesses, and as Zaphod shone a flashlight into it, little was visible in the dusty gloom.

"According to legends," he said, "the Magratheans lived most of their lives underground.

"Why's that?" said Arthur.  "Did the surface become too polluted or overpopulated?"

"No, I don't think so," said Zaphod.  "I think they just didn't like it very much."

"Are you sure you know what you're doing?" said Trillian, peering nervously into the darkness.  "We've been attacked once already, you know."

"Look, kid, I promised you the live population of this planet is nil plus the four of us, so come on, let's get on in there.  Er, hey, Earthman . . ."

"Arthur," said Arthur.

"Yeah, could you just sort of keep this robot with you and guard this end of the passageway.  Okay?"

"Guard?" said Arthur.  "What from?  You just said there's no one here."

"Yeah, well, just for safety, okay?" said Zaphod.

"Whose?  Yours or mine?"

"Good lad.  Okay, here we go."

Zaphod scrambled down into the passage, followed by Trillian and Ford.

"Well, I hope you all have a really miserable time," complained Arthur.  

"Don't worry," Marvin assured him, "they will."

In a few seconds they had disappeared from view.

Arthur stamped around in a huff, and then decided that a whale's graveyard is not on the whole a good place to stamp around in.

Marvin eyes him balefully for a moment, and then turned himself off.

Zaphod and Trillian and Ford are heading into a dark subterranean passage beneath a crater created by a falling whale on a planet whose inhabitants just tried to blast them out of the sky with nuclear warheads.  If that is not the definition of a stressful situation, I don't know what is.

Stress is something that everyone deals with, at work, at home, on the drive from home to work.  It's something that makes the heart beat faster and the lungs work harder.  Usually, stress is induced by some perceived threat, and the body's reaction to it is ancient.  Fight or flight.  Imagine a cave person encountering a hungry saber-toothed tiger.  The reaction is either to protect yourself by battling it, or running like hell.  (Either way, the cave person is dinner.)  So, the physiological reaction to stress is heavily implanted in our DNA.

It seems like I always have stress.  I work in a cardiology office where patients frequently call with life-threatening complaints--chest pain, arm pain, shortness of breath.  During the school year, I couple this stress with teaching at a university.  That's a whole other kind of stress--grading and lesson planning and (sometimes) counseling troubled students.

And then there's financial stress and family stress.  Even though I work three jobs (and my wife works a part-time job, as well), it's always the same story--too many bills, not enough paycheck.  I just can't get away from this problem.  Of course, family carries its own brand of stress, requiring more energy and money and time.

I'm not complaining here.  These are just the facts.  Throw into the mix car problems or college tuition or addiction, and you have the makings of a pretty good soap opera or a night at the Saint Marty household.

The Book of Joy says this about stress:  "One simply notices the fight-or-flight stress response in one's body--the beating heart, the pulsing blood or tingling feeling in your hands and face, the rapid breathing--then remembers that these are natural responses to stress and that our body is just preparing to rise to the challenge."  Instead of giving into fear or tensions, the book suggests a rebranding of stress.  Instead of viewing a bill as stress, it is simply a challenge.  When struggling with addiction, a person is challenged to become better, sober, and generous of heart.

I suppose that using the term "challenge" is more constructive.  a challenge is something that can be dealt with and overcome.  Stress, on the other hand, is nebulous and frightening.  It's the Blob oozing under your bedroom door, ready to consume you.  I'd rather deal with a challenge than an alien life form.

So, it is Friday, and the weekend is stretching before me right now.  I have some challenges these next couple days.  I have to mow my lawn.  Clean my house.  Host my book club.  I would like to run away from some of these things.  However, I will fight the good fight, overcome these bumps in the road, and find some peace and joy.

Here is how the Dalai Lama deals with stress:  ". . . if I relate to others, thinking that I am the Dalai Lama, I will create the basis for my own separation and loneliness.  After all, there is only one Dalai Lama in the entire world.  In contrast, if I see myself primarily in terms of myself as a fellow human, I will then have more than seven billion people who I can feel deep connection with.  And this is wonderful, isn't it?  What do you need to fear or worry about when you have seven billion other people who are with you?"

Again, it's all about connection.  In my life, I surround myself with loving people.  Friends and family whom I know will make me laugh, give me hugs, say "I love you" when I need it.  Sharing stress is one of the best ways I know to overcome life's challenges/stresses.

Saint Marty sends his love out into the world this Friday night.  If you drop by Saint Marty's house tonight, he'll probably hand you a mop and tell you to love his bathroom floor.

October 8: Son's Final Birthday Party, Classic Saint Marty, "Pecan Pie"

We had the last birthday party for my son this afternoon at the Children's Museum in Marquette.  Lots of cake, pizza, slides and turtles, and an escaped iguana.  It was a wonderful time, full and laughter and screaming children.

Now, I am trying to catch up with my schoolwork.  Grading and writing.  Creating a midterm exam.  It's going to be a long night.  Hopefully, I will be able to focus and get shit done quickly, because I'm about ready to drop dead from exhaustion.

A year ago, I was dealing with a different kind of stress . . .

October 8, 2016:  Mockingbird on the Chimney, Panel of Poets, Swedish Spies

No; we have been as usual asking the wrong question. It does not matter a hoot what the mockingbird on the chimney is singing.... The real and proper question is: Why is it beautiful?

Dillard is talking about birdsong in this little passage, and the fact that people spend a great deal of time talking about what the mockingbird on the chimney is saying.  Is it singing about the sun on its feathers?  The hawk circling in the sky?  Its nest of eggs in the pine tree?  No, Dillard says.  We're missing the point.  It's not the message so much as the package.  Sort of like looking at all the beautiful packages sitting under the Saint Marty's Day tree and not really thinking about what they contain.

Today, in about twenty minutes to be exact, I have to go to a local library to participate in a panel of poets.  It's part of a celebration of independent booksellers.  I was invited last week, and I agreed.  Of course, then all the low self-esteem kicked in.  I've known all the other poets for many, many years.  They are accomplished and successful.  My doubts and fears are unfounded.  I know that.  Like Dillard says, it's not really about what the mockingbird is singing.  It's about the beauty of the song.  I must keep that in mind.

So, I will show up, try to sell a few books, talk about poetry for an hour, maybe read some poems, and answer some questions.  I will be on the chimney with all the other mockingbirds, trying to create something uplifting, something that touches the heavens.  That's the goal, anyway.

No word from the Swedish Academy yet, although Saint Marty suspects there will be some very Scandinavian members in the audience today.

The Swedish Academy's motto.  I think it translates as "Saint Marty is great!"

I am grateful for this day of celebration.  And I have a gratitude poem for tonight about my mother and pie:



Pecan Pie

by:  Martin Achatz

Mix eggs, sugar and Karo,
melted butter, vanilla from Mexico
in a bowl until it all runs
yellow as corn silk.  Add pecans,
one-and-a-quarter cups.  Fold
them into the gold syrup,
the way a farmer folds
manure into a field of hay
or my son folds a Tootsie Roll
under his tongue, plants it there,
lets it feed the furrows
of his young body.  Pour this filling
into a shell, edges fluted
by my wife's hands, crimped
between thumb and forefinger
to peaks and troughs of dough.
Bake at 350 degrees.
Forty-five minutes to an hour.
You'll know when it's done.
The house will smell
brown and warm and sweet.
Dip a butter knife blade
into the center of the pie.
If it comes out hot and clean,
take the pie out of the oven.  Put it
on the front porch to cool.
You can leave it there overnight.
It'll be waiting in the morning.
Cover it with a hand towel.  Carry
it to your parents' house,
where your mother asks you
"Is it cold outside?"
over and over as you cut
the pie.  "Yes," you tell her.
And "yes" when she asks again.
It is cold this Thanksgiving.
And, yes, pecan pie is her favorite.
Give her a large slice,
with extra Cool Whip
and a hot cup of coffee.

November 27: Daily Grind, Lots of Work, Classic Saint Marty

It's always difficult coming to the end of a holiday weekend.  Tomorrow, I must return to the daily grind.  Work.  Teaching.  Grading.  Staying up late.  Getting up early.  Praying for the weekend to come.

I have loads of work that I have to do this afternoon.  I'm going to be competing with my daughter for use of my laptop, because, like me, she's put a lot of her homework off until today.  I will accomplish as much as I can today, but I refuse to stress about everything.  I can't.  It's not worth it.

Speaking of stress, I will also find out if, or what, I am teaching next semester at the university.  The course assignments are about a month overdue, and I have a feeling that a lot of contingent instructors are going to be quite unhappy with the news.  I am withholding comment until I see what's coming my way.  Then I will throw myself on the ground, grind and gnash my teeth, wail a little bit, and start wearing sackcloth.  I might even throw some ashes on my head.

Today's episode of Classic Saint Marty aired about four years ago, in the middle of a snowstorm, the day after Thanksgiving.  It's about a tradition that is no longer a tradition--the annual day-after-Thanksgiving Chocolate Potluck.  Those were the days.

November 23, 2012:  After Tea, P.O.E.T.S. Day, Chocolate Potluck

After tea, they had some music.  For they were a musical family, and knew what they were about, when they sang a Glee or Catch.  I can assure you:  especially Topper, who could growl away in the bass like a good one, and never swell the large veins in his forehead, or get red in the face over it.

One of my favorite sections of A Christmas Carol concerns the party at Scrooge's nephew Fred's house.  Fred jokes about his uncle, about his wife's cooking, about his inability to tell a story.  He laughs at everything, especially himself.  Fred would be the character from this novel voted most likely to play beer pong.

I like Fred.  I aspire to be like Fred--affable and friendly with everyone.  I don't like being angry.  I prefer to overlook flaws of character or moments of asshole-ness.  I like laughing, even if it's at my own expense.  And I like being around people.

This P.O.E.T.S. Day, the day after Thanksgiving, I participated in our eleventh annual Chocolate Potluck.  There are basically only two people who work on Black Friday in the Medical Center--myself and a guy from I.T.  We have worked together on this day for over ten years.  And we are both chocolate lovers.  Eleven years ago, we decided to bring chocolate products to work.  A lot of chocolate products.  Dove and Godiva and Ghiradelli and Hershey.  White fudge Oreos.  Chocolate-covered cherries and raspberries.  Our selection has expanded and improved each year.

This year was no different.  Although a snowstorm was raging outside, we were inside, stuffing our faces to celebrate the commencement of the yuletide season.  I felt like Fred, welcoming guests and telling embarrassing stories and listening to Christmas music on my computer.  Bing Crosby has been at every Chocolate Potluck we've had.  He doesn't eat much, and he's a great baritone.

The Christmas holidays are upon us.  Saint Marty has the leftovers at work to prove it.  On Monday morning, he will rummage through the chocolate box, eat a Hershey Bell or peanut butter M&M, and think of Fred and his group of friends.  Maybe Saint Marty will sing a Glee or Catch, whatever the hell they are.

This puts a jingle in my bells

October 10: Christmas Music, Madeleine L'Engle, "Bearer of Love"

I have been listening to Christmas music a lot in the last few weeks, especially on my computer at work.  It's been quite stressful in the medical office, and Christmas music calms me down.  Of course, my coworkers are not in the holiday spirit, so I'm annoying the crap out of them.  I don't care, though.  I love Christmas music.  It makes me happy.

I also have to work on a revision of a Christmas essay this weekend.  An editor has asked for a few revisions, and, when I get those revisions done, he'll publish it.  So, while I'm at my daughter's dance classes tomorrow and Sunday, I'll be rewriting like crazy.

Tomorrow, I will be spending most of the day in dance classes with my daughter.  We're at the Wisconsin Dells for a dance convention.  Hundreds of teenage girls and boys taking classes in ballet, tap, modern, jazz, and hip hop.  It's one of my favorite weekends of the year.  I love watching my daughter dance, even if she gets a little cranky after eight hours.

Tonight, I have a Christmas poem from Madeleine L'Engle for you guys.

Just put a little Bing Crosby on your iPod, and hum along with Saint Marty.

Bearer of Love

by:  Madeleine L'Engle

The great swan's wings were wild as he flew down;
Leda was almost smothered in his embrace. 
His crimson beak slashed fiercely at her gown--
lust deepened by the terror on her face.

Semele saw her lover as a god.
Her rash desire was blatant, undenied.
He showed himself, thunder and lightning shod.
Her human eyes were blasted and she died.

And Mary sat, unknowing, unaware.
The angel's wings were wilder than the swan
as God broke through the shining, waiting air,
gave her the lily's sword thrust and was gone.

The swans, the old gods fall in consternation
at the fierce coming of the wild wind's thrust
entering Mary in pure penetration.
The old gods die now, crumbled stone and rust.

Young Mary, moved by Gabriel, acquiesced,
asked nothing for herself in lowliness,
accepted, too, the pain, and then, most blest,
became the bearer of all holiness.

Fa la la la la, la la la la

March 19: Under the Stars, Unafraid, Letting Go

...Elwyn crept through the dark and aromatic marsh, past croaking frogs and unexplained scurries, to the boulders, beyond which distant lights shone on the water.  There this short and slight boy, who would run blocks to avoid a bully but who felt safe in the natural world where no other people were around, would shed his clothes and slip into the black water.  Quietly, so as not to attract attention, he swam in the darkness, floating under the stars, unafraid.

There's a great deal of beauty in the above passage from the E. B. White biography The Story of Charlotte's Web.  White, as a boy, was small and scrawny.  A target at school for all kinds of negative attention.  Yet, he had an escape.  A place where he could shed the troubles of the world and just be happy and worry-free.


When I first read this description of White skinny-dipping in the night, I envied the sheer freedom of it.  Letting go of life's problems is not easy for me.  They float above me, like the stars above Elwyn as he swims in the darkness.  When I climb into bed at the end of a day, they follow me, make it difficult for me to fall asleep.

I'm going on a trip to Wisconsin this weekend.  My daughter has a dance competition.  It's going to be a quick little sojourn.  We leave Friday morning, and she competes that night at 10 p.m.   Saturday is free.  We'll probably swim in the hotel pool.  Shop (without buying anything--we don't have the cash).  Maybe go out to eat (we may splurge and buy KFC).  Then we come home on Sunday and dive right back into life.

I'm looking forward to the trip, but it certainly will not be without its share of stress.  We will not be skinny dipping or stargazing.  It's not that kind of hotel.  However, it will be a different kind of stress.  Not I'm-losing-my-job stress.  More do-I-take-this-off-ramp stress.

I don't think I will ever find a place where I can let go of worries.  When I'm in a new place, I simply find new worries.  Or I pack the old worries in my suitcase with my toothbrush.  But I do have moments of bliss.  Reading my son a story at night.  Listening to a Roger Miller song.  Sitting next to my wife at night, not talking, just being together.

That's Saint Marty's idea of floating under carefree stars.  Unafraid.  Happy.

Just take Exit I Don't Give a Shit...

December 19: Sobbing, Church Musicians, Stress

He was so fluttered and so glowing with his good intentions, that his broken voice would scarcely answer to his call.  He had been sobbing violently in his conflict with the Spirit, and his face was wet with tears.

Scrooge is still a mess on Christmas morning, after his night with the Spirits of Christmas.  He doesn’t know what to do, where to begin.  He’s laughing, crying, dancing, sobbing.  He knows he’s still a broken person, but he has the chance to redeem himself now.  He will make mistakes on this road to redemption, but he will always have a Christmas carol in his heart.

This time of year for church musicians is stressful.  I have been an organist/accompanist for nearly 27 years now.  That’s 27 Christmases, with an average of two to three worship services each year; two children’s programs a season; and at least two or three extra rehearsals per week, from November through December 25.  That’s a lot of hours.  By the time I sit down with my ham sandwich on Christmas morning, after I have played my last carol and sung my last chorus of “Joy to the World,” I’m sometimes drained of cheer.  I get through the rest of the day on eggnog and the TNT marathon of A Christmas Story.

My biggest worry this week is the upcoming Christmas Eve/Christmas Day church services.  There’s this whole pressure for music to be extra good, extra special on those days.  I have a children’s program at 8 p.m. on December 24, plus two solos that were just handed to me in the last week.  No matter how much I practice the music, I never feel quite good enough for the occasion.  After close to 30 years of being a part of this yuletide insanity, I still suffer from low self-esteem when it comes to my musical abilities (or is that low elf-esteem at Christmas?).

On the flipside, I know that, come noon on Christmas, nobody is going to remember a single bloody mistake I make at the organ or piano.  Unless I become catatonic at the keyboard or decide to do a bad Jerry Lee Lewis impersonation, I should be fine.

I think we put way too much pressure on ourselves at Christmas.  We strive for perfection.  Perfect music.  Perfect gift.  Perfect card.  Perfect mashed potatoes.  It’s an impossible goal.  I willscrew up on Christmas Eve and Christmas Day.  I will probably duplicate a gift with someone.  I will burn the sugar cookies.  I will forget to send a card to Uncle Ned in Arizona because I thought he was dead.

Christmas is not really about perfection.  Christmas is messy.  Mary was an unwed, pregnant teen.  Jesus was born in a barn, with dirty animals and manure.  The shepherds probably drank out in the fields; they certainly didn’t shower.  Herod sent out soldiers to kill babies in Bethlehem.  The nativity narrative is full of unpleasant smells, unpleasant sights, unpleasant people, and unpleasant events.

The true miracle of the holiday is that, out of this whole broken mess, came the Son of God.  So I’m not worried too much.

Saint Marty will take care of the mistakes this Christmas.  God will take care of the perfection.

Time to get dirty

October 16: Bob's Voice, Strong and Hearty, Meltdown

Bob's voice was tremulous when he told them this, and trembled more when he said that Tiny Tim was growing strong and hearty.

Bob has just voiced his hopes for Tiny Tim, even though he knows, deep in his heart, that Tim's prospects are pretty bleak.  Tiny Tim will not survive to adulthood unless some kind of miracle occurs.  At the time Dickens wrote A Christmas Carol, childhood death was not uncommon in Victorian England.  Hygiene wasn't the greatest, and the plague wasn't yet a distant memory.  Bob's fears are not unfounded for his weak little son.

Last night, after we got home from the Wisconsin Dells, my daughter had a huge meltdown.  I thought it was simply because she was exhausted from the weekend of dancing and late nights.  However, after about 45 minutes of screaming and slamming doors, I discovered the cause of her anxieties.  She kept on saying she was a failure, and I kept on telling her she did really well in her dance classes and her flute practice.  I thought she was worried about a social science test she has to take today.  Then, she finally confessed that she received a "D+" on a science test last week.

The poor little girl had been carrying that around for almost five days, afraid to tell me or my wife, not wanting to "disappoint" us.  By the time I got this information from her, she was sobbing so hard I could barely understand her.

It was one of those parent moments where I didn't know what to say or do to calm her down.  She's told me that science was harder for her this year than last, but she hasn't told me she was struggling so much.  I tried to hold her, get her to stop crying.  I don't even remember exactly what I said.  Probably something like, "It's OK.  I'll help you study.  You'll be OK.  I'll give your teacher a call to see how I can help you out.  I'm not disappointed in you."   And on and on.  You get the idea.

I have never put much pressure on my daughter to perform well in school.  She just always has.  Now, I'm going to call her school to make sure she's not failing one of her subjects.  In some ways, I feel like I've failed her.  I don't understand how I couldn't have recognized her anguish.  She hid it so well.  I think she takes after me.  I tend to suppress my troubles.  It's so much easier than confronting and dealing with them.

Well, I was able to calm her down last night, after a couple of hours.  I helped her study for her social science test.  I got her to feel like the world wasn't coming to an end.  I hope.

Saint Marty thinks his daughter is strong and hearty this morning.

My daughter's cry for help last night

February 23: The Chocolate Drawer



The chocolate drawer

It's been a chocolate drawer kind of day.  It is almost 5 p.m., and I have just enough time to write that I don't have time to write today.  Yesterday, cake was my solace.  Today, I visited the chocolate drawer in our office about 4,291 times.  During those visits, I consumed about 53 mini Hershey bars, 231 Reese's peanut butter eggs, and 237 Butterfingers.  According to my calculations, I have to run approximately 568 miles (basically from my house to Detroit) to work off those candy bars.
My coworker was off today because her spouse had surgery.  Please send good thoughts/prayers their way.  So I was the only game in town, and it was quite busy.  On top of my work in the business office, I had to give a mid-term exam to my Good Books class at the university.

My work, for the moment, is now all done, and I have a few minutes to reflect on how busy I've been.  But it isn't over completely.  I have choir practice and band practice at church tonight.  Then I have to help my daughter with some homework.  (Oh, by the way, I just found out my daughter may have impetigo on her face.  That was worth a couple Hershey kisses from the drawer.)

Now, if I were I real saint, I would find something wonderful in all this crap.  Maybe I would say a prayer over the chocolate drawer, multiply the dark Milky Ways, and feed a small, East European country with them.  However, I don't feel like sharing my chocolate today.

Saint Marty is tired.  Saint Marty is bloated.  Saint Marty isn't giving thanks today.  Saint Marty is eying up another peanut butter egg at the moment.