Moving In, or Marital Communications

Husband: I think all the music should go upstairs in the closet for now. The piano is already upstairs.
Wife: That's just a keyboard. We're going to have a piano in this room. And I'm going to play it every day...
Husband: But until then... can the music just go upstairs?
Wife: ...Every day, right after I milk the goats.
Husband: Upstairs, then.

Overheard in the Nursery

"This little piggy went to Marquette;
"This little piggy went to Notre Dame."

How long before Daddy has a sidekick for his puns?

Margarine, not butter

"According to your sister, this is molten death."
"Molten death?"
"I was paraphrasing."

This is what happens when all three sisters get together and have French toast.

Looking at Mobiles

Me: I don't know. I don't think I'd want sheep dangling over my head.

Him: The sheep of Damocles!

Marital Conflict

I still contend that Byzantine chant is not a good vehicle for Shel Silverstein.

Parish Assignment

No, we don't have one yet. We've cycled from the-bishops-don't-know-yet to maybe-city-A to maybe-city-B to the current state of the-bishops-definitely-don't-know.

Dna. Vassi has been very good at helping me remember: "God will provide." She gave me her hairband to snap on my wrist when I give into the worries and actually try to answer the solicitous "Where are you going?" I receive from my co-workers and family—from at least one person every day. I was explaining this to a fellow worrier: "I snap it against my wrist, hurting myself when I don't trust in God." (Oh. This little diakonissa finally got it.)

On the other hand, it's much easier to offer another answer, especially to those who ask me daily whether I've heard anything yet.

I've decided to say we're moving to Laputa.