Share a Diet Coke with Tyler: A Lexical Montage

Who the heck is Erin?

 
To finally have purchased a Diet Coke bottle emblazoned with my name seems a moment of sufficient gravity to necessitate a blog post in celebration.  This is a big deal.  The passenger side floorboard of my pickup attests to the vigor of my search for such a bottle.  Alas, having found it, I forgot to take a picture. . . Lest it seem, however, that my life in Martin, South Dakota is measured in sips of Coca-Cola products the bottoms of whose bottles promise but never deliver satisfaction, here are a few things.

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I bought a bed.  The parish was planning to buy one anyway, so I went and chose a new one for the master bedroom.   Fr. Marcin and Fr. Dillon went with me.  Fr. Marcin insisted that I try out several mattresses that he liked.  We laid on them together.  #lovewins  It is a very nice bed and a very soft mattress.   

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 I also bought a recliner.  After a misadventure trying to purchase a recliner in Spearfish wherein I ended up with a chair that Msgr. Michael wanted, my new dark brown recliner represents a place of refuge in my new rectory where, as it turns out, I also control the thermostat.  69 degrees baby. (In point of fact, 69 degrees is a little chilly.  I had to turn it up.)

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  There are a lot of questions I do not know how to answer.  Grieving widows are one thing.  Knowing which line item under which a purchase should appear in the budget is quite another.

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I had assumed moving to the prairie would involve little contact with the Chancery.  I assumed poorly, it would seem, as they call about twice a week.  They also ask questions to which I do not have answers.

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Vacationing with Frs. Dillon and Hofer at Leech Lake in Minnesota was as much fund as I have had in ages.  It was good to be with priests.  The fishing was not terrible for late July, though the fishing muse failed to shine her ever-loving light on me.  I was skunked.  Kevin Woster, however, has intimated that he would like to go fishing with me.  Perhaps I will have better luck with him.

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Life is developing a rhythm (the bass line of which seems to be provided by 'The West Wing" on  Netflix), and my Mass Schedule is basically in order.  I want to introduce Eucharistic Adoration at some point.  I am waiting for school to start to see how things flow before I add that.  I also want to add more confession times.

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I finally had a decent homily last weekend.  I was beginning to feel like a babbling idiot after my first couple of weekends.  It is harder than I remembered to preach to a community one dos not know.

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My semiannual flat tire necessitated a ride to town with a stranger to buy a handyman jack, a maddening wait on the phone with GEICO's roadside assistance operator, and a tow truck before all was said and done.  I had all four tires replaced today, assured by the tire fixer people that this time I would not be back for a long time.  I know how to change a tire.  But I broke my jack.  I also know when to admit defeat.  Several old men tried to convince me to try the handyman one more time after the pickup had fallen of of it four times already.  I pay for roadside assistance.  I should use it from time to time.

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I do a lot of driving.  According to my calculation, I drove around 1800 miles in business miles in July.  That does not count any personal travel.  I am going to need a more fuel efficient vehicle.

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I enjoy cooking for myself, though I have had to learn how to cook without milk given that I cannot use even a quart before it goes bad.  Maybe I need to start drinking it in my coffee.  I also find it disappointing to have no one but myself to blame when I graze at night and find nothing in my house for snacks.  Sometime soon, however, I will need to find a use for a head of cabbage (quartered and roasted in the oven? Boiled with ham and potatoes?) and two pounds of dried kidney beans (red beans and rice?).  I used to think I could eat spaghetti every day, and I wondered at those who suggested that they could grow weary of pasta.  I am now fast approaching that threshold.

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Washing dishes is a pain.  I have no dishwasher.  My water heater spews water from the tap that could be used to scald a butcher hog for scraping.  So, washing dishes consists primarily in filling the sink with soap, water, and dishes, waiting for the water to cool enough to touch, then rinsing the dishes.  But it is still a pain.

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Where does all this mail come from?  And what am I supposed to do with it?

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It is now time to do some laundry, go to a parish council meeting, and then come back and watch the Republicans clobber themselves in the debate.  It is kind of nice living alone.