Oh, Lord, on a chilly February morning, I really like a good breakfast. Sizzling bacon. Fluffy pancakes. Eggs, over easy, and a mixing-bowl-sized cup of coffee with double cream.
I know dietary experts would disagree. But, OMG, must every day begin with Fiber One?
O Lord, Your daffodils insist on showing up every February. Don’t they know basketball tourney time lurks in the near future, with its usual accompanying blizzard? Yet nothing keeps them down. OMG, help me believe in the Resurrection as much as they do.
When Midwestern citizens select their favorite month, February is among the first voted off the calendar. Even 2020’s relatively civilized temperatures (so far) don’t suffice to keep February in the running.
We still wear long undies. Yet swimsuits go on sale. Ack!
February Visa bills bristle with charges we’d repressed.
We’ve already lost the right gloves of new pairs our in-laws gave us for Christmas.
Cars define dirty. Even if some thug attempted to steal mine before my very eyes, I wouldn’t realize it. If I did, I’d offer him the keys.
But I’m still feeling fine in February for 15 reasons:
The birds, chirping a little louder, feel the change. So do brave, if stupid, daffodils poking up green fingertips in my sheltered flower bed. With these tiny pre-signs of spring — along with a few hundred Girl Scout Cookies — how can I keep from feeling fine in February?
Your Extraordinary Ordinary: What’s your favorite thing about this month?
O my God, the first time I saw George Washington’s portrait in my first-grade classroom, I mistook him for Martha. And why did he chop down a tree that produced yummy cherries? That 
he told his dad was admirable, but not too bright!
Subsequent presidents also have strained my brain, yet, this Presidents’ Day, I appreciate their service. But OMG, I’m grateful that ultimately, You are in charge!
Yes, Thanksgiving has passed. Though the holiday virus has infected my mental workings, I’m not out of touch with reality yet. After all, it’s only December 1.
It’s not?
No wonder my gas company turned off the heat. …
Back to the original subject. Every year we celebrate Christmas at Thanksgiving. At Halloween, even. Yet, doesn’t Thanksgiving at Christmas make more sense than Black Friday? Let’s start a new trend! I’ll go first:
Blessed are the procrastinators who, like me, have not removed pumpkins from their porches. The same people leave their Christmas lights up until July. You have no idea how you spread good cheer to me and others who will show up two months late for our own funerals.
On the receiving end of gift-giving, I am thankful my husband has developed excellent judgment in selecting presents. The past few decades, I have received nothing like one of his early gifts: a dried-blowfish lamp brought back from Florida.Hubby threatens to change the clock. Sure, it gives a false sense of security. But it allows me to chill.
After all, it’s only December 2.
It’s not?
Oh, well. There’s still plenty of time to celebrate Thanksgiving this December.
With every “Merry Christmas!” I’ll remember and thank the One whose birthday it is.
Your Extraordinary Ordinary: How do you celebrate Thanksgiving at Christmas?
O my God, the Ten Commandments include “Thou shalt not covet,” so I try not to envy those who spend $$$$ so they can post beach pictures in Florida. But OMG, is it wrong to feel just a little smug that today in Indiana, we’re expecting 65 degrees?
Me, a prim 6-year-old
Vestiges of first-grade shyness still cling to me when Valentine’s Day nears.
As my class colored purple-lined mimeographed hearts, our teacher explained we’d soon celebrate a love holiday.
“Ooooooh.” The boys made kissing noises.
Christmas, Thanksgiving, Halloween — none of these turned my face red as my Crayola. I’d even heard yucky rumors people kissed at midnight on New Year’s Eve. But my parents always sent me to bed early, so I didn’t have to witness it.
Now in school, I celebrated mushy Valentine’s Day. Despite reservations, I enjoyed decorating a white doughnut bag with pink hearts — though I had no idea why. Then our teacher explained we, like mail carriers, would deliver valentine cards to our classmates’ bags to make them feel special.
Though I didn’t consider Scary Larry Williams and Donny the Dirt Adams special, I could live with that. On Columbus Day, we only sang songs about a dead sailor who got lost. On Valentine’s Day, I ate the red-hot cinnamon hearts off a pink-frosted cupcake, then washed it down with cherry Kool-Aid.
I labored over my class list, reserving ballerina valentines for my girlfriends. For boys, a lower species, I selected animals. Ugly ones.
I suffered my first case of writer’s cramp printing names on the cards. This love stuff was hard work!
But I received pink ballerinas and multiple Snow Whites in return. I even enjoyed those sent by subhuman boys.
I applied phonics to the faint print on candy hearts, only to discover such steamy sentiments as “my baby,” “be mine,” and the dreaded “kiss me.” More disconcerting: we each received fat red wax lips. The first-grade class looked as if we’d made a field trip to a plastic surgeon’s. More kissing noises.
But Mrs. Cade didn’t stand the boys in the corner. Instead, she abdicated her moral responsibility as a teacher and donned lips herself!
Later, I asked my mother to solve the mysteries surrounding the heart candies. Was “my baby” supposed to be a compliment? All my baby brother did was pee, poop and puke. Mom said a young man might call his girlfriend “baby.” That explained the incomprehensible songs on the radio.
Valentine’s Day appeared the strangest holiday of the year, and the love/romance scenario remains puzzling as ever. But it’s nice to know I’ve moved past the first-grade version. Forget the candy hearts; now I’m into Belgian chocolates.
I also understand real love means even harder work than addressing valentines.
And that kissing noises aren’t so bad, after all.
How do you remember your first Valentine’s Day experience?
O my God, on this February morning, the sun and I both have buried our heads under the covers. But when You smile at me, OMG, I poke my head out and turn toward the warmth and light of Your love.
In 1998, a rabbi promoting marriage among Jewish singles conceived the idea of speed dating, now practiced globally. Interested parties sign up for several round robin dates of three to eight minutes. Most of us spend more time selecting sides at Wendy’s.
Even if positive vibes result, many more check-’em-out dates will be required to truly know each other. So, wouldn’t it be wonderful if those longing for true love could detect losers and schmoozers in one day?
Ta-da! My revolutionary concept, Love Trials, cuts to the chase. This scientific approach will benefit all humankind, plus make me a few million dollars. Each participating couple will know whether they have found their soul mates after five short sessions in which they:
Trial #1: Pack a suitcase. The girl and guy are given one small bag. Not one each – one. She does her best, but it only holds a weekend’s supply of lipsticks. And is he really going to wear that?
Trial #2: Visit a buffet with one plate. When a woman’s baby spinach salad vies for space with the guy’s giant nachos topped with five pounds of bacon, she may reconsider. His passion may cool, too, when she doesn’t want his food touching hers.
Trial #3: Dig a car out of a snowdrift. Even without the debate as to who should have listened to whom about road conditions, speed and directions, this trial proves invaluable in unmasking polite claims of gender equality. She dubs him the stronger; therefore, he should push. He thumbs his nose at her so-called dedication to equal rights and claims superior judgment in rocking and rolling out of the predicament.
Trial #4: Hang wallpaper. Participants ask themselves: Do they really want to pledge their lives to someone who can’t distinguish a rectangle from a trapezoid? Who glues his thumbs permanently to his ears? Future wedding pictures are at stake.
Trial #5: Buy each other a $10 gift. She purchases an extra-long towel and embroiders his darling baby-in-the-bath picture on it (winning his mother over). He buys her a heavy- duty ice scraper.
Have the starry-eyed lovers fled the scene? If not, do they still speak to each other? (Grunts count. So do weepy “how could you!”s)
Light up a huge neon Congratulations! sign. Release the balloons and confetti!
In the Love Trials, if he and she have not escaped to Mars and Venus respectively, a relationship with a real, live human being has begun. Break out the chocolates, flowers, music and romance! This couple can celebrate true love until the next great Love Trial:
Planning a wedding.
What tried-and-true Love Trial would you suggest for my list?
Oh, my God, the Weather Channel says snow will come our way. Not a blizzard. Not an ice storm, but a typical bundle-up, red-nose winter day, like many, many others. OMG, thank you that February’s a short month. And that it’s not November.