In the meantime, I wanted to let you know how much I appreciate all of the loving and supportive messages for Mark’s family, both in the comments section and by e-mail.
How wonderful you all are, reaching out with thoughts of comfort and sympathy as you’ve done here! This world is full of grief, but kind hearts like yours soften the blow.
I’ll make sure Mark’s family gets copies of all your condolences. Thank you, guys. You’re the best.
When I heard my brother-in-law was planning his memorial service, I called him and asked if he was giving up. After all, his doctors had given up on him a long time ago—they were always telling Mark how he wasn’t going to last very long.
“Liver cancer is fast,” they’d explain, and just to make things clear they’d offer him a helpful estimate, like one, two, or even three months. And three months later Mark would still be plugging away, despite the helpful estimate.
So they’d come up with another estimate and remind him to put his affairs in order, and that time would also pass and Mark’s affairs would be quite orderly. But he was still alive, and possibly one of their most uncooperative patients, EVER, especially considering how he’d been pulling this stunt for almost three years.
“I’ve outlived all my expiration dates,” Mark liked to tell us, a line that always made us laugh because Mark was our Miracle Man, our Survivor. He was the Guy Who Just Did Not Quit. The guy who was beating the thing trying to kill him.
So I got on the phone and I flat out asked him: was he planning his funeral because he’d given up? Because he wasn’t going to fight anymore?
He just said I was being kind of silly. “Everybody dies,” he told me. “Everybody should plan their memorial service. You mean, you haven’t taken care of yours yet?”
He seemed surprised when I said I hadn’t, like planning one’s funeral was such an important but mundane task you might find it on everybody’s To Do list: 1. Get groceries. 2. Call Mom. 3. Plan my funeral.
I never thought of it like that, Mark, but you’re right. One of these weeks I’ll get around to it, I promise.
But not this week.
This week we’re helping prepare for Mark’s service, the one he planned for himself.
And even though we know he’s in a better place—even though we know he’s not suffering any more, that he’s at peace with God—our hearts are still broken.
Our Miracle Man is gone.
Mark Fontana
December 1949 — September 2006
Flashback to the eighties, right? 
“My brother paid a dollar last night to see your underwear” is an instantly recognizable line from Sixteen Candles, a movie I thought was reasonably funny when I saw it in 1984, but which definitely took on a sinister subtext after I viewed it as the mother of two teenage boys.
But we’re not going to talk about sinister subtexts. Not today, anyway.
Today, we’re going to talk about something that has caused extreme marital discord in our previously happy home. And just what would that something be, you ask?
ONE MOVIE LINE.
Seriously. This is the stuff you argue about when you don’t have cable.
I say the line goes like this:
(Scene: the most popular girl in the school wakes up in the back of a convertible Rolls Royce with the geekiest kid in the school.)
Caroline: I’ll tell you where you are if you tell me who you are.
Ted: I’m Farmer Ted.
Caroline: You’re in the parking lot in front of my church.
Ted: You own a church?
Classic. It’s funny, see, because it’s such an outrageous response to “You’re in front of my church.”
Now, this is how Hubby says it goes:
Caroline: You’re in the parking lot in front of my church.
Ted: You go to church?
Pretty dull, if you ask me, but Hubby breaks up just thinking about it. He says it’s funnier because Ted is surprised that she goes to church.
What a noodle.
We replayed this one scene several times—our ears pressed to the speakers so we could hear every nuance—and I’m 100% certain my version is the one John Hughes gave to the world. Hubby scoffs.
The Internet is no help. There are 1060 references to “You go to church?” and only 40 Google references to “You own a church?” which for some reason Hubby takes as a mandate that he is right, but which really only tells me most of the world is deaf.
So I leave it with you. First, tell me which line is funnier.
Second, if you know the movie and don’t have to run down to Blockbuster to rent it, tell me what they are really saying. My marriage depends on it.
UPDATE: Hubby agrees that the line is “You own a church?” but that the issue is not what the line SAYS, but which line is FUNNIER.
And third, once you have kids, John Hughes’ comedies turn into horror flicks. Sorry, but that’s just the way it is.
A lot happening today, so I’ll be quick! (Is it possible to procrastinate quickly? Do any of us want to?)
Dicewars will once and for all expose to everyone how easily I am confounded by strategy games.
At least, I think this is a strategy game.
It is, isn’t it?
You start out with a map that’s divided into territories: yours and those of your opponent. For some reason your opponent ALWAYS gets to go first, which I don’t think is fair, but then what do I know? Apparently being good at strategy games means you get to CHEAT.
Anyway.
When your opponent is finally through with eating up most of your territory, you get to go, and the best I can figure out is that somehow your opponent tossed all your big number dice way in the back, where you can’t reach them and are stuck fighting this onslaught with such a pitiful number that even Napoleon would weep.
Outgunned, that’s what I was.
Still, it’s kind of addictive, in a masochistic sort of way.
WHAT: One dustpan. We couldn’t find what was left of the handle—or any of the other missing pieces, either.
BONNIE’S REACTION: Mojo! Come here!
HUBBY: My poor Mojo! Don’t be too hard on him, honey—how do you know it was him, anyway? Why, I bet Clara did it! And framed him!
BONNIE: I know who did it, all right. Mojo!
(Mojo slinks forward, head low, tail would be hanging low, too, if he had one)
BONNIE: You are such a GOOD boy! Good, good Mojo! Now, let me show you the broom. Yeah, I know, it’s a little scary, but I bet it tastes really, really good. Whadaya think, boy? Why don’t you lick it? Just once! Try it!
HUBBY: Turn your tender eyes away, boys, I don’t want you to see this. Your momma—well, she’s going wacky on me.
BONNIE: What a good dog you are, Mojo! Now, have you ever taken a look at the vacuum cleaner? No? Allow me to introduce you…
Inspired by Bonnie Calhoun, April Redmon, and all the other brave souls out there remodeling their sites, I’m experimenting with my theme, my widgets, and my plugins.
Typically, the way these things work is that I make a change, the site goes kablooey, and then Hubby reminds me we’re due somewhere and I have to leave it as it is until I can race home and fix it.
So if you see something you like or hate, let me know in the comments section, but understand that it might only be temporary, anyway.
UPDATE:
According to my webhost, “there was a bug in the latests set of CPanel patches” (heh!) that prevented me from installing a sandbox where I could test things in private, but they fixed it this morning. So you probably won’t see many changes until I’ve perfected the new theme. If you’re curious, though, you can see what I’m doing here.
Yesterday morning I took out the trash and passed Mrs. Argiope’s bush, and wah! She wasn’t in her web.
I dropped the trash and went into defense mode, just in case she was hovering overhead, about to land on my neck and suck me dry.
I mean, everything I’ve read about these creatures says they’re peaceful, non-aggressive types, but there’s no harm in being cautious, I always say.
When my breathing returned to normal I searched until I found her right next to the little egg sac she’d made last week.
Aha, I thought, her time had come! She was in labor! About to knit that second egg sac and birth a couple thousand more alien children!
Throughout the day I kept checking on her with my camera, hoping I could get some stellar shots of spider birthing rituals or Lamaze breathing or even Mr. Argiope giving her a hand, but no. She just sat there, like she had nothing better to do.
When I checked on her with my flashlight last night I was worried: was she egg bound? Sick? I’d read that some argiopes die at the end of the summer; was she was saying goodbye to her egg sack?
And then this morning I went to look and found her back in her web, all skinny again, and in the bush were TWO egg sacs. Not only had she knitted up a second one, she patched up the first one with some old leaves:
So have a virtual cigar, everyone. I’m an arachno-godmother—who intends to let the boys take out the trash from now on.
No time to dilly dally… I’m late with my Super Sabado! Hurry, hurry, hurry! (Read the rest of “Super Sabado: Congratulations, Mr. Argiope, it’s a blob”)
Several projects that were happy to play by themselves have suddenly started throwing tantrums and demanding all my time. I had to put two of them down for a nap and one into time-out, just so I could escape for a few minutes and let you all know I haven’t been hit by a bus.
And I also wanted to show you something quite alarming. Take a look at this!
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| A pregnant Mrs. Argiope on 9/02/2006 | A not so pregnant Mrs. Argiope,on 9/10/2006 | Mrs. Argiope on 9/19/2006 |
(That cloudy stuff isn’t junk on my lens; it’s her web.)
I’m sensing a trend here, and frankly, I’m beginning to wonder if I am as arachno-tolerant as I made myself out to be earlier.
I mean, it’s one thing to have a token Argiope family living nearby, but now it looks like they’re going to take over the whole neighborhood!
On a side note, I haven’t visited anyone in a long time… I’m sorry! I’ll catch up tomorrow.
Me mom be a real artist. Unfortunately, she shared none o’ th’ artistic aptitude when passin’ ou’ th’ family genes.
But who needs creative talent when ye`ve got somethin’ like th’ Scribbler?
Arrr, so ’tis more o’ a modern art generator, but ’tis still pretty cool an’ lots o’ fun t’ play wi’. I wasted a good hour durin’ swim practice on this wee time sink.
First, ye draw a wee stick figure that be th’ foundation fer yer scribble. (After playin’ wi’ ‘t a couple o’ times, I reckoned I be probably better off drawin’ geometric images.)
Then ye press th’ “START SCRIBBLER” button an’ watch what happens, startin’ an’ pausin’ th’ Scribbler in order t’ adjust th’ settings t’ yer likin’.
Ye can control th’ width o’ th’ scribble lines, th’ color, th’ transparency an’ e’en th’ amount o’ “scribbliness.”
Dasn’t like what ye be seein’? Hit “CLEAR SCRIBBLE.” But dasn’t hit th’ “START OVER” button unless ye want t’ redraw yer base design.
Take a eyeball th’ Scribbler Gallery fer more ideas.
An’ if ye want t’ learn how t’ talk like a buccanneer, go here, ya lily livered scurvy cur!
(And thanks t’ th’ scalawag TC fer remindin’ me!)
WHAT: Señor Tortuga, a turtle puppet I’ve had since I was 12.
(And if anyone intends to start in on how juvenile and immature I am in keeping my old toys, they’ll be treated to a serious lecture on childhood keepsakes—and their importance in chronicling a young girl’s journey into adulthood—just before I whack them over the head with my Penny Brite doll.)
HOW: Unknown. Either Mojo learned how to open doors—or somebody is covering up a conspiracy to commit turtle-cide.
SQUIRT: (solemnly) Mom, I have some bad news about Señor Tortuga. (exhibits the remains)
HUBBY: Aww, honey, little El Torito got all chewed up!
BONNIE: That dang dog!
HUBBY: Little Señor Tortilla! He survived our boys, but he couldn’t survive the Mojo.
BONNIE: But he was in the closet! How did he get from the closet to the Bulldog Jaws of Doom?
SQUIRT: That’s the weird thing, Mom! I have NO IDEA.
(Mojo starts sniffing at the remains of Señor Tortuga)
BONNIE: Get away from there, you… you… TURTLE KILLER!
HUBBY: Aw, you can’t blame him for wanting a little Mexican food every now and then! And it’s not so bad. A little needle and thread, and your little Totoro will be as good as new.
