This could wind up being a Very Interesting Bowl Season, at least for our family, if current projections hold up.

Texas in the Rose Bowl on Jan. 4

Texas Tech in the COTTON BOWL on Jan. 2! 

I wonder how much tickets will be for that
game?  One has not had many opportunities 'ere this to see the Red
Raiders playing in the Cotton Bowl.  And yes, I'm aware the bowl
ain't exactly in the bag yet.  But with a son currently in attendance there, plus a sister and
brother who are themselves alumni of that august institution of higher
learning, it'd be awfully exciting were it to come to pass. 

You know, I don't believe anyone would deny there is a better friend to chocolate than myself, but still...

What on earth is with all the chocolate fountains popping up in retail establishments around here?   Surely you've seen them:

Everyone else must be living a lavish lifestyle at odds with my own, that's for sure, if this is now regarded as a necessary appliance.   And you've got to store it somewhere, don't forget.

OTOH, if you should happen to become the owner of one, I'd be pleased to help you get the hang of it. 

Okay, that's not actually the way it happened.  It was really Don shouting "Who DID this???" from the kitchen.

Um, that'd be me. 

While talking with Dmitry as I put a Totino's pizza in the oven, I set
the kitchen timer on the microwave for 17 minutes.  Except, as
you've guessed, I didn't.  I turned on the microwave for 17
minutes. 

Don caught it after 12 of those minutes had elapsed, which was enough
to melt the thingummy which holds the round glass turntable (which is,
itself, a blackened critter). 

Dang.  It was a gift from the kids a few years ago, and I liked it
a lot.  What a dumb thing to do!  I've "done" it before, but
always caught the mistake immediately.  This time I just turned
the knob, hit the button, and left the room.  Dumb, dumb, dumb.

Consider the towel thrown.

I'm proving Sister Bernadette Marie, my biology teacher at Nolan, to
have been correct in her assessment of me as one who possesses no
perseverance.

I'm giving up on the NaNoWriMo.  Can't think of a thing to write, and yes, I have
been trying.  Vaguely know where I want to go, but vague don't cut
the mustard when it comes to writing a book.  You'd better have one of the following:

• Characters who are real to you (I don't)
• A plot (I don't)
• A burning ambition to write (I don't)

Perhaps someday the characters and plot line of "Mercy Maud!" will gel,
in which case I might give it another try.  Right now, though,
what with Orphan Care Sunday next week, then leaving to visit Alex in
Tennessee, then Thanksgiving, forcing myself to write a story not
begging to be released seems a rather silly thing to do. 

Thanks so much for the kind words for the bits I did write, however!  I could just eat y'all up with a spoon. 

The new SuperTarget opened in early October, and it's awfully convenient.

It also has a temptation to which I've never before succumbed, but this
time I fell as if I'd tripped over a rock.   Jelly
beans.  The store has a truly splendid jelly bean aisle, featuring
most of Jelly Belly's myriad flavors.  My favorite are:

Sizzling Cinnamon and Tangerine.  I've tried others, but these are
the staples.  I love 'em, whether munched separately or together.

However, there are definitely some flavors for which I just don't
understand the appeal.  Buttered toast?  Popcorn? 
Cantaloupe?  Roasted garlic, for pity's sake?  Toasted
marshmallow?  Those are just strange.  I want buttered toast,
I make some toast and butter it.  Want popcorn?  Ditto.

There is a flavor I'd get a kick out of trying though, but the store doesn't seem to have it:  jalapeno!

While searching for a particular photo at the original Ivy Vine, I happened across these quotes, which surely bear repeating:

It seems as if God gathered into His storehouse, from each of
our lives, fruit in which He delights. And the daily cross-bearings and
self-denials, the bright word spoken when head and heart are weary, the
meek endurance of misunderstanding, the steady going on in one unbroken
round, with a patient cheerfulness that knows nothing of "moods,"--all
these are garnered there, and add to our riches towards Him.
--H. BOWMAN

It is a great matter to learn to look upon troubles and trials not
as simply evils. How can that be evil which God sends? And those who
can repress complaints, murmurs, and peevish bemoaning--better still,
the vexed feelings which beset us when those around inflict petty
annoyances and slights on us--will really find that their little daily
worries are turning into blessings.
--H. L. Sidney LEAR

Tell you what, this novel-writing business when you have no story or characters begging to be given life is tough. 

Haven't added a word to the NaNoWriMo book since day before yesterday. 

I came close to throwing in the towel, but have decided I'd try to
concentrate on individual scenes, and not bother about linking them in
a coherent fashion, or introducing characters properly, etc.  So
we'll see how that goes.

This society is simply stunted, that's all.  We left 'weird' behind awhile ago and have sailed right into 'bizarre'.

From Al Mohler's blog is this tidbit:

Amy Barnes, who is the mother of four-year-old Sylvan pupil Hank
and who teaches high-school English here, is all for preschool
tutoring. She "panicked" last winter, she says, when Hank's preschool
teacher reported that he couldn't write his name, identify his letters,
count to 30 or wield his scissors -- skills that the local school
district tells parents it would like to see in incoming kindergartners.
"I feel we read all the time, but whatever I was doing at home wasn't
working," says Ms. Barnes, who enrolled Hank for two reading lessons a
week. Hank fell off his adult-size chair during an early lesson, she
says. On a recent afternoon, his bubbly enthusiasm flagged and he
declared his hand "too tired" to go on. Tutor Monica Berryhill, a
sixth-grade teacher, next had him sing the alphabet song. Ms. Barnes,
who is paying $4,000 for 10 months of tutoring, says that after six
months, Hank is kindergarten-ready. "We're being proactive," she adds.
"I don't want my child to be the one who always struggles."

The Powers-That-Be want a child to be able to write his name, identify
letters, count to 30, and 'wield scissors' before ever setting a toe in
kindergarten? 

My, how times have changed....that's what first grade used to teach.  

This morning at BSF the main leader (I don't know the terminology) was
telling a story about a missionary to China she heard about recently:

Seems this man and a couple of other missionaries (this was a while
ago) had been deep in China in an area with no Christian presence at
all.  They had packets made up of New Testaments and
pamphlets....you know the sort of thing, probably.  Well, while in
a village the authorities came and managed to snag one of the group,
placing him under house arrest.  The others learned they were
being searched for, so got on their motorbikes and tried to get as far
from the village as they could (BTW, the missionary captured was
released unharmed).  Knowing their possession of unauthorized
Christian material would land them in serious hot water were they
caught, they began tossing the packets out into the rice paddies along
the road, as well as around the perimeter of a village they skirted.

They successfully eluded the Chinese police, but were disheartened at
the loss of the opportunity to witness to those lost people, not to
mention the loss of valuable materials.  Why, they wondered, had
the LORD seen fit to put them into that region so briefly?  What a
waste!

Years later, the missionary was at some meeting or other (hey, it was
this morning I heard this, so the details have faded) and there was a
Chinese man from the region he had been in.  Upon learning he was
Christian he was amazed and pleased, so went to talk to him. 
"How," he inquired, "did you learn about Christ?"

"Well," the other man replied, "it was the strangest thing, but several
years ago these packets containing Scripture suddenly started popping
up around our village.  We never could figure out where they came
from, but we kept finding them in the rice paddies and oh, all
over.  I read about Jesus and that's how I came to be saved."

You may imagine how stunned the missionary was!  That experience,
which he'd been so sure had been so much wasted effort, had born fruit
after all.  And not just one piece of fruit....!

According to the Chinese man, his entire village of 1,800 people were now Christian. 

As
Val pulled away from the school after fetching her daughter, Lexie,
she was happily humming "Victory in Jesus" as the child
chattered on about her day at school. "And then, Mama, you know
what happened? John Michael threw up! Right there in the
auditorium, and all over Margo. It was so gross, and she was
sooooo mad. You wanna hear what she said, Mama? Here's what she
said, she said..."

As
her mother opened her mouth to stop Lexie's repetition of the phrase
uttered by the be-fouled, stressed-out Margo, the notes of the
Brandenburg Concerto pealed forth from inside Val's purse. "No,
Lexie, I do NOT want to hear what Margo said! You know what God says
about gossip, so just keep it to yourself, and let me get this call,"
she said sternly, fishing with her right hand for the miniscule
telephone buried under the paraphenalia in her bag. Finally she had
it, and flipped it open. "Hello?"

"Val!
This is Brad," came the jaunty voice of her cousin. "Mission
accomplished on this side. How 'bout yours?" As she cruised
down Camp Bowie towards the Tom Thumb grocery store, a smug
expression settled on her face.

"Done
and done, Brad boy," she chirped happily. "Aunt Maud
wasn't what you'd call enthusiastic about it, but I won her over.
Tell you what, she about had a fit because of your guy's name, and
really, you know, I don't blame her..."Maud and Claude"
does sound rather like a vaudeville act, doesn't it?"

Immediately
Brad went on the defensive. "Don't call me 'Brad boy'; you know
I hate it when you call me 'Brad boy'," he huffed. "Anyway,
leave it to some woman to make a big stink about some guy's name."

"Oh,
and I suppose Claude didn't have any comment about being paired off
with a woman named Maud? Brad boy, I find that just a smidge hard to
swallow," Val smirked.

Brad
hesitated a moment then allowed as how Claude had said
something about the, um, coincidence of their names rhyming..."Aha!"
crowed his cousin...but rushed on to more important matters. "The
main thing is they agreed to go to the Glad Knees' bash together,
though. Now what do you think...should we have them meet beforehand?
Or not meet until that night?" Diverted, Val frowned in thought
as she turned down the street leading to her home. On the one hand,
it'd be romantic for Aunt Maud and Claude to meet under such
auspicious circumstances as a Valentine's dance, but on the other
hand, the game might put too much pressure on an embryonic
relationship.

Pulling
into the driveway of the small brick house she shared with her
husband, Jack, and their children, Val shut off the ignition and sat
for a moment. On the other end of the connection, Brad waited,
knowing she was running the problem through various filters, most of
which a man wasn't even aware existed. In the back seat Lexie
unbuckled her seatbelt, then opened the door and scrambled out,
dragging her backpack along behind in her anxiety to reach her room.
Noticing her mother still sitting in the front seat, Lexie stopped
and glared. "MAMA!"

Val
started, waved at her daughter and yelled back, "Just a minute!"
then told Brad, "Let me think about it some more, okay? It'd be
awful if a wrong decision now deep-sixed the whole thing. I'll call
you later this evening. Are you going to be home?" Lexie
showed signs of increasing restiveness, so Val held up an adminatory
finger, indicating she should practice her patience skills. Such as
they were.

"Tonight?
Um, yeah, I think so. I mean, so far's I know. I don't have any
firm plans. This might change, of course..." Brad mumbled,
causing his cousin, who had begun to finally open the car door, to
sink back into the seat yet again, to Lexie's indignant disgust.

"Well,
well, well. This is interesting. So who is she?" Val asked,
attempting to keep the eagerness in her voice down to unnoticeable
levels.

Didn't
work. "No one! Now, Val, don't start," Brad warned. His
cousin had long ago declared her determination to not rest until her
beloved cousin had attained the salubrious state of connubial bliss,
same as she enjoyed with her Sam.