Stupidity - Guest Blogger

Touch a gun, go to jail

Confessedly, I have very little to exactly no patience for complete idiocy. It forces my heart to pump so feverishly that my very capillaries feel as though they may explode at any moment. Idiocy alone has the power to completely refashion our society into a bunch of lemming-like yes men without any capacity to process information, assess a particular situation, and arrive at a proper, logical conclusion. It threatens the foundations of justice itself and is most egregious at the highest levels of government.

This week's case in point comes straight from the land of fish and chips, the United Kingdom. There Paul Clarke, a former soldier faces a minimum, yes, minimum of five years in prison for turning in an assault weapon at the local police precinct. There is no evidence that he either purchased or discharged the weapon. Neither did he threaten anyone. His only obvious crime was having a brain.

As reported by the daily, Surrey Today, Clarke found a plastic bag in his backyard, so he retrieved it and inside discovered a sawed off shotgun with ammunition. Next, he did what any reasonable, law-abiding bloke would do under the circumstances. He phoned the police chief, advising him that he would be coming to see him at the station. When he arrived and removed the shotgun from the garbage sack, placing it on a table facing the wall, (simultaneously showing that he understood proper gun safety and he intended no one any harm) he was immediately arrested for possession of a firearm.

What?!

Evidently all the city's public servants are muttonheads because the case actually went to trial. The prosecutor argued that Clarke's intent (to make his town a safer place) was irrelevant and that the moment he touched the weapon, he was guilty.

Come again?

Somebody had to have bullied that attorney as child because there is no other way that he could have possibly ended up being such a tool.

But, I get it, now. The powers that be really preferred that he do nothing but call and report the incident while leaving the short barreled killer for neighborhood kids to play with. Maybe he shouldn't have done anything at all so that the drug dealer who tried to hide it could return, retrieve it, and employ it in the next drive-by.

Sticking with the appropriate “sheeple” metaphor of everyone ground gazing as they shuffle toward the cliff, the jury of Clarke's peers followed in Orwellian lock-step and convicted him while only deliberating for twenty minutes. They must have been late for the Spice Girls Reunion Tour or Manchester United's latest row.

Now a good man, who faithfully served his country runs the risk of spending at least half a decade behind bars because practically everyone involved in the situation is an idiot.

Yes, it's a strong word, but I believe completely applicable and terrifyingly accurate in its definition.

We have a rule in my home that we don't use the S-word, ever. Not that one – a different one. We don't use the word, stupid. However, I'm breaking my own rule right now when I say that whoever arrested, prosecuted, and convicted Paul Clarke of Surrey, England is stupid.

Bottom line: I'm glad I don't live there, for if I did I would definitely have to move.

Written by Michael Andrzejewski

The Man Purse - Guest Blogger

European Living – the Man Purse

Adapting to a different culture can be quite a humorous adventure. Even though western Europe is, in comparison to other parts of the world, a type of sister culture to ours in the US, there still exists between the two a chasm as deep and wide as the Atlantic Ocean itself. There are differences in demeanor, styles of government, theories of nutrition, and almost anything else of which one can imagine, including fashion.

Portuguese people think differently, act differently, eat differently, than any American I know. Sometimes that is wonderful and sometimes it is terrifying.

However, throw in the other types of cultures with ties to Portugal, and it becomes infinitely more interesting. Today, Portugal is infused with people from former Portuguese colonies from around the world. In our churches here we have those who hail from Asia (Macao), Africa (Mozambique and Angola), and South America (Brazil) but all have in common their native tongue.

Knowing the various cultures present and having a strong desire to adapt to our surroundings, my family and I have tried our best to put off many Americanisms and assimilate as quickly and as best we can.

Yet, very recently I found myself roundly rejecting a cultural staple of the younger Portuguese generation – the man purse.

I dare not guess by percentage how many Portuguese men under 50 walk around with what amounts to a lady's accessory over their shoulder, but believe me, it happens much more often than it should. Sadly though, it didn't really give me pause until a few weeks ago.

One Thursday night we were cleaning up the church after our mid-week service when I noticed something that resembled a camera bag, only different, draped across the back of a chair. It was small and green with some kind of funny emblem on it. Only one other family was left in the church, so I innocently asked the father if it was his two year old daughter's toy or play purse. Then, horror of all horrors, he responded, “No, it's mine.”

Go ahead, yuck it up!

Nina looked at me mortified, but reeling from the embarrassed shock, all I could do was mutter a partially intelligible “sorry” as my mind jetted off into an alternate universe. Like trying to calculate Pi to its conclusion, ever since that night I've been trying to reconcile the man purse with universal masculinity, and like the last digit of Pi, it's just not happening.

Though it's not good enough for me, I did come up with a partial justification for this crime against God given ruggedness. (Really, could anyone be tough and carry a man purse?) Again, I'm not buying into it, but several factors do play into the pro man purse stance.

First, standard pocket size on jeans and slacks in Europe is much smaller and shallower than in the States. Secondly, the size of the Euro bills increase as the denominations increase. A five is smaller than a hundred. Money is not all the same size here; therefore, wallets are also proportionally larger. Thirdly, belt clip cell phone holders are almost entirely non-existent, and finally a powder brush gets ruined when stuffed in a back pocket. Maybe I made that last one up, but the others are true.

Valid reasons they may be, yet none are convincing enough to cause me to sling a bag over my shoulder and go out in public.

Written by Michael Andrzejewski for the LaGrange Daily News.

Does It Ever Get Any Easier? - Guest Blogger

Yesterday, after a ten day jaunt across the Atlantic, my mother-in-law flew back to the land of town-halls and home of health care debates. It was her third visit to Portugal, and we (present company, son-in-law included) had a wonderful time.

We packed an entire year into almost no time at all. We took a vacation – three days near a quiet northern beach. With decorations, we celebrated everyone's birthday except maybe mine and the president's. We had Christmas, although without decorations. For the sake of maintaining the appearance of sanity with the neighbors, I drew the line at a glowing fake Fraser Fir resonating from the window in early August. We played. We worshipped. We loved. And, of course the night before it all came to an end we cried. Especially the kids.

They bawled and moaned. They yelped and blubbered. They groaned and sobbed, and finally when all of that was finished, they sniveled and whimpered and wept a little more.

The thought of Mimi leaving and not coming back until spring made them almost hysterical. No, it did make them so.

To a pre-schooler, eight months might as well be eight long years. It's like a prison sentence only without an early out for good behavior or any chance for parole.

Skype is great, but it just isn't the same as a warm hug or the fullness of a belly laugh.

So ever since she left, I've been wondering if it gets any easier? Don't get me wrong, with God's magnificent grace and abundant provision even in the worst worldwide financial crisis in almost a century, I don't have any real blues to sing. We have a nice home, rice and beans on the table, comfortable beds, and plenty of love one to another. We have many friends who love us dearly here.

Yet, with such great uncertainties regarding both time and possibilities of future family visits, will it ever become less difficult to say goodbye to Nanny and Pawpaw? To Gramps or Uncle Danny?

I don't think so, but neither do I want it any other way. I want to teach my kids that life is never fair and some sacrifices are well worth with it.

I believe that children should be sheltered from wickedness but not necessarily from heartache. Yearning, without instant satisfaction produces much in the way of gratefulness upon fulfillment. Pain is a valuable and important emotion that brings with it maturity, strength, and an appreciation for joy when what is hoped for finally arrives.

Daily, my family lives a fish-bowl existence. At school, the kids are those of a “married priest” from a “strange religion.” They get peppered with questions and constantly battle stereotypes. It will just get worse and worse as they grow. That's what makes these excursions so important to us. We have a little piece of Americana for a few days. Personal attention from Mimi makes everything better. Little Debbie's, kool-aid, and Laffy Taffy serve as a wonderful balm. Then she leaves, and the lessons begin. It doesn't ever get easier, but we learn a lot along the way.

Written by Michael Andrzejewski

I Feel Cheated On

Lately, I've been seeing posts on my friends blogs apologizing for being "gone so long". Friends that have been "missing" for quite a while. They've been off socializing with others, using other networks, and they've left me and all their other faithful blog friends behind. (kidding ya'll!)

I tried FB. But after finding myself in a sticky situation, had to cancel my account. Although I found that it consumed quite a bit of time, only to accomplish so very little. I just don't see the value of it like I see the value in maintaining a blog.

My blog is a journal of sorts. An online scrapbook. I write about mundane things in life, I write about my experiences living in another culture, I post pictures for all of our friends and family Stateside that are missing out seeing my kids grow up. This journal of mine will be something my kids will have one day. Something to share with my Grand kids. Where my Grand kids will learn more about the childhood of their parents....now there's value to that. What I wouldn't give to know more about the everyday life of my mom when she was 10.

So with all that said......here's the latest from my Guest Blogger, Michael Andrzejewski

Turn It Off

Do you really want to know what I'm doing at this very moment? What about ten minutes from now when I am doing something both terribly mundane and wildly unrelated to you. Maybe I'm mulling over the Biblical and/or grammatical difference between good and perfect with my feet on my desk, while staring across corn fields and vineyards.

Perhaps I'm about to stop and help my wife unload groceries? Happy? Does that get you through the day? I'm sorry. Not even my own mother has an interest in that sort of vapidity.

Twitter? Nope. Facebook? Forget it. LinkedIn? More like FedUp.

All of these Social Networking Sites are driving me insane.

I've tried to connect. Sincerely, I've tried to want to get back in touch, but my life is different now. I'm all grown up and my social circle is already more than I can adequately manage.

On top of deadlines, appointments, meetings, services, and classes; I care nothing about the pressure of feeling like I've got to send what amounts to an electronic Christmas card four times a day to Johnny who played right field with me in little league.

If you would like to talk, call me. If you don't have the time, email me. I'll do my best to call or write you back before you forget what you wanted in the first place.

Think with me for just a moment. Sir, do you really think that given your recent marital problems it is profitable for your wife to accept an invitation to look at pictures of her recently divorced ex-boyfriend on the beach in Maui? I don't.

Neither do I want that creepy, obsessive “old friend” cyber stalking my wife under the guise of “needing someone to talk to through this difficult time” in his life.

Without being downright rude, I have absolutely no interest in the fact that two days ago Sean Sebastian was packing for a business trip to Las Vegas. Who's Sean Sebastian? I barely remember. We were classmates in college and haven't spoken in over twelve years. I'm glad he wants to keep in touch, although methinks there's a lot more to it than just keeping in touch. It's like some sort of petty race to procure the most contacts or writings on one's wall.

In today's society of constant – no longer instant gratification, we have created a culture of busyness without productivity. We do things but never accomplish very much. We spend countless hours building empty relationships while neglecting the important ones.

How about doing something novel. Bold. Start a trend. Be electronically anti-social.

Disconnect. Right now. Turn off the computer and go read a book to your daughter. Take a walk with that almost estranged wife. Quit trying to connect with those that really don't matter and simply connect with those that should matter. Have a catch with your teenage son, just like in Field of Dreams.

Remember, you didn't like all of those people that you're trying to reach out and touch when you talked to them every day or you would have kept in touch with them all along. What makes you think you are going to like them now?

Society Has Dropped The Belt - Guest Blogger

If saggy pants fall in public and there's no common sense to pick them up, does society even notice?

Moreover, if underwear were intended to be seen, wouldn't we call it outerwear?

Is this particularly disgusting and undeniably perplexing fashion trend just a matter of a simple generational divide? Twenty years from now will these same quasi-flashers be busting a three piece sag? I have my doubts.

It is more probable that we could trace the root of this pandemic of baggy britches to those who first neglected the use of the belt – the parents. Somewhere along the line, Mom and Dad replaced the type of familial cowboy diplomacy that was used for so long for a more positive, Obama style, if-I-could-just-talk-to-them method of parenting. My rather unpopular stance is that young people always need a belt, if not one to hold up their shorts, then certainly to hold up their behavior. In most families corporal punishment has gone the way of the dodo bird, and following closely behind can be seen respect for authority. I'll not be the first, nor should I be the last to say it, but kids have plenty of friends. What they really need are parents. They really need parents who love them enough to keep them in line.

I had a strict disciplinarian as a father. I didn't always like it then, but I am very thankful now. He demanded the kind of reverence that led me as a young man to ask his permission about getting a tattoo. He asked why and where. I responded with a ridiculous, “Because I really want a tattoo...” and pointed to my left shoulder. Typical.

He replied by reassuring me that I would regret it one day, telling me that he wasn't paying for it, and thanking me for respecting him enough to talk to him first. For the record, the day of regret came rather too soon than I ever anticipated.

From a very early age I was taught by all adults to say yes sir or ma'am and no sir or ma'am. If I neglected to do so in the presence of my father, I was sure to be picking myself up off the ground. It was a given.

In that day, not very long ago, there were many more societal “givens” than there are today. While there were expectations, they were neither unreasonable nor oppressive. Instead, they were normal, sensical, and purposeful. Eerily similar to belts, these expectations helped both father and son. These expectations of honesty, integrity, and courtesy warded off shame and public humiliation, simultaneously guarding society from being subjected to outward moral deviation.

When it turned from being encouraged to almost criminal to correct children alongside the Hamburger Helper, as barometric pressure drops so did the level of respect for one's elders. In no certain order, Junior's grades slipped, then went his pants, and now civility itself slides further and further south. Sadly, because we have criminalized the belt, all we have to look forward to seeing is civilization's dirty boxer shorts.

-Michael Andrzejewski

Phobia Phriday (with the Preacher)

Welcome to another edition of our weekly posts about very random and often phunny phobias which have been medically documented in one reference book or another. Each Phriday we list, define, and give an example of one of these irrational phears, phictional or otherwise.*

Porphyrophobia - fear of the color purple (not Oprah and the movie...the actual color)

Can you imagine living in a world where you felt uneasy looking at this?

We also know that porphyrophobia often significantly impacts the quality of life. It can cause panic attacks and keep people apart from loved ones and business associates.








Don't want the porphyrophobic in-laws over for Christmas? Decorate with these....problem solved.



Can you imagine telling your college professor that you can't do that research paper because you have a fear of the color purple?

As always, have a wonderful weekend in the Lord Jesus, and remember if you are porphyrophobic, stay away from the tulip gardens.

*No attempt is made to truly offend or belittle an actual medical condition that the reader may or may not have. If such offense was taken, we sincerely apologize, advise you to contact the applicable counselor, and avoid contact with this blog post until such phobia has been overcome.

That's Funny - Guest Blogger

There's funny. There's hilarious, and then there's a monkey urinating on the Zambian president. I'm not quite sure where this falls into your comedic scale, but for me it is well into the ninetieth percentile. A brief account from Breitbart.com provides for us a few interesting details including several quotes from President Rupiah Banda himself.

Upon detecting the monkey pee Banda spoke directly to the offending primate who was squatting in an overhead tree. The president proclaimed, “You have urinated on my jacket.” He then turned to the reporters with whom he was speaking and quipped, “I will give this monkey for lunch to Mr. Sata,” speaking of his defeated opponent in the last election. Maybe it's some sort of cultural olive branch to offer someone a monkey for lunch.

I suppose that would be an act of goodwill toward his opponent. Were it to happen in the United States, can you imagine the PETA firestorm that would ensue? That single statement of retribution for “making water” alone would incite protests, especially after our Swatter-in-Chief Obama smacked that annoying fly during an interview a couple of weeks ago.

For me though, the questions around Banda's misfortune are numerous. Does this kind of monkey urine stain? What about the stench? If it were me, I would have to just toss the jacket in the trash and move right along. I'm not trying to have it dry-cleaned. It's going straight to the dumpster.

Last Tuesday I took my kids to the zoo, and we spent the most time watching the monkeys. They were the most aware of our presence of all the animals there. When Faith called, “Boo!” to the baboon, he smiled, not just once but numerous times. The spider monkeys were busy trying to split open oranges and smash bugs against the Plexiglas. They seemed to enjoy an audience and craved attention. When one young boy turned to walk away, the disappointed simian stood on his feet and pressed his entire body against the glass as if to say, “Take me with you!”

Recently seeing this type of harmless mischief, I'm curious as to the possibility of intent. Was our Zambian monkey aiming for the president? If so, did he aim for his coat or did he simply miss the mark intending something a little more sinister?

Forgive me, but was there a splash effect on the neck or back of the head? Because, that would be almost unbearable.

It is said that truth is stranger than fiction. At times that proves true. Yet, even more often than truth being stranger than fiction, I have found that truth is more amusing than fiction. The success of America's Funniest Videos proves this on a daily basis. Comedians make their living bringing humor out of everyday events. The Bible tells us, “A merry heart doeth good like a medicine: but a broken spirit drieth the bones.” Reader's Digest agrees with God's Word by having an entire section devoted to thigh-slappers entitled Laughter, the Best Medicine.

With all the tension in today's political realm, maybe we should just import some wild animals to Washington DC and, if you will, let nature take its course.

Written by Michael Andrzejewski for the LaGrange Daily News.

Phobia Phriday (with the Preacher)

Welcome to another edition of our weekly posts about very random and often phunny phobias which have been medically documented in one reference book or another. Each Phriday we list, define, and give an example of one of these irrational phears, phictional or otherwise.*

Arachibutyrophobia - phear of peanut butter sticking to the rooph of the mouth

This website thankphully informs us that, iph you are victim of this phobia, then you will dephinitely try to shun situations where you will be compelled to eat peanut butter.

Was it phorced on him? What kind of menace would compel someone with such a disorder to eat something so terriphying yet so tasty.

Our son, Justice dephinitely doesn't have arachibutyrophobia as he eats a good old PB&J sandwich most days for lunch, and it doesn't really matter to him iph he has anything to drink or not. More ophten than not he wanders through the remainder of the day with the evidence on either side of his mouth. When do they learn not to bite the sandwich directly in the center? Does that arrive about the same time as reflexes?

As always, have a wonderful weekend in the Lord Jesus, and remember iph you are arachibutyrophobic, stay away from any and all Reese's products.

*No attempt is made to truly offend or belittle an actual medical condition that the reader may or may not have. If such offense was taken, we sincerely apologize, advise you to contact the applicable counselor, and avoid contact with this blog post until such phobia has been overcome.

Phobia Phriday (with the Preacher)

Welcome to another edition of our weekly posts about very random and often phunny phobias which have been medically documented in one reference book or another. Each Phriday we will list, define, and give an example of one of these irrational phears, phictional or otherwise.*

Asymmetriphobia - a phear of asymmetrical things
It may also be called -

• The phear of mismatched things
• The phear of one-sided things
• The phear of things that aren't symmetrical
• The phear of things that have a lack of symmetry

Maybe that's the way asymmetriphobia began...aphter looking through old baby photos you realize that there was something crazy about that sweater that Granny knitted you as a baby. Out of phear of offending her mother-in-law, she made you wear that out of kilter thing all the time. Now, 30 years later you have problems looking at this:

"Get me outta here! Straight lines! Must....have....straight lines! Neeeeedddd equality and balance!"

As always, have a wonderful weekend in the Lord Jesus, and remember iph you are asymmetriphobic, stay away phrom the abstract collection in your local art museum.

*No attempt is made to truly offend or belittle an actual medical condition that the reader may or may not have. If such offense was taken, we sincerely apologize, advise you to contact the applicable counselor, and avoid contact with this blog post until such phobia has been overcome.

European Living - Shopping Split

“Look at that,” I encouraged my wife as we sat quietly eating our food court lunch. I slowly, in disgust, lowered my interesting Texican Whopper, complete with a spicy sauce and some sort of fried bean hash brown creation. As she looked, Nina put down her fork, trying to keep a cold piece of corn from shooting across the heavily trafficked floor. The food wasn't the problem. The sight was. In fact, the brief glance was almost enough to ruin the meal for the both of us. Frightening. Vomitous. Not to mention blinding. The terror in question was neither the first nor the last unsolicited view of “shopping split.”

Succinctly stated, shopping split is my name for the female version of carpenter's crack – only more severe. It occurs most frequently at malls, grocery stores, cafes, and open air markets. Its victims are mostly vain, plump, and precariously unaware of their surroundings. They most likely have hair color from a bottle, and the majority of shopping split cases are reported as a result of the combination of denim and high heels than any other fashion mixture known to man.

For those of you who just landed on planet earth, according to an urban dictionary website, carpenter's crack (aka plumber's smile or coin slot) is, “a view of the top of the buttocks and gluteal cleft while a man's pants descend due to bending over (because it frequently happens to overweight carpenters, plumbers, etc.)”

This particular case was an egregious one. Because I don't always carry a tape measure with me, the conservative, naked eye estimate had to suffice and amounted to an easy five, if not six inches. More disturbing than that was the lack of evidence of any undergarments, thus blowing the door wide open for a myriad of hygiene related snags. Thankfully, this occurrence was not accompanied by the hideous tramp stamp marking.

Shopping split in Portugal is an ever growing epidemic. Nearly all the ladies here seem to wear a size 6 when they should just buy an 8. The problem accelerates with hip huggers and fabric thrifty blouse designers. European tailors are continually making the area from the crotch to the belt line smaller and smaller in both men's and women's pants, while the shirttail has all but become extinct.

So, Senhora Shopping Split continued eating, being refreshed by the cool breeze on her backside. Slightly frustrated and bizarrely curious, I asked my modest wife, “Does she not know? Can she not feel that?” Others were beginning to take notice also as heads turned and nods increased. Oblivious to the half moon she was shining to anyone walking by, yet keen to the whispers and funny looks that increased, Mrs. Moonie's ears must have been on fire.

In the end, she decided to do something about it. She treated the symptoms rather than the problem, and she did so mainly because that was all that she could do at that moment. However, I fear that she, along with so many others, will remain in denial and live with shopping split forever.

The incident ended quietly yet defiantly when she stood to her feet, grabbed the belt loop located at 6 o'clock on the waistband, and heaved (much more than ho'd). She successfully, although momentarily closed the crack while managing to lift herself ever so slightly from the earth. Crisis diverted. Case closed...until her daughter drops her toy in the parking deck.

Written by my favorite guest blogger. Tell me....do you guys ever see Shopping Split? Or maybe you're a proud wearer? One just about has to walk around the malls looking at the ceiling if you don't want to see every present females backside. Please explain this phenomenon to me.

Free Kittens - Guest Blogger

“It looks like a skinny chicken!” was one of the first comments that we heard as our kids watched their cat give birth to the first of several kittens. It looked more like a hairless rat to me. Honestly, thinking back now had I not seen the momma with the baby, I might have called the local volunteer fire department to report the first ever citing of an infant Portuguese Chupacabra, which is Mexican for a goat-sucking urban legend that preys on small animals in places like Puerto Rico, Miami, and Russia.

Google it first, look at pictures of a ten minute old kitten, and then try to tell me I'm wrong. Dead ringer if there ever was one.

Since today is Kid's Day here in Portugal, we let the girls stay home from school in the afternoon to watch the miracles of feline delivery. All they did up until lunchtime at school was paint. No reading, 'righting, and 'rithmetic today. It's Kid's Day! What joys of the Portuguese educational system. Anyway, we concluded that it would be much more educational to watch the contractions, endless licking, and chewing off of the umbilical cord that goes along with the animal kingdom in its natural habitat – a plastic clothes basket stuffed with towels on my couch.

Faith wants to be a veterinarian when she grows up, so she was thrilled when Tigra crawled up into her lap, already seeping preparatory fluid for the coming delivery. Presented with the first opportunity, she quickly went and changed her socks and skirt but returned undeterred by such minor distractions.

All Nina could say as she watched was, “I know Tig. I know.” Thinking of the names I was called each time she brought one of our kids into this world, I slowly and quietly exited the room before I was blamed for a family's worth of labor pains.

I suppose a certain mercy and strange curiosity drove my wife to assist her pet as she travailed.

All of this started, when Nina plucked her from a mud puddle in the middle of the road about a year ago. When she got home, she sheepishly came to my office revealing that she had rescued a kitten that was sure to die any moment. It was disoriented, soaking wet, blind, and could barely breathe. Although she half expected me to get a shovel and take away the cat's misery, I authorized an unknown vet bill for a free kitten. She jumped in the van and returned with wonderful news. Much to my surprise, the young female vet didn't charge her anything because we rescued the cat and promised to give it a good home. The generous vet would repeat the practice when we adopted a skittish, maltreated black lab a few months later. Now, whenever we go, the good Dr. only charges us for medication. Obviously she's not in it for the money.

We have treated our animals there as they have needed it with only one major exception. Due to financial constraints we ignored Bob Barker's faithful advice. You remember, “Bob Barker reminding you: help control the pet population. Have your pet spayed or neutered. Goodbye, everybody!”

Now comes the real work – finding a good home for animals who, in our part of the world, are regularly put in plastic bags and thrown in dumpsters or drowned in mud puddles. That, and coming up with $200 so this doesn't happen again.

Written by Michael Andrzejewski for The LaGrange Daily News.

What Are Those? - Guest Blogger

Spring has finally arrived here in Portugal and most would say for the third time this year. Although I have another, altogether different theory about the changing of temperature patterns, I'll get with Al Gore on it later.

Strangely enough, we have a mini season that today I entitle “wring.” You know – winter, spring – wring. It's like brunch, which is neither breakfast nor lunch, and at times can be extremely weird and rather effeminate. It, that is wring, normally occurs from the middle of February until the middle of April. During which neither cold nor hot dominate, and according to my family, if the work week begins with rain, it will continue until Saturday when it will suddenly turn warm and sunny and will remain thus throughout the weekend. If the contrary occurs on Monday, all sunshine and beauty; undoubtedly rain will begin sometime late Friday evening and successfully ruin any plans for sidewalk chalk or peanut butter and jelly picnics.

This year though wring has officially wrung and we are moving into spummer. Just kidding. We'll keep calling it spring although it is hot enough now to be summer, especially with the only air conditioning we possess being a box fan. How do I know that it is officially spring and no longer wring? By the signs, my friend. The signs.

In our little village beyond any doubt, we know that wring has wrung when we see grandpas driving tractors down the main roads. They know it is time to prepare the land for spring planting so they perch their 70 year old wives who appear to be not a day less than 95 on the wheel well of the tractor and back traffic up for kilometers. No self respecting Portuguese farmer would go anywhere on his tractor without his wife bouncing precariously next to him. Here, there are no trophy wives. Instead we have tractor wives. The appearance of tractor related traffic is the first major sign of wring, with the second following as a definite result of the first.

All the tilling and preparation of ground naturally invites unwelcome visitors to maddeningly encircle each room of every home. I call them manure flies because I am persuaded that they are spawned from the dark, foul, gelatinous mess that all of the aforementioned farmers use to enrich their fertile soil. The flies seemingly never land, revolve around an imaginary vortex in the middle of the room, and are at times slow enough to bat to the ground with a bare hand. As quickly as one can kill them, they reappear. Ah, the mysteries of Portuguese farming culture.

What's the third and final sign of wring? I'm not quite sure what to call them, so we'll just say, “high-water pants.” They are exactly like those capri pants that women wear in the States, only in our part of Europe, the men wear them. They are often white, worn with flip-flops, and do more harm to gender separation than anything I have seen since the man-bra. However, and gladly, they are only seen after wring ends.

I guess it is fitting that they are worn at the end of wring because like their appropriate mini-season, they are neither one thing nor the another. Maybe a better name would be ports?

Written by Michael Andrzejewski

It's Complicated - Guest Blogger

The Portuguese people as a whole have an incredible ability of turning simple things into major productions. Explanations, traffic situations, public services. You name it, and it's difficult.

I believe it is in their bloodline. They are born with the convolution gene. For some time I considered that this strange gift was a product of learning, culture, or something in the water, but now I am well-nigh convinced that they are physiologically unable to simplify things.

As evidence of this, one of their favorite expressions is, “It's complicated.”

Family life is complicated.

Directions are complicated.

The language is complicated. Native Portuguese speakers routinely express how difficult it is to learn to properly speak, read, and write the language. You might say – but that's only for foreigners. No, it is difficult for people here too. We once copied the happy birthday song on a piece of paper before going to a neighbor's party. Even “Happy Birthday” is complicated. It has four verses.

When the grandmother saw our cheat sheet on the table, she picked up, read it, and wanted to know who had penned it down. When we explained, she apologized that she didn't have any coins in her pocket to reward us for our correct spelling. I don't think she was kidding.

If that was not enough, names are also complicated, and because of this, I've yet to understand if, when, why, or how they choose to take or drop names. Our language teacher has, including her first name, six of them. The best part is she didn't even take her married name! One day I asked her about it. Her only explanation? It's complicated.

Politics is complicated. Although they despise the way government is run, never get involved, and rarely vote; if asked to briefly explain any one of those situations, the answer will certainly be, “It's complicated.” Saying that they have communists and socialists would be sort of like saying only two soft drinks exist in the world – Coke and Pepsi. They have the Left Bloc, the Left Revolutionary Front, the Portuguese Communist Party as well as the Communist Party of the Portuguese Workers. They also have the Ecologist Party and the Workers' Party of Socialist Unity.

That's just in the Left Wing. Other viable parties exist within the Center-Left, Center-Right, and Right Wing classifications. Head spinning yet? I'll mercifully spare you the rundown of all the parties that have gone into extinction.

Since moving here, we have discovered that our neighbors are the kindest, and most helpful people we have ever met. They are generous, jovial, and love to talk. For the most part, there is no pretense. They are who they are whether you like it or not. Just don't ask them who they really are – it's complicated.

Written by Michael Andrzejewski for the LaGrange Daily News

Don't forget to leave your Caption for the Caption Contest! You have a few days left!

Amateur Hour at The White House

By now I'm sure that you have heard all about our president's trip to London for the G20. Published reports have told us that the staff that made the trip was 500 strong. He took his own chef, specialized O-mobile, 200 secret service agents and several decoy helicopters.

No wonder the rest of the world looks at spoiled Americans with disdain. Do you remember when then Democrat candidate Obama chastised the country for being comfortable?

His exact words were, “We can't drive our SUVs and eat as much as we want and keep our homes on 72 degrees at all times...and then just expect that other countries are going to say OK.”

We can't, but he can. Yes, he can! Yes, he can!

Anyway, when you're the President of the United States of America, it is a different story. We can't do those things, but he can. According to David Axelrod, he keeps it so balmy in the Oval Office that he could grow orchids.

He can transport all of his presidential toys across the Atlantic for a few meetings. He can bring along a personal assistant/brother-in-law/one-on-one basketball partner named Reggie Love to hand him a tic-tac when he needs one.

He can park that 15,000 pound Cadillac, which has been described as a hardened missile silo on wheels, right in front of the garden entrance driveway at Buckingham Palace. His driver did just that upon he and Michelle's visit with the Queen. There was only one problem – the prince wanted to leave the Palace, so the Caddy had to go.

I have to laugh so I don't cry. All we have seen from this administration in the first 70 days has been like amateur hour. They are coming off like complete buffoons every where they go. Clarke Griswold looks like Einstein in front our president right now.

A few weeks ago he gave the British Prime Minister, Gordon Brown, a collection of cheesy DVDs that couldn't even be played across the pond. Then, Secretary of State Clinton gave the Russians a “re-set” button that really meant “overcharge.” Where do they get their help? Circuit City? My nine year old armed with a Dell Mini and Google translation services would do better.

Next, the Best Buy geek squad czar who recommends all these wonderful gifts must have just missed the cut to make the G20 because somebody decided to give the Queen an Ipod. Yes, of course, she already had one, but not one pre-loaded with can't-live-without Broadway show tunes and, you guessed it – legendary Obama speeches. Amazing! Priceless! Not even Stephen King could make up something so terrifying. I wonder how the First Lady even rides in that big limo between him and his ego.

Since the inauguration, the markets have tanked. Unemployment is cresting 10 percent. Our currency is not worth the paper on which it is so rapidly being printed, and all I have heard from our distinguished leader is something like, “Hey, I didn't do it, Bush did.”

Classless, petty, and dangerous.

By day he fires CEOs and by night he parties with the likes of Stevie Wonder and Earth, Wind, and Fire.

I'm sorry but I just expect more out of a president. I expect more maturity, more gravity. I expect fewer jokes on Letterman and less hypocrisy behind the Resolute Desk.

Sadly, what can be expected from a one term Senator turned President?

Presidential Karaoke is all I have seen thus far.

Written by Michael Andrzejewski for The LaGrange Daily News.

Love Gives Back - Guest Blogger

Otilia, my Portuguese “mother” died on Saturday. If you read my last article, you know that in it I lamented the thievery of death. The day after writing the article, I received a text message from Otilia's family that she had a precious few hours remaining. Though I knew her death would come, I deplored the thought that our time here on earth would soon be over. She was a remarkable person.

Leaving the gardening for later, I hurriedly made ready and went to the hospital not knowing fully what to expect. I stayed at the hospital all day Friday, rarely leaving her side. The morphine had her sedated, but, more for me than her, I passed the day reading the Bible aloud, talking to her, and praying with her. Most of the family was absent. Quite frankly, they admitted that they just didn't possess the courage it took to watch her die. As is often the case, it was more painful for them than it was for the very one who was dying.

Nonetheless, Otilia had some very good genes, and her daughter got the lion's share. Neusa or Kika (pronounced “keeka”) as her friends call her, stayed strong throughout. I imagine she has had it all of her life, but this weekend I saw the spunk and love of life that she inherited from her mother. She will now be the cord that binds the family together. She will take up her mother's mantle, whether she wants to or not. That's just how she is.

Hence, what I lamented last week, I celebrate today. What death would take away on Saturday with Otilia's leaving, love began to give back on Friday by forming a special bond of friendship with Kika and her husband, Toninho. He has a heart as big the national deficit, which belies the translation of his name – Little Tony. I'm convinced he doesn't have the first mean bone in his body. He's quick with a smile, even with tear filled eyes. I love the balance that I see in my new friends. They're good people, and not that I consider myself good, but they're my kind of people. In that, today I glory.

Though I just lost someone akin to a mother, I have gained two very good friends who could easily be my brother and sister. My family in the states is irreplaceable, but with slight apologies to them now, I feel like I have gained so much lately.

Throughout the day Friday, we laughed when we weren't crying. We talked about days gone by and days to come. We talked about fishing and kids. We talked about hope and pain. We talked politics and religion, and not once did anyone get angry. Saturday when Otilia passed, it was difficult for everyone, but after the funeral today, I again offered my shoulder to cry upon and lent my ear to be filled. With gratitude they accepted my words as those from someone more than just “mom's pastor.” As I turned to go, little Tony called to me and said, “We'll talk this week.” Those are the words of friend.

Through all of this, we lost someone very special to us, but we rediscovered the value of friendship. It was a difficult path to discovery, but one that I would gladly go through again.

Written by Michael Andrzejewski

Death is a Thief - Guest Blogger

Just before Christmas, we were asked to pray for a lady in our church who had developed a painful hacking cough. She put off going to the doctor until she couldn't catch her breath. They ran some tests, and quietly we began to hear whispers of the possibility of cancer. The breathing worsened and hospitalization became the only appropriate action.

She has smoked for many years, and shortly after the discovery of lung cancer, she told me with humility and remorse that the Lord had “caught her.” Those words stung me. Candidly and honestly she confessed her lack of prudence (in not quitting), and now regrets every last ounce of tobacco and fiberglass that she drew in her lungs. We don't get but two, and she knows now that those are ruined. I didn't judge her. It's not my place. Instead, what she told me about getting caught just made me love her more.

Since coming to Portugal, Otilia has served as my Portuguese mother. She calls me her son and treats my kids like grandchildren. Whenever we meet, she takes my face in her hands and stares brightly into my eyes. From the very beginning, she wanted the kids to sit next to her during services. We had five to sit next to us, and she didn't have any. It was only fair. Brooklyn, our oldest, was the only one brave enough to do so, and once she did, Otilia asked Brooklyn to call her “Bia” - a pet, grandmotherly name. She has given all the girls knitted hair bows and passed down clothes to Justice from her real grandson. Most of what he wears now, has come from her.

One of Nina's most vivid memories of the last year is when Otilia told Nina that she loved her. She did it very slowly and repeatedly so Nina could fully understand. It was the first time that anyone had ever expressed their affection for Nina in Portuguese. Otilia could be anyone's mother or grandmother, and often serves as one or the other to multitudes. She just celebrated her 60^th birthday.

But, now she's dying. Each breath becomes more difficult. Each spoken word drains strength. The desire to eat is gone, and in addition to affecting to her lungs, the avaricious disease has eaten away at her bones. She weighs less than ninety pounds and has been in a hospital bed in traction for over a month due to a broken leg. Her time here grows shorter by the hour.

With joy she longs to play soccer with the neighborhood kids or climb fruit trees like she did as a child in Angola. She wants to get out of the hospital and have a time of thanksgiving at church with all of her friends.

Alas, death will soon overtake her. Her heart will beat for the last time, and those that know her and love her will shed rivers of tears. When that happens, I'll lose more than an adoptive mother. I'll lose a little more of my desire to live here on earth, and I'll long a little more for that heavenly city.

There are few things that I really despise – cheese, lying politicians, divorce, and death. The first one is just gross, but the last three are thieves that just keep sucking the life out of people that I love. Sort of like those nasty carcinogens in cigarettes.

Written by Michael Andrzejewsi

President Farkas and the Growing Frustration - Guest Blogger

Do you remember the scene in the movie, “The Christmas Story” when Scut Farkas, the consummate bully goads Ralphie into crying after pelting him in the face with a ginormous snowball? Something snaps in the mild mannered Ralphie, and he commences to unleash a torrent of tiny fists and swear words in an unknown tongue rendering the bully humiliated, bloodied, and reformed.

Well, smack dab in the middle of the winter of our economic depression, the spirit of Scut Farkas has been channeled into the US government. They have pitched snowball after taxing, hypocritical snowball toward the quiet, unassuming Ralphies across the country. How many more snowballs will it take to reach critical mass? What will be the final salvo launched to insight the bullied and bespectacled to punch back?

For the record, I believe that we should pray for our leaders on every level that we may live a quiet and peaceable life. I would never advocate anarchy or revolution; however, I firmly believe if the government continues its current pompous taunting of the citizenry, some will respond in an unprecedented fashion. Atlas will shrug.

Today, the current checks and balances are breaking down and people are starting to understand the intentional destruction that is taking place. At least I want to believe it is intentional and not borne completely out of idiocy.

Since the inauguration we have systematically alienated our closest allies and opened new doors to welcome our enemies. We have shaken hands with Syria, pledged to give $900 million to Hamas (er, Gaza), and spit in Israel's face.

We are genuflecting before Russia and telling the Poles and Czechs to take a slow train to Siberia. Do you know that Poland is such a strong ally that within our intelligence community some refer to them as the 51^st state?

In the middle of a recession, we are turning down sales of fighter planes to Taiwan because we don't want to upset the Red Chinese.

We just gave the British Prime Minister 25 DVDs in exchange for priceless heirlooms and blew off a joint press conference. With friend like this...you know how it goes. As far as I'm concerned, the President would have done worse only if he had urinated in the Englishman's tea.

But at the same time we are falling over ourselves to hug the Taliban and sing kum-ba-yah with Islamic terrorists around the globe.

Farkas gave us about a quarter raise ($13 a week tax break) at the exact same time he was lifting our wallets so that he could max out all of our credit cards while buying environmentally friendly golf carts, paying for our neighbors' abortions, building a snowmaking facility in Minnesota, and upgrading intercoms in Alaska. Incomprehensible!

President Scut armed with even more snowballs and insults (aimed at freedom of speech, freedom of religion, and the right to bear arms, among other things) daily treads closer and closer to that imaginary line in the sand for so many.

Whatever faith there was in the government has now dwindled down to those who lazily stand with an outstretched hand crying for someone else to pay for their mortgage and put gas in their car. Like a parasitic side kick they look to big brother Farkas to fix it all.

But one of these days that last frozen missile will plant itself for the last time in Ralphie's face. The gloves will come off and the landscape could look dramatically different. Although I'm not a betting man, my money's on Ralphie.

Written by Michael Andrzejewski for The LaGrange Daily News.

Fishing Away Grief - Guest Blogger

There's a parasitic fish that for some, makes a strangely welcome appearance near the shores of the Atlantic each year. Rubbing against unsuspecting victims, they attach themselves like vacuum cleaners and scour tissue away with razor sharp teeth. Breaking the skin, they siphon away the host's life and leave their target for another mark.

The sea lamprey return to shore each year to spawn. Nights from January to March, on the northern Portuguese shores, fishermen gather - braving the blistering coastal winter winds to spear these repulsive freeloaders. I'm told they have a distinctive taste, being cooked in their own blood – besides the good business. Local eateries fetch $75 for one fish.
Providentially, last week I met a lamprey fishermen. It is was late. I had come believing the beach would be deserted, and it was.
That is, until I was ready leave. It was then that I noticed someone had leaned a thirty foot cane pole against the sea wall. The pole had what seemed to be a miniature grappling hook attached to the end. Curiously I waited while an old beat up station wagon backed into a parking place. The driver steered with his right hand and with his left, he pinned a similar pole to the car. With ends extending past both the front and rear of the car, he appeared prepared for a joust. He carefully lowered Goliath's cane pole to the ground and unloaded a plastic box. It would eventually serve as a seat. He also brought a makeshift work light attached to a car battery.
No way I was going home now. With the light hung half way down the twenty foot sea barrier, he turned the plastic crate on its side, deftly perched himself on top, and lowered his jouster's lance into the icy water.

I made my way over, and for the next ninety minutes I got a fishing lesson that taught me more about life than the elusive lamprey. I made a friend who has lived in the small waterfront village everyday of his 48 years. He was born their. He grew up there with his three sisters and six brothers. He raised a family there, and from what I gathered, he intends to die there – just like his wife did two years ago after their youngest daughter's birth.
She had a pulmonary embolism and died suddenly and somewhat cruelly. The disease left him a widower after 26 years of marriage and four daughters. The others help with the baby, but the sorrow like a lamprey with a healthy cod desperately tries to suck the life from him. Being almost to the day, two years removed from the worst day of his life, he passes these lonely nights fishing – sometimes staying until four or five AM.
He fishes, but he has a lot of time to think. I told him I was bad luck from the very beginning, and we didn't see so much as a minnow that night. With patience he stayed. Probably long after I did. Perhaps the cold stone wall and bitter wind mixed with stinging rain can be more comforting than an empty bed and painful memories. Before leaving, I begged his pardon for the poor luck I brought and told him what a pleasure it had been to meet him. He responded in kind and said simply of our time together, “It was beautiful.” Kind words from an aching heart. My prayer is that on nights like these, he rids his soul of more grief than he does the water of parasites.


Written by Michael Andrzejewski for The LaGrange Daily News.

Just A Bunch of Cowards - Guest Blogger

Coward. That's what the Attorney General of the United States just
called you. A coward. No, you're not the only one who lacks the
courage to do something unpleasant. Apparently the entire nation is,
and just to make sure that he topped the icing with a nice red
cherry, he also denigrated over 200 years worth of our majestic
heritage. His words are forthcoming, but I want to make sure that you
understand that in the mind of Mr. Eric Holder, the greatest nation
on the planet is made up of a bunch of milquetoasts.
He must have gone to the same history class as our finally-proud-of-
my-country First Lady. His exact words, according to an AP story
were, “Though this nation has proudly thought of itself as an ethnic
melting pot, in things racial we have always been and continue to be,
in too many ways, essentially a nation of cowards.” He said, “we have
always been” cowards.
Besides being both childish and elitist, I think it was a good
strategy. I mean, didn't schoolyard insults always promote tolerance
in your neighborhood?
Consider it on this level: I think Chavez and Ahmadinejad alone
fulfill the slander quotient for our nation. Apparently some people
are just not content to leave well enough alone.
Do they teach all law students to call everyone sissies while
sounding extremely pious? Don't answer that. Instead, let's take a
quick roll call.
The most racially integrated nation in the world, made up of people
from every nook and cranny on the globe, that since its inception has
championed freedom of speech and religion around the world? Check.
Plaque at the base of the Statue of Liberty that reads, “Give me your
tired, your poor, Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, The
wretched refuse of your teeming shore. Send these, the homeless,
tempest-tossed, to me...?” Check.
Thirteenth Amendment? Check.
Interracial president? Check.
AG using his pulpit for race-baiting during Black History Month? Check.
Don't believe me about the race-baiting? Disagree with Mr. Holder and
see what you get called – a racist. State publicly that the
government can only force segregation so far and you instantly become
a bigot.
What Holder doesn't get is that you can't socialize or regulate
friendships. Most often people choose their friends based on
something much deeper than skin color. I learned from organized
sports that there's only one color – the one on the jersey. From the
military I learned that the only colors that really matter are the
ones on the flag, and from the Bible I learned that God concerns
himself with only a few colors – the crimson stain of our sins and
white purity which comes with forgiveness in Christ.
I'm Caucasian, meaning my skin is a lighter tone than others, but
that has nothing to do with the color or size of my heart.
No, I don't have a problem talking about race and I doubt you do
either. Yet, I do have a big problem with a high ranking government
official perpetuating a culture of guilt and divisiveness.
He would have done better to call me a honky or a cracker. He could
have called me white bread. I would have been less offended. That
doesn't really bother me. Call me a racist if you want. My friends
know better.
Just don't call me a coward. Those are fighting words.


Written by Michael Andrzejewski for The LaGrange Daily News

ACS - Guest Blogger

ACS – Ask Your Doctor About It

I have been thinking about having an operation. Although I have yet to ask my physician about the condition, my powers of self diagnosis are rarely wrong. I have, in fact, lived in this same body for over thirty years. The only hurdle to my surgically enhanced well-being is current medical technology. I'm not convinced that such a procedure has ever been performed, but after much discomfort and increased problems, I have done my best to put a name on this horrible disease.
Maybe, I really need a support group. Would any one of the ten of my readers like to join and provide me comfort and assistance? You may possibly have the same condition, remaining in denial after having lost all hope for a cure.
Well then, let's waste no more time. [Standing] Hello, my name is Michael, and I have ACS – Attenuated Craw Syndrome. That is, things just keep getting stuck there. I have tried everything that I know to do, swallowing hard, staying away from issues that are difficult to digest. You name it. I've tried it, but to no avail.
Things just keep getting stuck in my craw. Perhaps I have a weakened or underdeveloped craw. Perhaps I simply have a craw that it much smaller than the average size.
What things you ask, normally get stuck in my craw? What is stuck there right now is a feigned attempt at unity, with the express intent to divide. That gets me every time. Take for instance our recent inauguration where the Rev. Joseph Lowery invoked God to help us work for a day, “when black will not be asked to get back, when brown can stick around – when yellow will be mellow – when the red man can get ahead, man – and when white will embrace what is right.”
Besides playing nursery rhymes while racializing what should be a solemn request to a holy God, Rev. Lowery perpetuated the myth that the United States is still living in the 1950s. Isn't the fact that our nation now has a bi-racial president (equal parts black and white) proof enough that black is not currently being asked to get back, neither will he be asked to do so in the future. Isn't it proof enough that Asians living in the U.S. remain, generally speaking, the most law abiding and prosperous members of society. They are neither hateful, nor terror loving, yet Lowery wants God to help us work for a day when they will be mellow? He speaks as if they are Al-Qaeda.
All of this just sticks in my craw. I don't blame President Obama. He didn't write Lowery's insipid request. No, I blame myself. I blame that particular part of my anatomy where my craw may be found, in addition to blaming the culture that prolongs a ridiculous sense of entitlement.
On the surface, he says that we need to strive for a day when everyone will be seen as equal, but his intent was solely to spout that the white man keeps everybody down. In Lowery's eyes the white man has yet to do what is right, but God help us to work for a day when he will! Instead of unifying, all he did was open up a wound that keeps trying to heal.
It just sticks in my craw. If you have the same problem – call it ACS and ask your doctor about it.


Written by Michael Andrzejewski for the LaGrange Daily News