I cook most of my meals, and when I go out to eat, which isn't often, it is usually for Pizza. We have so many delicious pizza options in our Wyoming Valley, because it has often been said that Northeastern Pennsylvania pizza is supreme. Just up the line from Swoyersville is Old Forge, Penna, the Pizza Capital of the World, so you can guess where I might be when I'm out spending my meager social security income on restaurant food! It certainly isn't Chick-fil-A.
Goodness Gracious, the chickens today, if you don't get them from the Kosher Butcher, you ought to just do without poultry. Commercial chickens today are so overburdened with growth hormones and antibiotics, and any manner of chimera and assembly-line Pablum. I believe full well that our nation's young girls are maturing much much much too quickly for their age, and this too is related to the chemicals they are putting into our milk. Gert Whipple's grandkids were out in her front yard yesterday and I could not believe the little girl frolicking with the Whipple's 2 St. Bernards was no more than age 8 and already displaying baby boobies! They were plainly visible as girls today seem to dress hootchie cootchie. I saw her premature chests all the way from my front porch, which is quite a distance away.
My whole point is this. Betko and Josie and Nancy ought to avoid Chick-fil-A because I just don't trust the company anymore, after reading all of the news. My own views on the gays is evolving, I suppose, but come now! I have been addicted to my new favorite website Huffingtons's, and from there, I am learning about the controversy. That owner and CEO does not like the gays and the lesbians and he donates a lot of his money to groups that are discriminatory. What is to stop him from instituting a policy at their restaurants (and I use the term "restaurant" very loosely) of poisoning their customers who appear lesbian, for instance? This confusion distracts us all from the bigger question of why anybody heterosexual or homosensual is interested in greasy deep fat fry chicken sandwiches in the first place! God calls upon us to begin with fresh ingredients, not flash-frozen cardboard!
I worked myself up into such an emotional state today that I had to call each one of the new lesbians in my life: My daughter Betko, especially since she wears a bright red spikey haircut, and Josie, who, with a severe man's haircut often times walks around in flannel and those multicolored rings on a chain around her neck. What would happen if I lost them to a Chick-Fil-A?
It turned out that neither one of my lesbians had been to a Chic-Fil-A recently, and therefore had been safe from any harm, thank God!
Yours in the Love of Christ,
Mrs. Walter J. Katsellas, Jr.
Tuesday, July 31, 2012
Bathroom Stall Shoes
Somewhere in my childhood I began longing for a halcyon other world devoid of poop. Thus, I was never able to come to terms with the fact that I had this bodily function like all living things. I realize that to you readers, this might not make any sense, but I am largely terrified that people can imagine me on the toilet eliminating waste from my
body, thus nourishing the earth with my human manure.
Additionally, I admit to having an aversion to bowel movements that do not manifest on the home throne. Truly, only the private chambers afford a proper atmosphere for elimination at a relaxed leisurely pace. To be honest, I rarely even use the word "toilet" unless I am angry and it slips out in a fit of rage. Using the term "commode" may sound old fashioned, but has always been my more sanitized go-to, rather than the word that sounds like toity toity. It saves face in polite conversation whenever I am referencing the bathroom. Many times, I'll also place my flattened hand perpendicular to my mouth as I say the word, in an effort to shield my message from any nosey people who might be able to read lips.
Now, life being what it is, there were always exceptions to my home throne rules, for who really knows which direction the high winds will be blowin' on any given day? To compensate, I grew accustomed to carrying an extra set of shoes with me wherever I ventured out of my home, just in case I was forced to visit a public restroom who's designs most often allow other occupants of the lavatory to clearly see user's feet as they are perched on the bowl doing their business. Because the shoes are exposed, any privacy afforded by the stall is severely compromised.
Now because I am known for selecting footwear that's eye-catching and memorable, I became somewhat forced into a shoe-changing routine for public bathrooms. But this is the only way of thwarting the overly observant women from later tracking me down based upon her recollection of my shoes while sitting on the bowl. Toting a drab set of footies or Jellies (perfect shoe for this as they are lightweight and easily stowable) has saved me countless embarassments of this ilk. Now, of course I am old, so this all has changed slightly with the incorporation of Depends into my toilette routine. My feet have also been paining me terribly, I cannot always be bothered toting the extra shoes, but for years I have kept a second pair in the car, as a woman never knows.
Yours in the Love of Christ,
Mrs. Walter J. Katsellas, Jr.
Additionally, I admit to having an aversion to bowel movements that do not manifest on the home throne. Truly, only the private chambers afford a proper atmosphere for elimination at a relaxed leisurely pace. To be honest, I rarely even use the word "toilet" unless I am angry and it slips out in a fit of rage. Using the term "commode" may sound old fashioned, but has always been my more sanitized go-to, rather than the word that sounds like toity toity. It saves face in polite conversation whenever I am referencing the bathroom. Many times, I'll also place my flattened hand perpendicular to my mouth as I say the word, in an effort to shield my message from any nosey people who might be able to read lips.
Now, life being what it is, there were always exceptions to my home throne rules, for who really knows which direction the high winds will be blowin' on any given day? To compensate, I grew accustomed to carrying an extra set of shoes with me wherever I ventured out of my home, just in case I was forced to visit a public restroom who's designs most often allow other occupants of the lavatory to clearly see user's feet as they are perched on the bowl doing their business. Because the shoes are exposed, any privacy afforded by the stall is severely compromised.
Now because I am known for selecting footwear that's eye-catching and memorable, I became somewhat forced into a shoe-changing routine for public bathrooms. But this is the only way of thwarting the overly observant women from later tracking me down based upon her recollection of my shoes while sitting on the bowl. Toting a drab set of footies or Jellies (perfect shoe for this as they are lightweight and easily stowable) has saved me countless embarassments of this ilk. Now, of course I am old, so this all has changed slightly with the incorporation of Depends into my toilette routine. My feet have also been paining me terribly, I cannot always be bothered toting the extra shoes, but for years I have kept a second pair in the car, as a woman never knows.
Yours in the Love of Christ,
Mrs. Walter J. Katsellas, Jr.
Saturday, July 28, 2012
Five Jars a Day
What started out as a harmless way for a moderne woman to keep off the pounds, grew to a full blown disorder affecting my life in various wintertime scenarios. Yes, It was a way to manage my weight, but also so much more. I always looked wonderful and trim and this was so very important in my family. Bulimia never took a large stronghold into my life, but it did seem much more effective than the riskier tapeworms or those messy laxative tea concoctions that were being sold door to door at the time. I was able to maintain a size 7 figure through most of my life, and even now I am trim and svelte using a good girdle and sensible diet. Some days were harder than others, and thankfully the bulimia episodes eventually stopped.
There I was, curled up like a little baby, crying my eyes out on the couch of, well, lets call her Peggy. Peggy is an analist or, as you kids today say therapist. Mrs. Walter J. Katsellas will no longer be a miserable old lady. Would you look at that! I am 85 when I finally succumb to shrink quackery, so that proves I must be in real pain right now. With no where else to turn for dignity, I needed answers, and I dialed that number.
When the person said HELLO, I broke down crying and was having difficulty speaking. It was a phone number that someone had given me many years ago, when I was feeling similiarly unhappy. At that time, I was so afraid to discuss my personal and private thoughts so I never once would permit any forms of therapy, for why should I, when my weekly devotionals at face to face confession seemed to serve a better purpose. The past few months have been very traumatic for me.
My pruny next-door neighbor Gert Whipple is always in her backyard when I am outside, and when she catches my eye, she'll wave her index finger at me with a "Shame Shame" as if she knows something I don't. This causes me to stiffen up, remove the smile from my countenance, and pretend I do not even see her. She is invisible to me.
I cannot imagine why people would treat me this way! She is not the only one who has been reacting to me with negativity and cat calls. To think that for my entire life, I have worked hard and long to be perfect. To always do and say the right things, to always be the one with a quaint and charming smile, acting all pert and efficient in misses coordinates. I can no longer cry in remembrance of the good old days because I don't think my days back then were happy either and I am only realizing it now through therapy at age 85. Was I put on this Earth to be miserable?
For many years I would hide food in my purse, closets, sewing room, toolshed, etc. Binge and purge is what they call it nowadays. My analyst tells me this is because I wanted to control something in my life during a period of depression. Depression? Is that what I had? I don't think I'm depressed at all, I tell jokes and giggle loudly all the time! Depression seemed like a real fancy word that didn't apply to me and we were always the last to get anything new in town here in the Wyoming Valley anyway. I didn't understand it until the analist forced me to think back on all those years. All those jars of peanut butter! All those uncontrollable urges to eat dirt! I now know the reason.
There was this one year when my Walter got down on his knees and cried to me that I needed to get help and that he was going to leave me if I didn't stop buying so much Peanut Butter. Yes, my Walter wanted to leave me over this! He told me once that I needed to get help or else, but I didn't stop to consider his point of view, I just got so angry at him that I scratched his face and went into deeper denial.
Dr. Cummington was our trusted physician, told me my bad habit would eventually disappear on its own, which it did, and he vowed to keep my secret. Thusly, I was given a clean bill of health time and again, but I was nowhere close to being normal. I am so ashamed of some of the things I have done.
But Lord in Heaven above, those winter months with the dark grey clouds, and the cold Earth, and the barren trees, covered in ice? Well they became just terrible for me, and for my marriage. Why even now, the days in January and February and March are just terrible for me because it gets so cold and icy. Oh woe is me to endure it! And now last month this analysis was able to get me diagnosed right quick about depression, but Jeepers, I still don't feel any better!!
Yours in the Love of Christ,
Mrs. Walter J. Katsellas, Jr.
There I was, curled up like a little baby, crying my eyes out on the couch of, well, lets call her Peggy. Peggy is an analist or, as you kids today say therapist. Mrs. Walter J. Katsellas will no longer be a miserable old lady. Would you look at that! I am 85 when I finally succumb to shrink quackery, so that proves I must be in real pain right now. With no where else to turn for dignity, I needed answers, and I dialed that number.
When the person said HELLO, I broke down crying and was having difficulty speaking. It was a phone number that someone had given me many years ago, when I was feeling similiarly unhappy. At that time, I was so afraid to discuss my personal and private thoughts so I never once would permit any forms of therapy, for why should I, when my weekly devotionals at face to face confession seemed to serve a better purpose. The past few months have been very traumatic for me.
My pruny next-door neighbor Gert Whipple is always in her backyard when I am outside, and when she catches my eye, she'll wave her index finger at me with a "Shame Shame" as if she knows something I don't. This causes me to stiffen up, remove the smile from my countenance, and pretend I do not even see her. She is invisible to me.
I cannot imagine why people would treat me this way! She is not the only one who has been reacting to me with negativity and cat calls. To think that for my entire life, I have worked hard and long to be perfect. To always do and say the right things, to always be the one with a quaint and charming smile, acting all pert and efficient in misses coordinates. I can no longer cry in remembrance of the good old days because I don't think my days back then were happy either and I am only realizing it now through therapy at age 85. Was I put on this Earth to be miserable?
For many years I would hide food in my purse, closets, sewing room, toolshed, etc. Binge and purge is what they call it nowadays. My analyst tells me this is because I wanted to control something in my life during a period of depression. Depression? Is that what I had? I don't think I'm depressed at all, I tell jokes and giggle loudly all the time! Depression seemed like a real fancy word that didn't apply to me and we were always the last to get anything new in town here in the Wyoming Valley anyway. I didn't understand it until the analist forced me to think back on all those years. All those jars of peanut butter! All those uncontrollable urges to eat dirt! I now know the reason.
There was this one year when my Walter got down on his knees and cried to me that I needed to get help and that he was going to leave me if I didn't stop buying so much Peanut Butter. Yes, my Walter wanted to leave me over this! He told me once that I needed to get help or else, but I didn't stop to consider his point of view, I just got so angry at him that I scratched his face and went into deeper denial.
Dr. Cummington was our trusted physician, told me my bad habit would eventually disappear on its own, which it did, and he vowed to keep my secret. Thusly, I was given a clean bill of health time and again, but I was nowhere close to being normal. I am so ashamed of some of the things I have done.
But Lord in Heaven above, those winter months with the dark grey clouds, and the cold Earth, and the barren trees, covered in ice? Well they became just terrible for me, and for my marriage. Why even now, the days in January and February and March are just terrible for me because it gets so cold and icy. Oh woe is me to endure it! And now last month this analysis was able to get me diagnosed right quick about depression, but Jeepers, I still don't feel any better!!
Yours in the Love of Christ,
Mrs. Walter J. Katsellas, Jr.
Friday, July 27, 2012
The Smell of a *ussy
I have the unlikely misfortune to
walk past Brigit Tofolucci's home each Sunday on my pilgrimage to Mass,
a Holy Traditional Walk of mine since childhood.
I was taught to honor the Sunday Sabbath much like our Jewish friends do
with Saturdays, and if I don’t have to get into my car to drive, well then, I
won’t! Back in the day, the entire Katsellas Clan would set out for Sunday mass on foot, prancing down the street to alert spectators of our perfect attendance and family devotion to the Lord. These days, I am the only one left. Kudos to my kneecaps, which haven't failed me yet! Although without proper precaution, the humidity will often test my blackened Wyoming Valley lungs in the tense summer months.
With her house on a corner lot, I pass Bridget's no
matter which route I travel. Despite the substantial hedge cover that her home
enjoys, it fails to block the monstrous droning and ominous moaning we passersby are confronted with at certain
hours. It sounds like someone is being worked over the fiery Black Coals
of Hell. Now beings as though she's situated on a
corner, I encounter plenty of natural opportunities to look into her windows as I pass,
without any real grounds to be considered a nosey snooper. Especially today, for what would any logically curious pedestrian do when they hear
such awful gnashing of teeth? Investigate, of course. If you see something, say something, and there were plenty of opportunities that I ignored the wretched cries. No more.
Now nevermind what I've seen Brigit Tofolucci dressed in
over the years, because she usually has good taste on account of her mother
from up Endicott is a real snazzy dresser. But today, Bridget was in a khaftan, a head band and a toe ring. And there were two others with her, a man and
a woman dressed similiarly with dark skin as if from another continent. The male had dark smooth skin that looked so soft, and velvety, and his counterpart had cocoa eyes with a lovely mystique. But there were clouds of incense puffing out from
the large front windows and coming to
rest at the hedges, much like a nocturnal mist rises from a pond in a vampire movie. I was walking home from a potato peeling session for the Bazzaar after the 12:15 mass when Bridget's permeating remnants had begun
to reflect poorly on the entire neighborhood.
Was I finally catching a glimpse of a private and immoral Bridget
that she seldom shares with the world? Did I burst into a love triangle? Is
this why her dear mother Pia fled to Upstate New York?
My goodness, she seemed very angry at me for disrupting her noisy
trance. What were those other two people
doing on the floor and why were they all making those moaning noises? The two beautiful exotics really clammed up at my cross
examination, so perhaps they were foreigners?
I had another one of my moments. I decided to push past my humility to once again become a vaunted moral compass on behalf of these lesser qualified souls, who were languishing all around me.
After all, if I am occasionally gifted with
visions of Heaven and Hell, who else is suitable for keeping the neigbhors in line? I try to snuff out
anything unsavory.
Brigit's behavior is especially disrespectful,
because not 4 doors down from this Tofolucci house of ill-repute is my church where my
newborn babies were baptized so many years ago.
Why must she carry on so loudly with her friends?! Bridget was full of the devil, yelling back at me, trying to talk louder! The nerve of her to insult the sounds produced during a Catholic liturgy. I hardly think sanctified organ
music that spills from our Catholic Sanctuary causes anyone distress, as organ music is soothing and lovely. Something which does not sound like the horrific scream of a blazing soul.
“I’m a Buddhist. Now get off of my property you idiot!” Bridget yelled in her own defense, after I
called her a *ussy and threw several dirty tissues and a Pinwheel Mint at her (because that was all I
had in my purse.) She’s lucky I didn’t
hit her with my cane, because I came close. Buddhist Schumddhist.
Noise pollution hurts us all and it is my right to complain. I was completely justified.
Certainly, God does not want us to disturb neighbors with our worship.
Certainly, God does not want us to disturb neighbors with our worship.
Yours in the Love of Christ,
Mrs. Walter J. Katsellas, Jr.
Wednesday, July 25, 2012
Mother of Częstochowa
"Holy Mother of Częstochowa, you are full of grace,
goodness and mercy. I consecrate to you all my thoughts, words and actions, my
soul and body. I humbly beseech your blessings and especially your prayers for
my salvation. Today I turn myself to you, good mother, totally, with body and
soul amid joy and suffering to obtain for myself and others your blessings on
this earth and eternal life in heaven. Amen."
Yours in the Love of Christ,
Mrs. Walter J. Katsellas
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