A Spell Of Dyslexia

Pam: I can’t decide if I’m lazy or dyslexic. But there must be some reason I can’t spell to save my life.

Ann: You’re not lazy or stupid so I guess that leaves dyslexic.

Pam: Hey! Who said anything about stupid?

I have a whole box of my grade school papers in the attic. Up until about third grade they all have my name at the top spelled, “M, A, and a backwards P”. I wrote in exact mirror image until I was almost eight years old.

Ann: Seriously?

Pam: Yeah. In fact, you won’t believe this. I still sometimes struggle to remember which way a 3 goes versus an E. If I’m writing by hand I have to refer to a keyboard or other reference to get it right.

Ann: So that’s why you wrote me that check for E-hundred dollars, huh?

Pam: Very funny.

Ann: Seriously, I had no idea. I remember talking to Troy’s kindergarten teacher when he wrote letters backwards. She assured me he’d outgrow it. Sounds like you never did. But I don’t remember your kiddos struggling when they were younger.


Pam: Ross didn’t. He was always a great speller. By the time he was about six I was asking him how to spell things. Sometimes he’d actually help me spell words on notes to his teachers!

Ann: That explains why you think hooky is spelled, “S-I-C-K”. What about Kate?

Pam: Poor thing…she got my awful-speller gene. But, lucky for her, she was born at the right time. She never had to go through school without the wonderful invention of word processors with spell check.

Ann: Good thing for you, too, now that Ross is away at college and isn't here to help you anymore.

Pam: And believe me, I use it! You know I don’t believe in sending thank you notes and sympathy messages by email. I think they should be handwritten on nice stationery. But when I write one, I actually type up what I want to say on a word processor and then print it out and copy it by hand. It’s a lot more work, but at least that way I don’t embarrass myself.

Ann: Yeah, dyslexia can definitely result in embarrassment. When I was a kid, our parish priest always had the honor of being the moderator for the regional spelling bee. One time the word was supposed to be “ogre”. But he misread it and pronounced it as “orgy”.

Pam: Did he realize what he had said? Did he correct himself?

Ann: Not until the kid asked for a definition and the entire room burst out laughing.

Priests Who Do Stand-Up

Ann: I managed to mortify myself in front of my priest today! What is it about the presence of a priest that forces my foot into my mouth?

Pam: Oh no…What’d you do now?

Ann: My parish just got the new statue of our patron saint and yesterday they placed it on its pedestal at the entry to the church. Well, this thing is…the only word for it is scary.

Pam: Yeah, you were telling me its dark bronze, very gaunt, and has hollowed out eyes. Sounds awful.

Ann: A nightmare. So after mass today we’re supposed to gather out front to bless the statue. Leaving the sanctuary, the kids and I lingered just inside the doors to chat with another family when I announced, “Well, we’d better get out front to bless that hideous statue.” Then I hear Father saying, “Yes Ann, we should”. I was so embarrassed.

Pam: I bet the kids loved that!

Ann: Once Father walked away I said to my daughter, “Why didn’t you tell me that there was a priest nearby?” and she said, “Mom, you’d think the fact that we’re standing in a church might have given you a clue!”

Pam: She has a point. But I can top that for embarrassing moments with a priest.

Ann: Okay, but make it a doosey so I’ll feel better.

Pam: Oh, this’ll do the job; I promise. And it’s the truth. Remember years ago my husband and I signed up to join a group from our parish to tour Italy with Father Tom? Prior to the trip we’d all gather at the church for art and history lessons to better appreciate what we’d be seeing. So my husband knew I was particularly looking forward to seeing Michelangelo’s statue, David.

Ann: Who wouldn’t? It’s a young, naked hunk of a man in marble! Wait a second…I suddenly get the feeling this is going to get really good. Continue.

Pam: About a week before the trip my hubby and I were at our city’s big Oktoberfest checking out the vendor’s booths—crafts, jewelry, that kind of stuff. He points out a little white plastic bust of the David, saying, “There’s your favorite statue.” And I reply, “Honey, that’s missing all the best parts of the David”. Suddenly I hear laughter behind us and we turn around to see one of our parish priests, Father George, standing there, still laughing.

Ann: Oh my gosh! You must have wanted to crawl under a table. I feel better already.

Pam: Glad I could help. But I have to admit that’s not the end of the story. So fast forward a few weeks and there we all are, in a museum in Florence, Italy before the magnificent David. I’m standing in front of it taking pictures and I’m grateful it was Fr. George who heard me at the Oktoberfest and not Fr. Tom, who is with us on the trip.

Ann: Yeah, it would have been kind of embarrassing ogling the David with Fr. George there after what he heard you said.

Pam: So I wait for the group to move on with the tour guide so I can get a couple of shots of the David without people in the picture. I’m lining up my shot when I see some movement behind the base of the statue. It’s Fr. Tom standing back there all by himself and he’s gesturing for me to join him.

Ann: Behind the statue?

Pam: Yeah. So I walk around behind the huge statue and Fr. Tom points up to the gorgeous, naked, marble tushy and tells me, “Don’t forget this shot too. I hear you’re quite fond of his physique.” Then he grins at me knowingly.

Ann: Fr. George told Fr. Tom about what he heard you say at Oktoberfest?

Pam: Yep! I blushed every shade of red there is and said to Fr. Tom, “I thought you guys weren’t supposed to tell our secrets!” And Fr. Tom tells me, “That’s only in confession Pam. Everything else is fair game.”

Ann: Great. That means that by now everyone in my parish probably knows I think our new statue is ugly. So much for making me feel better.

Pam: Hey, I tried!

God's Plan For All Women

Ann: I saw one of those bumper stickers today that say, “They’re not hot flashes—they’re power surges”. Then as I passed the car I just had to look inside to see who was driving. Guess what? It was a teenage boy!

Pam: And to think, my kids won’t drive my car ‘cause it’s a minivan. So what were you expecting to see when you looked into that car?

Ann: I don’t know. If I’d seen a sweaty, haggard old woman I’d be depressed because I’d think, “That’s how I must look!” And if I’d seen a fresh-as-a-daisy, cheerful looking woman I’d be depressed because I’d think, “Why can’t I breeze through it like that?”

Pam: So I guess finding it was a teenage boy was for the best, huh? God knows what he’s doing. Are you sure it was a boy? Maybe it was a menopausal woman with a beard.

Ann: You think this is funny but just you wait. You won’t be laughing when it’s your turn.

Pam: You’re probably right. Hot flashes don’t sound fun. But for the time being, I’m getting a kick out of watching others go through it. Did I tell you about my sister-in-law at my niece’s wedding last March?

Ann: I don’t think so. Do I want to hear this? I have a feeling I won’t find this story quite as amusing as you do. But go ahead…

Pam: It was a cold spring day in Chicago and we were all enjoying the reception. I was listening to the toasts when I realized something that felt profound. Everyone at the head table, the bride and groom, and all their attendants were a full generation younger than me! Then I looked around my assigned table. I was seated with the mother of the bride who is my sister-in-law, my husband who is the bride’s uncle, his mother who is the grandmother of the bride, the family priest, and the parents of the groom. I was seated with the old people!

Ann: Okay. I’m not seeing how this is a story about hot flashes…

Pam: I’m getting there. So I’m feeling a bit old when I see my sister-in-law fanning herself furiously with the wedding program and then she excused herself to get some air. When she’d been gone for a full fifteen minutes, the priest and I decided to go check on her.

Ann: Don’t tell me. She had spontaneously combusted and you found only a pile of ashes for him to perform the last rites on….

Pam: You’re close. So the priest and I find my sister-in-law in the lobby standing leaned up against a large plate glass window still fanning herself and perspiring profusely. She was apologetic and embarrassed and kept saying how awful and humiliating menopause can be.

Ann: I can relate. You say she didn’t burst into flames--so she must have burst into tears, right?

Pam: No. Actually the priest was really terrific telling her how natural it all was and how it was part of God’s plan for all women…season of life…blah, blah, blah.

Ann: So she bought that, huh?

Pam: Yeah she did. But it was all almost for nothing.

Ann: What happened?

Pam: She decided she’d better get back to her guests and she reluctantly stepped away from the cool window and back towards the ballroom. And there on the outside of the plate glass window was a perfect silhouette of her in condensation on the outside of the window.

Ann: You’re kidding me!

Pam: The priest and I both saw it and were grinning at each other as we watched the mist rising from the perfect likeness of my sister-in-law on the outside of the glass. Then she stopped suddenly and began to turn around to say something to us.

Ann: Oh no! Did she see it?

Pam: That’s the sweet part. You never saw a priest move so fast! He jumped in front of the window while simultaneously pulling me nearer to him so that our bodies blocked the scene. She said a little something and then proceeded into the ballroom, cooler and more content having chatted with us. The minute she was back in the ballroom I about bust a gut laughing. Even the priest was chuckling.

Ann: I was wrong. That was pretty funny... but only because it didn't happen to me for a change. Pardon the pun. As I said, just you wait!