Red Wine

Back from the reunion a week now: unpacked, laundry finally zeroed out, garden somewhat tended & house slightly cleaned up in the wake of the three selfish offspring who enjoy it when we're gone, yet take little notice of the need to clean it before we return.

Re: Wine? A contested topic hereabouts, but all the more so after drinking DH's for him just now. Zygote drinks it when DH buys it, though she bids him: "Avoid it like the plague!" He doesn't listen.  Good Baptists, we were, tending toward teetotalers, imbibing only at restaurants, on anniversaries and such, & training the children away from the mocker... or so we thought.  When the twenty-somethings graduated from their very conservative colleges, they returned home with a very hip need to imbibe: you see, Jesus drank wine, so, we all should too, they insisted.  That's all it took.  Now, DH brings it home quite regularly. I complained, only to be shot down by the young'ins, & so I've given in, too.  Anti-depressants hold nothing to this candle. And it's cheaper.  Socially acceptable, too:  tell people you take an anti-depressant, and watch them slowly nod and pretend they understand.  Walk in the door with a bottle of Chardonay (i have tried to spell that 19 diff. ways, and no dictionary I own will help me), or enjoy a glass of red wine with the crowd, and be embraced as one fit for society. (Don a glass of water and feel the ire of the whole room...)

Nevermind that six family members have shown in past generations, or are now showing, all the earmarks of, well... the 'A' word.  One member has wisely addressed the issue; wisely turned away from the cursed liquid and mindfully determined to live life for what is real rather than for what the fruit of the vine promises, but never delivers... Rehab miraculously worked for this person.

So, why do I partake? Why does DH continue to bring it home? Oh, blessed psychotherapists of the world, please answer!

I long to know WHY a lot of things.  

That 'enabling' word comes to mind, and though we've discussed its meaning, DH is programmed by The Fall to render all discussion vaporous.

I think that's when I decided to spend my entire family reunion at the kitchen sink doing everyone's dishes: when I saw the giant stockpile of wines, vodkas, rums and bourbons --or whatever that was, all arrayed across the washer and dryer in the rental cabin kitchen-- my affections froze.

All my hopes for some real conversation --you know, the kind people actually remember the next morning-- were dashed.  Then, a day or two later, they all said goodbye, & there I was: eating watermelon and catching up on a cable TV movie (the one that I'd walked out on when D#2 took me to see it three years ago. TheDevilWearsPrada. Better believe he does).  All alone, in my big Twain Harte rental, wondering what The LORD would show me when I dared to ponder the cost benefit analysis of the whole effort, having rented the place for an entire WEEK... Would my sisters have liked me more if I'd gotten drunk with them? Would the Gospel have been furthered if I'd just stood there with a drink in my hand pretending to be cool with it?  And yet, who cares??  I didn't plan the weekend to proclaim Jesus, but just to re-UNE with my family for heaven's sake. It had been ten years since we last gathered. The hypocrisy of the matter is too boggling for the sinner that I am to reconcile: I want alcohol, but only when I'm alone or with DH.  I hate alcohol, but only when others are enjoying it.  I crafted a Statement on Spirits many months ago, long before any cabin reunion bubble started forming; but only officially declared it MY OWN reaffirmed stance on one or two occasions, & even then, to no avail, as the family members were, let's say, hardly impressed. 

I declared that:   

"Wine, beer and spirits
are to be enjoyed in the context 

of 

drawing together
married couples 

in the privacy of their own chambers

for the furtherance of healthy 

marital conjugation, 

this being the standard ingredient

upon which marital fidelity depends,

the euphoric enjoyment of God's created gift, sex,
for the purpose

of  

permanently uniting two fallen people
into becoming
OneFlesh. 

(Kinda like bikinis, yes?)

This settled it in my own mind.  

Alcohol, even taken moderately, gets me DRUNK. The Bible proscribes drunkeness. It clearly cites an event which I, more than most, must NEVER occasion: "getting drunk causes the HOLY Spirit to dissipate...re-mooooove Himself...  Become distant, thin, SHALLOW, LEAKED... Empty." 

How can I allow the scarcity of a thing which I only have the weakest grasp upon in the first place?

Kudos to James & Shirley Dobson,  whose own 50th Wedding Anniversary was today, and who inspired the idea once upon a time, by recommending that the virgin bride be plied with champagne on her wedding night to help her overcome the hard transition from "Thou shalt not!" to "Thou shalt, every day, and with vigor and enthusiasm," else I doubt I'd have ever come up with it... the drinking part, not the bikini part, altho, they'd probably agree there, too.

(Can I just say how much I love Jim & Shirls???)

Now, if only I had the courage, no, the INTEGRITY, to stick to my own convictions.

Vacation Prep or Not

Who knew a zygote could lose this much sleep trying to organize a reunion.  Where I went wrong was way back in April at the invitation stage, choosing an eVite that was a little 'in your face.'  That would've put ME off, zygote or no zygote.  Twenty adult-stage people & their offspring (& semi-adult-stage alien/twenty somethings & their cell phones) say they are coming, in any case, so zygote will be far away from the web for awhile: she reserved cabins with no wiFi. This makes the aliens restless already.

But VacaPrep and today's planned departure took a back seat to a sick hubby whose face had ballooned overnight.  Calls and visits to dentists, endodontist and maxillofacial surgery practices --and one relative who's a doc-- culminated in a 3:15PM extraction surgery, and a DH feeling so very low.  Losing a tooth is so not zygotish.

This delay afforded me a small window to sneak into SuperCuts to curb the 50yearoldzygotish protein follicles.  "You're losing a lot of hair, i see... Getting enough sleep?" asked the stylist. Wow. She knows her stuff.

Cakes can't think

Oh. Well, wh' in a hurry, sentence structure (yesterday's) does tend to suffer. (And the reason the day was "Bloody" ALMOst had to do with a saucepan aflame on the stove from spilled rum sauce; but, no, it was produced by a friend at a Sunday Potluck who dropped her glass bowl full of pasta salad on the driveway, and a ricocheted shard of the glass punctured the top of her foot.  It was messy...)

Zygote did not sleep again last night.  Post-noon caffeine needs to come under permanent ban.

Weighty thoughts churned as I lay in bed, trying to keep DH from repeating a rare 1AM outburst: "Why don't you ever sleep??!"

- - Thoughts about my conflicting genetic money map: Dad would not have cared about a certain $$ wastage coming up, but I anticipate Mom's chagrin (I'll tell her that true love does not count the cost!) when she unwraps my latest contribution to her less-than-closetful of tasteful attire. Happy BD, Mum.

- -  The smog check man found someone had tampered with the check engine light in my car, clearly assuming it was I who rigged the failed smog offender

- - My pants don't fit, as a sprained foot delays returning to the gym these eight weeks (& the alternative behaviour to control growing thighs - not eating - is impossible for this young zygote)

- - The painter's been 'let go' after he painted the door shut

- - D1's new man friend has recoiled at her disclosure that she has a chronic disease

- - D2's manfriend calls only every 5 months or so, but she is not amused; a top pick bachelor asked me about her at yesterday's bbq, but I changed the subject, so stung was she the last time I tried to play matchmaker

... and so it goes. Ineptitude, calamity, gravity, mediocrity.

I venture into my blastocyte stage, wary of the pitfalls of my genetic past, my foible filled future, and a dim awareness that a salve awaits to heal the heart of so many disappointments. A healer. An Answerer. A fixer. And in the dark recesses of my quiet night... a TO DO list comes to mind:

1) actually start believing God loves you
2) actually start loving others better

This list is one I keep composing, and losing, year after year after year.

Bloody Sunday

August 8, 2010, DH turned 49, and Zygote is too busy flaming rum sauce on the stove for his grand BD cake to think deep biological thoughts.

Anew. re: Aug. 7...(/:-} )

In spite of the fact that blogs ought to be posted before midnight, as a rule, I still feel connected to my day until 2am, and as a fast moving zygote/blastocyst, every moment counts and every hour feels energized... at night. Sadly, until three in the afternoon, underperformance is my watchword.  Biorhythms dictate that I must seek and find a job as a night janitor. A late-night talk host. How 'bout astronomer?

As my blastocyst self sorts out my mother's peoples' genes from my father's peoples' genes, I feel a call to newness and a distinction all my own, and wonder about what, exactly, is forming at the core of my being during this fine symphony of cell division.

Selfness that comes from such a miraculous DNA shuffle is being formed at this very stage.  But while some distinctions may be noteworthy --a nose here, big feet there-- others are hidden from view, but nevertheless powerful: What if... What IF. . . my mom's preference for laziness was at its peak when my egg sprang out during late July 1960.  Would blastocyst Ellie receive a large dose of her lazy spirit (as I am sure it did)?  And what if my Dad's penchant for spending too much money on pricey things he should know better than to buy was at its apex during sperm production, week#4, July 1960? My poor little blastocyst would not stand a chance avoiding the perils of a penniless future.

Sin IS passed down, you know. It's scriptural. I can prove it. Just not right now.

I ponder the deeply private interwoveness of flesh and spirit; person and personality, blended and imparted from tiny aspects of fallen, sinful, spiritual antiquity, moving forward in time like molecular -formed drops of water cycling around the world for tens of millennia, from creation to now. Everything new, and nothing new, each birth beginning some new chapter in the same old human story, starting afresh one zygote at a time. 

I hear my grown self congratulating my honey, DH, on a happy birthday night of his own:  49 years ago, his dear Mum suffered to push him out at St. John's, Santa Monica, 1961.  His zygote day will arrive in December, but for now, Thanks, Barb. Thanks, Dr. Amys. You've birthed a prince. Dignified in the flesh, fallen in spirit, but willing to daily take up shield and buckler to fight the oppressive demons of this fallen world.  Prize fighter. Knight. I finally respect him.

Wiki THAT.

I  KNEW the urgent curiosity @ size and structure was for a purpose. Upon popping off the August 5th entry, I headed over to Wiki to learn that I am officially now a blastotcyst.  How did I KNOW my biological clock was ticking?

"The blastocyst is a structure formed in the early embryogenesis of mammals, after the formation of the morula. It possesses an inner cell mass (ICM), or embryoblast, which subsequently forms the embryo, and an outer layer of cells, or trophoblast, which later forms the placenta. The trophoblast surrounds the inner cell mass and a fluid-filled blastocyst cavity known as the blastocoele. The human blastocyst comprises 70-100 cells.

Blastocyst formation begins at day 5 after fertilization in humans,^[1] when the blastocoele opens up in the morula.

"Differential gene expression in the morula is thought to be the cause of the lineage divergence of different cell types. For example, the Oct-3/4 transcription factor is restricted to the ICM, whereas Cdx2 is expressed at a higher level in the trophoblast than the ICM. This differential transcription factor expression is likely the result of positional effect - i.e., cells in the middle of the preceding zygote are in a different environment to those on the outside, thus causing differential expression. The trophoblast cells also synthesize the transcription factor, eomesodermin, which activates those proteins characteristic of the trophoblastic layer."

Amused by the way brilliant scientists seem to shroud what they do not understand in technical speak.  "Positional effect" must have them stumped. The WHOLE PROCESS is a stumper. Getting something (or some ONE) from nothing (egg and sperm being slightly more than nothing, but less than something; fairly inert, when left to themselves...) is purely miraculous by anyone's definition.

How big am I?

I am pondering seriously: how many cells big am I at age 5DAYs?

Submission

Babies don't like to submit to their trainers, usually... but... if all goes well, they figure out that good things come to those who shut up and wait; and, behold! a model child is crafted.  From wet black modeling clay, they are furnace fired into stunning white porcelain figurines, oogled at by the parentals, friends, and all the family.  These porcelain people grow up to be achievers, mature and wise.  Successful.  They run foundations, found charities, invent spectacular things, and invest in all the right stocks.  They live in houses where the paint does not peel and the front porch is not bedraggled.

This is scriptural. I can prove it... just not right now.

And then there are the rest of us.

Judging by the normal setting on my Strife Dial, you can imagine the shelf of greenware from which I long ago fell.  That perch was a 70's home big enough for the 5th of six children to find refuge mostly; but when I was needed for something, a huge, bellowing "...ELLLLLLLLLENNNnnnnn..." would emit from some faraway room in the house & my skin would crawl. Then I'd calculate, like Calvin whispering to Hobbes, how long I could keep the yeller waiting without getting into serious trouble.  Whatever the trouble was (& it was always trouble I was in), I'd just disavow that I had anything to do with whatever the matter was, and leave the disgruntled parental or sibling to suffer. (It always worked, and that's why God, in all His power and majesty, gave me a son who is just like me. Genetics. Glorious.)

I must've been an especially nasty child, because by the time we were teens, I was calling my sisters A-holes (and not the abbreviated kind) when it came to defending my stuff, or borrowing theirs.  I'm not sure what Mother thought of this, because we nary spoke, so I THINK I must've been a handful.

I can safely conclude I am STILL one, because I know for a fACT that I am lousy at the submission game in marriage. This much is certifiable.

Before I scratch my chin over my latest display of marital brashness, I do like to ponder the Little Ellie who never had to win an engagement in the war of child-vs-parent because her parents were almost wholly disengaged. Stretching my mind back as far as it will go, it's clear: we just avoided each other.

That brings me to today.

As a four day old zygote, I can plead ignorance over my motivations* for a total lack of honesty during today's squabble.  Like the sinful child evading her sister's questions and disavowing responsibility for things, I am way too comfortable with lying.  I THOUGHT I was being submissive in recent weeks, following hubby's lead and settling on a third-rate painter to paint our house, third rate hardware & fencing, and third rate everything.  Juan the Man (my heroic Dad) would NEVER settle for third rate anything.   But, since my hubby is not Juan, and if we don't have funds for top notch quality, then third rate will have to do, right? I felt sincere telling the handyman today that one of his low quality fixes was no big deal.  And a few days back, when paint splatters appeared all over the un-dropclothed front porch, I actually muttered to myself, "it's only a house."

But when a few more quality-control violations struck today, the spirit of calm began to shatter.  My Not Nice tone over a tuna salad dinner was met with that deer-in-the-headlights squint from my man which I've long known means that he senses I'm going to snap, and he will therefore be checking OUT for awhile.

Honesty? Ew. No, it wasn't honest to accuse the poor man of not caring.  Of course he cares about you. He just doesn't know he's supposed to care about quality. His origins were too earthy for that.  But he is not some remote version of your nonexistent perfect parent. And it's not his fault that he is not Juan the Great, my oh-so thoroughly imperfect parent.

A wife in the mold of a Baptist Born Again'er submits. I know this, I've subscribed to it, I've heard and agreed with all the teaching on it, but I just don't have the tools to make it work.

It must start with recognizing that marriage is not about "you." And it starts with telling the truth about what you want in marriage and in home repairs. Can lying people even know what they want? Probably not... being disconnected from "truth" leaves you pretty disconnected from yourself; disabled in the transparent honesty department.

So, I guess submission demands honesty, and if you can't get that from your family of origin, your shrink, your being dashed about by a life of poor choices or from some high tech alteration to your deficient DNA (don't think I'm retarded, but that was my nickname growing up: "Retard..."), you'll get it from marriage sooner or later, if you hang around long enough. It comes from engaging in calm, patient dialogue. It comes after learning how to "shut up and wait" and from cultivating the ability to be OK with not always getting your own way;  things this little zygote isn't sure about, because it's SO DARK in here.

And, because the grown-ups were once remote and distant, the certainty of a Creator who cares is still such a remote possibility; an abstraction. But, if I persist in believing that the black clay can miraculously emerge polished, elegant porcelain someday, I'll try to keep at it, remembering the cosmic dream of a God who loves His creation, and who breathes life into it in the fulness of time.

Honestly, it really is 'just a house.'

"If you can't see what I'm up to, well, I promise you'll find out soon enough. TrustMe."

OK. Once I'm born, I'll be GROWN UP THEN. Right? (Er, well, not exactly...let's talk more on that topic another time, little Z.)


*They say, "DENIAL IS NOT EVEN KNOWING THAT YOU'RE LYING."

My My...

This baby human sleeps alot. NOT. Staying up 'till 3:30am to post a previous day's musings, only to get up at 7:30am to take a car to the mechanic or 8:30am to water the herb garden out back and still be on time for a first photoshop lesson is no way to run a life.  Since I am nodding off, I will be off to bed, remembering as I go, the dinner guests around our patio table tonite...

Why does having people over have to divide my attentions so?  Why can't each guest receive their due attention and the details of the meal attended to easily, all at the same time? Those embarrassing lapses where you realize you are not listening to the person you're talking to, but are miles away, planning to pack up leftovers or wondering if you should serve dessert now or later... It's a shame women don't all attend finishing schools wherein they would learn all the details and social aspects of good, biblical hospitality. (Bigger shame that a Robotic "Alice" from the Brady Bunch doesn't come boxed and giftwrapped with everyone's marriage certificate)

I go to bed now,  praying safety for the nephew who rode his bike home 6 miles. In the dark.
And for the friend who teaches PhotoShop. And for a son who still sees baptism as a commitment he can't make just yet.

(Please bring your glory down, LORD, into all our doings and be-ings. Speak to their hearts of your excellence and call them to know your purpose for their giftings and their need of a daily surrender to the lordship of your Son, Jesus.
And Thank you for shared meals, back yards, and this beautiful, cool breezy weather.   Amen.)

The zygote is learning: sleep comes to the wise, and a fool will stay up all night pursuing trivial matters.

Oh, hey. I did not resort to coffee today. Praise God.

Day Two: August 2, 2010

This Zygote is gutsy. She rode the bus to a volunteer job after dropping off the old Volvo at a new Repair Shop this morning.

I wondered at first if my black baseball cap was 'flashing' a gang color, but when a street wise daddy climbed on carrying a stroller, his black baseball cap looked sane & self assured; so then I was too.  The iPhone was a welcome companion, but having those earbuds in makes the journey selfish.  It's harder to pray for the morbidly obese pregnant teenage rider, or that plump, adorable 7 yr. old copying his grandfather's every move, when Latin Jazz artist interviews are coming from your pocket. Hard to enjoy the banter between the driver and his regulars, who act like the whole bus load of passengers can't hear them carrying on. The trendy toy got HOT to the touch as I transferred from an L.A. Metro to a Long Beach City bus. "Oh great. Have I fried my new friend already?" But I kept it hidden, remembering how much attention it attracted, even at the UPtown, 'burbish Civil War reenactment on Sat.

I got off at Willow Ave., where a beautiful new McDonald's loomed large.  The last time I was in a Golden Arches was 2007. Wish it were oftener, Ronald McDonald House Charity and all.

After buying the cheapest thing on the menu, the stop light gave me 25 seconds to cross the street, & I hobbled over in ten (sprained ankle). Then it was across the parking lot to clean a clinic.  Eleven months of bi-weekly sink & toilet scouring, disinfecting drawer pulls and doorknobs, dusting & vacuuming, and my commitment is starting to wobble.  Well it should. My sprained foot was killing.*

After two more hrs. of PBS World Music reports and the kids' Coldplay Radio on Pandora, the phone had cooled, but I wondered why I keep listening to "NairNair" electric guitar? I hate that stuff. I guess being at Birth Choice makes you feel like one of the wild things who come in for free services; & then I recalled how, just a few long seasons ago, I WAS that (semi-)wild thing coming in for free services, surprised but happy to be an unwed girlfriend to a pudgy ex-football-jock who convinced her to end her lifelong sexual abstinence. . . OR did I convince him. It's a bit muddled and unclear.

Denial, and twenty five years, had masked the thought. I was, once upon a time, so much more Diana than Dora.

But, I would never choose to ride a bus in the Diana Ross days. American Zygote has gotten braver.



*Tendered my "resignation" when they gave themselves the day off w/o telling me & I showed up to a locked clinic with no way to get in... for the third time.  Zygote hopes she will grow a long extender pole on her Patience Gene before her nine month gestation is up. And a bus pass with an extra buck fifty for the ride home would be nice.

Life at Fifty: Day One

In 40 weeks, nine short months,
I will celebrate a birthday.

It occurred to me on this fine August day that I've now emerged into the midlife state of Being Fifty: an official zygote, the uniting of egg and sperm, or, in the more civil terminology,

"n. 1. the cell produced by the union of two gametes. 2. the individual developing from such a cell. -- zy-got-ic (zi got'-ik, zi-), adj." *

Thus, today I've more or less been on this planet a full fifty years. Thanks Marilyn.  Thanks, Juan G, sir. Thanks, God, for marriage, mystery and other dynamic forces beyond our ken (... like death, for instance.  'Just like that,' I was breathed on by the Creator of the Universe. Made Alive. Animated. And "just like that," a few years back, Dad ENDed with a heart attack on the morning of his 53rd wedding anniversary. His great life-breath snuffed out.  

Mom said he was smiling.

(Only Son (OS) must write a song about that).

- - - - - - - - - - 

Dear #2 Daughter ("2D") arrived home tonight with ice cream and a bag of my favorite candy.  Who told her it was my "CONCEPTION-DAY"?  Likely, she just needed a chocFix.  She inquired of my day, and, from a nice little array of milestones to pick from, I chose this one to share: a small sunglassed blonde boy named Dustin prayed to receive Christ in CEF's County Fair Ark...  She crooned.

Dear #1 Daughter ("1D") arrived home from her third Civil War Reenactment. Sunburned and still reeling from last night's contra dance with an eHarmony date, she claimed her Zygote gift to me could be to finally clean the messy drips of stage blood off the kitchen floor and within the bowels of the refrigerator. Small blessings. [Her previous gig involved acting and directing shanks and unhilted 'side-arms,' complete with her homemade quantities of red goo she insists was the perfect blend.]

#1 Son ("OS")
I received no deliberate Happy 50th BD Gift from this guy, but the Pandora he downloaded to my iPhone sang out "Coldplay Radio" as his raucous crowd of poker buddies laughed and carried on till midnight, and I guess I'll consider that was gift enough, but only up until their conversation turned toward plans to visit Vegas. (Five years ago, I disliked Coldplay and poker disgusted me. That ended the day I found OS & dear Hubby smoking cigars in the back yard.  Manhood trumps Baptist civility. "Approved" open sin trumps despicable secret sin.)  I almost resisted soap-boxing against the lore of Vegas & legal prostitution as they impressed each other with 'best places to stay' talk. I kept the nay-saying comments short, as I had eight Ziplock baggies to wash out, a floor to mop, and emails to send.

(Very observant, clever reader. You are right to wonder. Did 1D ever did clean up her splattered blood-like mess? I am learning to conceal such matters. I leave it to TheLordOfHosts to judge.)

Dear Hubby ("DH") made dinner tonite while I slept off a near-all-nighter, probably from folding laundry and cleaning the [>bleep<] kitchen night-before-last, but I forget. He has no idea what a HAPPY Zygote BD he staged for me.

I did not, however, resist soap-boxing when yet another of the kids' friends appeared tonight, waving her new Verizon phone.  Verizon: porn friendly ENEMY OF THE STATE. I want VERY MUCH to stick it to 'em, I chimed.  "When Steve Jobs took a swing at them for putting a porn app on their 'Droid, I paid the early termination fee and DITCHED Verizon. Jobs is heroic, and the iPhone is now the only device worthy of my patronage." I sort of tried not to sound ticked off, but, well, I'm only a zygote, and "mild displeasure" is still an unfamiliar skill. Go to your fiery doom, Verizon. This Zygote is sure you are not helping make America a safe place to be (a good) human.  I can appreciate your gesture in sponsoring a couple of gospel music festivals, but porn is porn. So, I am now the proud owner of an iPhone, complete with  (brace yourself --they used to sponsor Planned Parenthood, and I used to boycott this former enemy of the Pro-Life State -->) a two year AT&T contract.

I'll try to end this day with thanksgiving, as The Fray plays (omg!) "NeverSayNever" (to targets of your ubiquitous boycotts) :

Thank you, LORD God of the Universe, for iPhone designers, programmers, techies, and Mr. Jobs. YOU allowed Apple's better self, their better CEO, the lifelong process of being molded into whomever he needed to become to produce such an iconic contribution to the life of This American Zygote and her porn plagued family members.  Bless, heal, encourage & speak to Job's heart, that in the quiet moments of his power-lunching and business tracking self, he would bear the Name of The One Saviour and revere it. Be saved by it. Call out to it.

"But whoever lives by the truth 

comes into the light, 

so that it may be seen plainly 

that what he has done has been done through God." 

(John 1.) 

And thank you, LORD God, for music, Pandora-delivered or not. Make our hearts beat to yours.

Thank you, too, for Beth Moore and her gift of communicating your truth. Without her extrapolations on the healed self, I don't think I could believe you really love us. I am a better Mom for slowly approaching that reviving possibility. May you give Mrs. Moore a nice long vacation away from her iPhone.

iN Jesus' Name,

iA m e n.

Happy Birthday, little iZygote. 

(* from my musty, trusty thirty-four-years-old high school Comp Class dictionary. Old Chris Walker, composition coach and stylized beatnik English teacher and giver of all my "A's", would be stunned to learn his old Dharma Bum Radical is now a baby-saver; a bleeding heart, submitted wife, a mother,  and a CONservative. Gasp.)

Proverbs 28:26

NIV  

Those who trust in themselves are fools,

    but those who walk in wisdom are kept safe.