Oh. My. Blog.

We tried, Blog.  We really did.  We gave it our Sunday best.

So Sundays in the Keane Quirk household are about the Big Guy upstairs, as well they should be.  I have spent many years cow-towing to the Big Guy, and I have to say it's worked out well for me.  I do remember when Sunday was about putting on your fancy pants and bonnet, and strutting down the avenue. Now it's more about can I get four moving parts to one place at some insane time in the am?  Let's give it a try.

Church.  That's right.  We, in all our silly earnesty, thought we'd try a sort of special form of worship this Sunday.  And special it was.  We went to (they shall remain nameless) a shrine up (or down depending) here in PA to give our Sunday a special type of spin.  And we had such good intentions.  We were going to worship, then peruse the gift shop and go on a hike.  Sounds terrif.  

There is a moment and I can't quite describe it.  But there is a moment when everything is fantabulous and we are singing coombahya, and then it all quickly downward spirals.  And that's pretty much what happened.  We have three tiny munchkees, so usually we are on zone defense instead of man-to-man.  But then it quickly became apparent that we needed man-to-man,   Dad's got the youngest, I have Ted.  Because Ted, the little sh*t, is instigating the youngest and we are in church.  So I am all "Amazing Grace" until I am all I will kill you in one second for misbehaving.   Ha, the opposite of religious serenity. That's where the moment comes in. The little flabbergasters just cannot sit still, and I try to understand. 

And then Eleanor flips her sh*t. I mean she really lays it on.  With the kicks and the screams and someone is going to die right this second because her world is ending.  So as I am swaying to Amazing Grace, the youngy gets hooked out of the pew.  Bye Bye.  And of course, acoustics are terrif when you have the Morman Tabernacle Choir on your hands, but not so great when dad is in the lobby exploding with f-bombs. Yeah, that's right. the f bomb exploded in the narthex as I flew out of the doors. 

Holy smokes.  Literally.