tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-38019706656137766202024-03-19T13:23:33.859-05:00The Queen of All That is OrdinarySmall scraps of life, love and suchUnknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger32125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3801970665613776620.post-78842135575263602392010-09-01T20:51:00.009-05:002010-09-01T21:49:05.750-05:00Trying to RememberToday is the first day of September. I knew it somehow in my heart before I knew it in my head this morning, for I found myself humming these lyrics in the shower as I got ready for work:<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Try to remember the kind of September</i></div><i><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal; "><i>When life was slow and oh, so mellow.</i></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal; "><i>Try to remember the kind of September</i></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal; "><i>When grass was green and grain was yellow.</i></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal; "><i>Try to remember the kind of September</i></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal; "><i>When you were a tender and callow fellow.</i></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal; "><i>Try to remember, and if you remember,</i></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal; "><i>Then follow.</i></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal; "><i>Follow, follow, follow, follow, follow,</i></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal; "><i>Follow, follow, follow, follow.</i></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal; "><i>Try to remember when life was so tender</i></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal; "><i>That no one wept except the willow.</i></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal; "><i>Try to remember when life was so tender</i></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal; "><i>That dreams were kept beside your pillow.</i></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal; "><i>Try to remember when life was so tender</i></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal; "><i>That love was an ember about to billow.</i></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal; "><i>Try to remember, and if you remember,</i></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal; "><i>Then follow...</i></span></div></i><br /><div>I stopped to wonder why I was humming that song, and of course half-singing the words all out of order. I love the song but it's not in my regular rotation of songs to sing obnoxiously off-key around the house. Then I realized it was indeed September 1.<br /><br />I love the first of every month. New start. Fresh beginning. Clean slate. Fewer strokes of the pen when writing a check. My goodintentionsometer goes through the roof and everything seems much more possible. September 1 is especially good, though. I know that the equinox isn't for another few weeks and that I can still wear my white cotton pants until Monday without scandalizing most of society, and that our city's schools already started last week, but for me September 1st signals the end of summer and the beginning of my favorite season.<br /><br />This summer has been a particularly hard one, and I'm not sad to see it go. Work has been inordinately stressful and my core belief in what I do was shaken and challenged in unexpected ways. Money's been tight everywhere I turn, the summer's heat wave seemed to go on forever and every time I turn on the news I feel I recognize my world a little less. I think I'm emerging more or less intact now, and there were many good times had as well, but today I'm not sorry to bid this summer adieu.<br /><br />I'd made a much-delayed trip to the grocery store last night and so when I got up I also remembered I had a fridge-full of new food. Ten minutes later Ben was thrilled beyond words to discover a lovely pot roast buried under a ton of vegetables in a 6-qt. slow cooker. I wasn't cooking much over the summer so this was terribly exciting.<br /><br />The day turned out to be good in many different ways. Around lunch it started to rain, cooling the day off and completely matching my mood. Then I found a spare wad of cash sequestered away in a pocket of my purse, so I treated myself to a late lunch by myself downtown. I don't know if I can adequately describe how great it was. I started with an almond steamer (frothy steamed almond-flavored milk, perfectly comforting and wonderful in every way) then had a big bowl of the soup of the day, a rich chicken and potato gnocchi soup. It was just exactly what I needed, and perhaps the most flavorful chicken brothed-based soup I've ever tasted. I couldn't finish it but I enjoyed every bit.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Lovely spot for a quiet late-afternoon sit on a rainy September day</b>.</div></div><div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLgblICNT268K9yviWG_LZZZuYmt-pOo2eGLBWNxMmREAUr8MXIKMKR3SfIzyfC-OTjIpvxU5Fbb9-74oEfMKw-G5OBwSD7GaD4GzoyTXAz1r0Cl4ZNlAdUXxlTz4_YlDDgBaJSQDJY4w/s1600/IMG_1958.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLgblICNT268K9yviWG_LZZZuYmt-pOo2eGLBWNxMmREAUr8MXIKMKR3SfIzyfC-OTjIpvxU5Fbb9-74oEfMKw-G5OBwSD7GaD4GzoyTXAz1r0Cl4ZNlAdUXxlTz4_YlDDgBaJSQDJY4w/s400/IMG_1958.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5512135645368782754" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Really Great Soup. I took a picture. </b></div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkusvSlzTmOglxPIZgiuZERHOLbUc_NS43cfeF1Wfd_hKksBAaBBu1RNRjm05Q8HPJfBJc5oHBVtV2e0WaFv98Ay6GYELCecE2EqNsLsJ4hWHiLQLBrAGdBqm7F74E-kFnAgQJWpgrbMQ/s1600/IMG_1960.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkusvSlzTmOglxPIZgiuZERHOLbUc_NS43cfeF1Wfd_hKksBAaBBu1RNRjm05Q8HPJfBJc5oHBVtV2e0WaFv98Ay6GYELCecE2EqNsLsJ4hWHiLQLBrAGdBqm7F74E-kFnAgQJWpgrbMQ/s400/IMG_1960.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5512137101028440194" /></a><br /><br />Work was fun today. I started off this job not knowing the first thing in the world about graphic design, but now that's one of the more satisfying hats I get to wear. I like the combination of creativity and structure, the concreteness of the finished product. It's gratifying to make ads and materials that my colleagues appreciate and that I know are an improvement on what we'd used before. </div><div><br /></div><div>Then when I got home, the house smelled of my childhood. All those Sunday lunches of pot roast Dad had made for the family Saturday night while we slept, all of those were waiting for me. I gave the dog a longer walk, enjoyed the post-rain September neighborhood, then settled in for pot roast and a quiet evening at home. Now I'm sitting here blogging for the first time in more than 15 months and listening to classical music on NPR and Ben's frittering around the house doing Ben things. It's nice. </div><div><br /></div><div>Thinking back over my day, I knew it was one I wanted to remember. One where life was slow and oh so mellow. I knew it this morning before I even got started, and I knew once I knew that that it was time for a blog post, for myself if for no one else. </div><div><br /></div><div>It's the first of the month and I'm full of good intentions, but I really would like to start writing here more often. No promises. But for now it feels good and I want to remember that feeling.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3801970665613776620.post-6941747121260337992009-06-06T12:53:00.002-05:002009-06-06T13:19:17.963-05:0036My parents always made a big deal about my birthdays. I think most of the credit for this goes to Mom, but Dad was awfully jolly about my day, too. We'd have a great party and a day full of special Jennifer Things. I grew up thinking they were inherently magical, special days. <div><br /></div><div>I remember when I turned 18 and had just moved out of the house to Little Rock for a couple of weeks before my parents would move down to join us. I was living at my grandparents' for that time. It was in the middle of the week, everyone was busy with their own lives, and I was working at Shoney's all day. Somehow, for the first time ever, I went most of the day without anyone wishing me happy birthday. Eventually, they did, and I think I got some presents trickling in here and there over the next couple of weeks from various people, but it was a real wake-up call to me. My first adult birthday, what I'd thought would be a huge one, just because, and it turned out to be devoid of almost any overt birthdayness. I really was an adult.</div><div><br /></div><div>It was then that I realized that the magic of birthdays is made up mostly of what people who love you make of them. I knew on that 18th birthday that my family and friends didn't suddenly love me any less, they just hadn't had time or ability to make a fuss about it. I realized I'd been sort of spoiled all those years, and vowed to be grateful for any birthday attentions I got, and to always make a point of remembering and celebrating others' in some way.</div><div><br /></div><div>Of course I don't. I forget people's all the time, or remember, but don't find time to call or write or send a gift. I wish I were better at that. Maybe someday I will be. </div><div><br /></div><div>But it's okay, because every day is a good reason to celebrate someone you love, and everyone is human and forgets these things sometimes.</div><div><br /></div><div>That said. </div><div><br /></div><div>It's my birthday, and I'm excited. I'm 36. This is an important year for several reasons. Namely, because it's what I long ago decided would be my magic year. </div><div><br /></div><div>I was born on June 6. So, 6/6. Six has thus, always been my favorite number--followed closely by four and nine, though it's harder to explain the why of those. Birthday numbers that contain sixes are automatically good. But 36 is 6 x 6. It's the best possible number, and has the added mathematical beauty of being the mash-up of a 3 and a 6. I don't know how to explain it, but it's lyrical and beautiful in a number sort of way in my head. Also, my other two favorite numbers , four and nine, when multiplied? 36. </div><div><br /></div><div>It's destiny. </div><div><br /></div><div>When I started writing this post, another reason occurred to me. That 18th birthday is now officially half a lifetime ago. That was a turning point. This will be another.</div><div><br /></div><div>Apparently, it already has been, since I'm writing a blog post for the first time in months. </div><div><br /></div><div>A lot has transpired in the meantime, and I'm sorry not to have written more updates in between. </div><div><br /></div><div>The best new development is that I have a new job, and I love it. I'll have to write more about it in another post, but it's a great fit for me and my particular skill set at this point in my life. I'm looking forward to see how I grow in my career this coming year, as well as in every other area. </div><div><br /></div><div>Thanks to everyone for the many, many birthday wishes I've received already, and for the years of love and support and friendship and laughter we've shared. </div><div><br /></div><div>Happy you-day to you. And ma-ny mooooooooooooore....</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3801970665613776620.post-13679372056669602452009-03-10T22:57:00.011-05:002009-03-11T00:28:09.340-05:00Jennifer Joy, She Made a Toy<span style="font-weight:bold;"></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">I have the best parents in the world. Seriously. They are A-MAZ-ING people, both of them, and they have always put a lot of effort into parenting me and my sister and brother.<br /><br />Like many kids of the 70s, I had a record of Free to Be You and Me, the children's music and spoken word recording by Marlo Thomas and a passel of other celebrities. I listened to that record I don't know how many thousand times. There were stories, songs, skits, poems performed by voices I would decades later realize were famous. People like Harry Belafonte, Diana Ross, Alan Alda, Mel Brooks and many others. I know in the case of Alan Alda, for instance, I knew him on MASH but always felt like I knew him from somewhere before. I only just figured this out.<br /><br />Mom (Mommy back then) would hold me or sit by me and listen to the whole thing. She'd take time to explain what different lyrics meant and what the philosophy was behind them, actually talk to me like an equal about it.<br /><br />One of my favorite lyrics, because it contained my name, was from the Helping song:<br /><br />"Zachary Zugg took out the rug/<br />And Jennifer Joy helped shake it/<br />And Jennifer Joy, she made a toy--/<br />And Zachary Zugg helped break it!/<br />And some kinds of help/<br />Are the kind of help that helpings all about/<br />And some kinds of help are the kind of help/<br />We all could do without.<br /><br />Mom and I always sang the Jennifer Joy line as loudly and happily as we could.<br /><br />That's the thing about Free to Be You and Me--the songs were pretty great, the writing was funny, but it was really all about the messaging. These were songs, poems and sketches that were written in direct retaliation to the predominant gender biases in society. I learned it was OK for boys to play with dolls, or show their feelings, that women could grow up to be strong and independent and just as fast and smart as boys, that brothers and sisters rule, and that helping was fun and that I could grow up to be a construction worker or a doctor or a policeman or a mom, anything I wanted.<br /><br />I was free, you see, to be me.<br /><br />Today, a lot of people would call that cheesy idealism, but I loved it then and I love it now. It shaped my worldview. There's something so pure and joyous about these songs, an innocence beyond irony. As a friend of mine likes to say, I dig it.<br /><br />I've never forgotten those songs. I've gone for long periods without thinking of them, sure, but they are a part of me now. I happened across the record in my parents' garage last summer. Not the best place for it to spend the past three decades, as it was warped in all kinds of twisty ways. I was a little sad, but it's OK. I've probably gotten warped in a lot of twisty ways since then, too.<br /><br />Today, I was mentioning that album to a friend and he said I could probably find it all over YouTube. I didn't think about it at the time, but I thought later, why would a record be all over YouTube? So I went to visit. Wow. Turns out, that the 1972 album was made into a 1974 television special with even more celebrities. I had no idea. It was a complete trip seeing how people chose to animate or choreograph all the soundtrack to my childhood. It's so odd that I know these songs so well, yet never saw these 35-year old images until a few hours ago.<br /><br />Here, are some of the recreations I found from that special. I literally think of the "It's Alright to Cry" song every time I'm fighting off serious tears. I think the fact that it's sung by Rosey Grier, the former NFL player and bodyguard, is fantastic.<br /><br />Intro--Free to Be You and Me. Notice how they ripped off Mary Poppins, another favorite of mine, at the end.<br /></span></span><object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/gCg9XLb-vHY&hl=en&fs=1"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/gCg9XLb-vHY&hl=en&fs=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /><br />Helping (by Shel Silverstein)--I like the album version better, but still.<br /></span></span><object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/p3XSs_EOK1g&hl=en&fs=1"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/p3XSs_EOK1g&hl=en&fs=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /><br />It's Alright to Cry, sung by Rosey Grier<br /></span></span><object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/tHrwcQrY-JM&hl=en&fs=1"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/tHrwcQrY-JM&hl=en&fs=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /><br />And, because my sister Laura and her husband Kyle are this week both at work for the first time since becoming parents in December, I thought I'd post this one in their honor. Play it for Abby, someday, sis. Even better if you dress up in some of these get-ups. :)<br /><br />Parents Are People<br /></span></span><object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/7Wxfd1E7HV8&hl=en&fs=1"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/7Wxfd1E7HV8&hl=en&fs=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></span></span><br /></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3801970665613776620.post-77448408543288381892009-03-07T17:08:00.005-06:002009-03-07T19:00:20.101-06:00Don (But Not Forgotten)<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">My apologies. I had to put something of a pun in the heading to this post, because Don would have. </span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Don is my uncle, and he died a year ago today. He was a big part of my life and I have thought of him every day since he died, and a great percentage of my days before that. I miss him very much, but usually it's not exactly sad to miss him. I still feel connected to him, and he still makes me laugh. He is someone that when I think of him, the overriding emotion has always been joy. It's more muted now, but it's still joy that he's my uncle. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Everything that an uncle is supposed to be, he was. Fun-loving. Goofy. Supportive. Wise. Silly. Smart. Animated. Curious. Loving. There.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">He played guitar, sang, preached, acted, laughed, had an inordinate fondness for bad jokes and for making his nieces and nephews giggle and squeal with glee. He and the aunt he picked out just for me, Yvonne, usually seemed to be enjoying the heck out of each other's company and grateful for each other, even through the rough times. They were true partners in life and love and in many ways excellent role models for my own marriage. Because they did not have children of their own, they showered us with attention at every opportunity. Don knew how to love a person wholly, and dedicated his life to spreading love, compassion and his faith in God to the world he encountered. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">He was a Methodist minister like his two brothers, and now, his sister, and served many small congregations throughout rural Arkansas. As a preacher's kid, I can tell you, that while rewarding in many ways, this is a greatly undervalued and misunderstood career, and too often a thankless one. When Don finally felt the need for a career change, it was not for an easier job, or even a more lucrative job. Instead, after many years in the ministry, he went back and got a Master's in Social Work and became a caseworker and advocate for the indigent mentally ill. It sounds like I'm idealizing him when I say that day after day he worked long hours well above the scope of his job to get his clients, forgotten by society, the care they needed, but I'm really not. He'd take them shopping, drive them to appointments, think of all sorts of creative ways to boost their lives and prospects, or at least their day, by showing them someone cared about them. I lived with him and Y for a few months one year during this time, and witnessed his dedication to these people every day. He did this while still caring for a small, rural congregation part time and while battling the many hardships and complications of his diabetes.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">He'd had diabetes from the time he was a kid, six or seven, I think. When I was young, I thought this was so cool (on up there with the fact that he drove a canary yellow Karmann Ghia and carried a chihuahua around in his shirt half the time). As a kid I thought it was neat and exotic that he drank Tab cola (before such a thing as Diet Coke existed), couldn't have sugar and gave himself shots. I can remember bragging about him on the playground to someone:</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Other kid: "My uncle let me ride in his firetruck."</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Me: "Yeah, well MY uncle is DIABETIC and is so tough he gives himself SHOTS every day!"</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Diabetes, though, is an ugly, insidious disease. For all those years I naively thought it was just a thing to manage, it was silently hurting his body, eventually going after system after system. Don's health, never great, began to deteriorate pretty rapidly a few years ago. He got through a kidney transplant and seemed better for a while, but soon began to be in and out of the hospital for this and that procedure, test, fever, complication. Within a short time, we found out the diabetes had compromised his circulatory system and he needed major bypass surgery. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I was, as usual, wrapped up in my own self-absorption around that time, often hearing only after an incident that Don's health had taken a downturn, but on my way to work the morning of his big surgery, I suddenly thought to call him and wish him well. I only spoke to him for a couple of minutes, but I remember he sounded uncharacteristically anxious, and very happy that I had called. He spent much of the short phone call winding me up for his latest bad joke. Since I was driving in traffic (bad habit) I was distracted, and missed some of the narrative. Now, I just remember there was something about a cow and a helicopter in the punchline, I think. I wish I could remember it, but I do remember him laughing at it. I told him I loved him, that all would go swimmingly and I'd see him this evening, then hung up. After work, I would join my family in the waiting room for many hours waiting for word of the surgery, and later, for him to wake up.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">He did wake up from the surgery, but everything had changed. I don't know that I ever fully understood it, but the oxygen had left his brain in the aphasia mode for too long and his body was so weak. It was weeks, maybe months, before we could communicate with him with any semblance of normalcy, and then, only touch and go. Complicating everything, the medical center during his recovery had been negligent, resulting in an incident that deprived his brain of oxygen for several minutes and permanently set back his recovery. We all did our best to sit with him or visit, but I think only Yvonne fully understood him and his needs. He was still Don but was trapped in this frail, diminished shell that could barely sit up, walk, or stay free of infection, much less hold sustained, coherent conversations with the rest of us.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The morning I had spoken to him was the last day Don was at home. The next few years were a seemingly endless series of medical emergencies, breakthroughs, setbacks, infections, hospitalizations, rehabilitation plans, legal and billing crises, and transfers between the hospital, the rehab facility, and the long-term care home. Through everything, Yvonne, brokenhearted and ever-hopeful, remained steadfastly by his side, caring for him and fighting with administrators or lax nursing staff on his behalf the way he had once advocated for his clients. Some days were great days, and he seemed so much of himself, able to go out for short trips to join us for a family holiday gathering or just to be with us, out of the clinical healthcare setting for a few joyous hours. Other days were just painful to even think about.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">His death was horrible and beautiful at the same time. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">It was beautiful because our family, always close, was able to go to his bedside and say our goodbyes the day before. It was horrible because we had to.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">It was beautiful because once we all got there, we gathered around his bedside and together sang his favorite hymns and songs, said some prayers, while he looked around at us each in turn. It was horrible because his eyes looked so teary, grateful and bewildered all at once in those moments before they began the sedative, palliative care from which he would not wake. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">It was beautiful because Yvonne, my aunt Anne, uncle Robert and I spent that final night in his uncomfortable hospital room with him, mostly silently, so he would not have to die alone, and so Yvonne would not be alone when that happened. It was horrible because his destroyed body writhed and wheezed a wretched death rattle all night and we never knew if each breath would be the last one as his vital signs stubbornly refused to give any ground and we didn't know what to feel. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">It was beautiful because the nursing staff was so caring and attentive, and understood in the morning, when he needed more meds. It was horrible because he still needed them. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">It was beautiful because Yvonne realized that a final bath, that ancient cleansing ritual, might be just what his body and spirit needed to let go. It was beautiful because the nurse gave our family time to gather at the hospital again before that happened. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">It was beautiful and horrible because when we finally came back in the room afterwards, his vitals that we had been watching all that awful night finally began to slip and then fall steadily towards death. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">It was beautiful that he died finally peaceful after so many years of physical and emotional pain, silently encircled by the people he loved best, and who best loved him, all of us holding onto each other, to Yvonne, to him. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">It was horrible because then he was gone and his body was just his body, flesh shaped like Don but not Don. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">It was beautiful because as he had died, that Friday at noon on the dot, the cold and bleak rain of the past few days at that moment turned into the most beautiful falling snow that I watched in the window beyond his bed as his vitals silently flatlined. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">It was beautiful because we were here all together in this time of profound grief. It was horrible because Don, who was so good at grief counseling, was not.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">It was horrible because we loved him so much. It was beautiful for this reason, too.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">So now, it's been a year since that day, which seems impossible. It's stayed with me, and probably always will. Luckily, so far, so have my many wonderful memories of my uncle and all he brought into my life. Today I looked out the window and saw a flurry of white again. For a split second I thought it was snow. Then I realized it was blossoms from a pear tree dancing past in a warm Spring breeze. Somehow, that feels appropriate.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Tonight, in his honor, I'll light a candle. And then I'm going to find a knee-slapper of a joke, and some poor victim on which to inflict it. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I love and miss you, Don. Hope you're having a blast on this next journey and keeping some angels in giggles. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><br /></div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQCCZWBsxP-_irhhqbIwlnJZMDLB9uvNsY41mOcL6JuZe-ZAk16DIgMdUHuNKQgUeY5O4KJhYbI0XYimkjIupeN-JVq-CHHExfnTsnxnf8eq94usHy3iP_bdqF2jmMMwWxRhpSaztuEZ4/s1600-h/DonNitnoya.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 283px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQCCZWBsxP-_irhhqbIwlnJZMDLB9uvNsY41mOcL6JuZe-ZAk16DIgMdUHuNKQgUeY5O4KJhYbI0XYimkjIupeN-JVq-CHHExfnTsnxnf8eq94usHy3iP_bdqF2jmMMwWxRhpSaztuEZ4/s400/DonNitnoya.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5310615074816329074" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh62ryxnxz5EyHjg3hyphenhyphenN6eKYyM8QsFkaUsSDYibWDg4OGV_bwqHxboUaZgDU1rq8O9BNhD0R9RmbBv_1VEvIv7EPv0JUvdbWmBf-e1OCb6sbl4ec4r6kkYPCT4qbaiWKp9yId2yp6A7u84/s1600-h/Don+on+Y+lap.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 345px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh62ryxnxz5EyHjg3hyphenhyphenN6eKYyM8QsFkaUsSDYibWDg4OGV_bwqHxboUaZgDU1rq8O9BNhD0R9RmbBv_1VEvIv7EPv0JUvdbWmBf-e1OCb6sbl4ec4r6kkYPCT4qbaiWKp9yId2yp6A7u84/s400/Don+on+Y+lap.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5310615066036511666" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfzFqAyCUmYWMYjM6KBX7Y_grDZcOY9fv4JRL1-J98atZax7SuhA4LU3tMBrUYcmrhSiMdXPAFW3pMZdzZDsrWFogjassfKmNyQGXKkWVo7EUBuA2UNhMnSKQDqOgrWIZ9nhmU22VQZxk/s1600-h/n57301414_30202812_5402.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfzFqAyCUmYWMYjM6KBX7Y_grDZcOY9fv4JRL1-J98atZax7SuhA4LU3tMBrUYcmrhSiMdXPAFW3pMZdzZDsrWFogjassfKmNyQGXKkWVo7EUBuA2UNhMnSKQDqOgrWIZ9nhmU22VQZxk/s400/n57301414_30202812_5402.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5310615064427768242" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmM6qZ35L56RWnc1VEYzw5yqkkfsbm71G8NoMo5bqcG_UAlxebtOT0qNAhyphenhyphencTEMkOEg4vF1BTIOyaxFo2UBZZyVWa8cP3hQY5kMAeINrosqdaCgfCwT00mVOoy-alC2Mx7FsIki0Z4vsw/s1600-h/Don+hawaiian+garb.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 266px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmM6qZ35L56RWnc1VEYzw5yqkkfsbm71G8NoMo5bqcG_UAlxebtOT0qNAhyphenhyphencTEMkOEg4vF1BTIOyaxFo2UBZZyVWa8cP3hQY5kMAeINrosqdaCgfCwT00mVOoy-alC2Mx7FsIki0Z4vsw/s400/Don+hawaiian+garb.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5310615056861278146" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdRr5duSwBX5PxnwCXfq9CmbIlzOxl1V1FgJLsdXwGSqa0t38in7YVIoBoT4oNxAWbC4dzxWVxwhDxKR1mz4j5FtQZCkXrCBrJuwNSgLqG6BOVEd5jlgDe97bvPCf2SWjYfeCqP_9MAGM/s1600-h/Don+mummy.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 314px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdRr5duSwBX5PxnwCXfq9CmbIlzOxl1V1FgJLsdXwGSqa0t38in7YVIoBoT4oNxAWbC4dzxWVxwhDxKR1mz4j5FtQZCkXrCBrJuwNSgLqG6BOVEd5jlgDe97bvPCf2SWjYfeCqP_9MAGM/s400/Don+mummy.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5310614188833701298" /></a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3801970665613776620.post-9125124711922537322009-02-14T18:30:00.006-06:002009-02-14T20:09:20.706-06:00Southern Comfort<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Sometimes it still startles me that I live in the South--and by that I mean the true, cliche-heavy South. That's quite silly, of course, since I have lived here my entire life. (Living three and a half years in Kansas City as a tot doesn't exempt me from being a lifelong Southerner, no matter what they tell you.)</span></span><div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">I long ago realized that certain aspects of my environment I'd always taken for granted are not universal--for example, the slower pace of life, the simple country fashions, the propensity to deep-fry anything, the potluck culture, the always entertaining array of things on front porches. I could go on and on. Heck, there's probably a whole slew of things I never even think of being different, I'm so used to them. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Sometimes, though, I'm still taken aback. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">The other day, driving home in my Scion XB from picking up Marlowe at doggie daycare, a pickup--one of the little ones, old and low to the ground--moseyed along the road in front of the intersection where I was stopped, made a slow right turn, and rolled onto the gravel and weeds that made up the front yard directly in front of me. This gave me plenty of time to silently gape at the traveling cliche I was witnessing. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">First, the tiny cab held two skinny passengers--men who looked like they might know their way around a meth lab--and one droopy eared hound dog. This in itself is not unusual, of course. What made me pause was the bed of the truck, which contained not only a crushed velvet, duct-tape-patched gold recliner, but reclining all his mass in said recliner was a huge, tall, heavy man in denim overalls and a flannel shirt, picking at his teeth with a length of straw. Yes, actual straw. He had long, gray scraggly hair, mud on his overalls, and not a care in the world. That man was as content atop his Chevy chariot as any man I have ever seen.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Having reached their destination, he hauled himself out of the recliner, kind of reluctantly, lunged out of the truck over the side with a big humph. I drove--slowly--past and he gave me a kindly nod of his head as he made his way after the other fellas to have a set on the hardscrabble front porch. I didn't dally to see if they pulled out a fiddle and the 'baccy or just started chewing on some corn on the cob and talking about the ol' fishing hole, but they all looked to be in splendid spirits. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">It really looked comfortable, and at the speeds they were going, about as safe as a parade float. I gotta say, I was a little envious.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">For all the times I gripe about what we don't have here, scenes like that make me appreciate all we do. I have to believe that there is a higher-than-average percentage of our population that is almost completely un-self-conscious. They are who they are, and Jesus loves them for it, so why wouldn't everyone else? I love living somewhere so colorful and rich with its own slow-ripened culture. It challenges me and sustains me in ways I don't often notice. For all its problems, this is a good, beautiful place.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Yep, I'm happily a Southerner, through and through. Even without owning overalls. </span></span></div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3801970665613776620.post-30067143504366143282009-02-13T15:20:00.004-06:002009-02-13T15:59:55.756-06:00MacNest<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I haven't written anything in a bit because I have been a complete and utter slug. Look at the state of my housekeeping the past couple of weeks, and it really doesn't seem that outrageous to think I could be leaving a trail of slime in my wake. </span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Ben commented the other night that I'm the only person he knows who really does use her laptop on top of her lap most of the time. I disputed this, reminding him of my sister and probably the countless other people we know who use laptops as God intended them, but I didn't miss his larger point. Lately, it's not just that most of the time that I use my laptop it's in my lap, but that I have the laptop in my lap most of the time. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I've developed what is probably a very bad habit. Every day, I build a sort of nest for myself on the couch. In the morning before Ben leaves for work, I scuttle over to the couch and put my feet up under me in some way (I have a very hard time sitting straightforward on a couch, or anywhere). I have my three or four throw pillows that I position around myself in various configurations. Then there are the two comfy afghans I use--part of the time for warmth as I am perpetually cold, and the other part to build up a sort of ledge on which to balance the computer, or my lunch, or my notes I'm transcribing--generally sort of a giant U of afghan curled around me. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Then there's the ever-handy wooden TV tray table that I've pulled up next to the couch. It at the moment has scraps of junk mail and bills to be paid, two half-empty soda cans, three used paper plates with remembrances of lunches past on them, two bowls, a disposable Gladware container with the rinds of two clementines, two spoons, my favorite brush, a bag of cat treats and a box of Kleenex. I make sure in the morning that I have my cell phone and cordless phone and pen and paper within reach, and thus--except to get food or go to the bathroom--I don't really have to get dressed or leave my perch all day. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">From here, I can check e-mail, edit photos, make calls, interview physicians, write articles, pay bills, apply for jobs, check in with the blogs I frequent, comment on Facebook, work on my own writing, surf the Web, learn new things, read interesting articles, check the news and analysis sites, pretty much anything a gal could want. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">If I want a change of pace, move the afghans and pillows and --voila--there's the other side of the couch! Today, I'm working on the left side; this is new and exciting and adds variety to my day. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Then, around 4 or 5 o'clock, I take the dog for a 20- to 30-minute walk, pick up groceries maybe, and make dinner. Once dinner is done, back to my MacNest I go. Whether I'm reading, watching TV or a movie, or just chatting with Ben, my trusty laptop is almost always less than a laptop away. Again, I am here most of the evening. I think Ben's growing jealous of my time.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">What I've not been doing lately is moving much. There's the walk with the dog, but it's not much of a workout. I have become even more of a giant sedentary blob than I thought possible. I remember back when I was taking taekwondo, I would revel at the fact that I had once gone whole days without really moving my body much. Now, I revel that I ever did so many workouts. The taekwondo workouts are gone, and those inert days are back. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana; font-size: 13px;">The other thing I've not done much of lately is interact with live, breathing, fully flesh-and-blood people sharing the same air as me. I don't feel socially deprived at all because I keep up with so many friends online, but I think I'm probably missing something important. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana; font-size: 13px;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I'm a little bit crippled because of a chronically sore heel I have to get fixed, but still. I want to find more opportunities to get out of my nest, enjoy the world. Maybe even unplug for a while. </span></span></div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Yet, I just love my computer world so much. Maybe I can take it with me on walks, introduce it to new people? </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana; font-size: 13px;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Somehow, I think I'm going to have to think bigger than that. It's going to take more than the other side of the couch to find that balance. </span></span></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3801970665613776620.post-41762676820691110472009-01-31T22:37:00.001-06:002009-01-31T22:39:32.310-06:00George, Lost<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">I was cooking dinner tonight, humming something or other and stirring the lamb masala, when Ben called me. He had just left to walk the dog a few minutes before, so I was surprised he was calling. He must have forgotten something.<br /><br />“That was Brian,” he said. I could hear him walking, breathing a little heavier, hear cars driving by. “He called to let us know George died.”<br /><br />That’s one of those phone calls you never want to get, always want to rewind and take the words away. Whenever I hear someone I know has died, the finality of it is what gets me first. There’s no do over, no more chances to do something better, say something you’d held back. It’s done. Eventually, the grief and missing that person sets in with its own horrors, but the finality of it is what first hits me. Death has come. The world is now forever different. Someone I’ve known, maybe loved, is permanently gone, eternally quiet. It’s hard to wrap my brain around that, that my story continues and theirs does not.<br /><br />George was Brian’s best friend. Brian has been one of Ben’s best friends for the past 18 years, and now also one of my close friends. Ben had known George all that time, though not nearly as well as Brian. Since George lived in Harrison, several hours away, I had only met George on I think two occasions, but I liked him immediately, and heard reports about him from Brian often.<br /><br />George was in his early 40s, a tall, heavyset gay man with a giant smile and sad eyes. Everything about him was somehow oversized—he’d startle our border collie Marlowe into fits of barking whenever he’d stand up, we think just because he was suddenly so tall. He bore a strong resemblance to Christopher Hitchens, but inflated.<br /><br />George’s health was poor—high blood pressure, diabetes, several other things. He often walked with a cane because of a problem with his foot. He lived right by his parents, who very much relied on him. The past year had been rough on George and his family in many ways, including losing his older brother, who also died much too young.<br /><br />George’s parents came home today and found him dead. We don’t know what killed him. I hope they find out conclusively what happened to their son. This was the youngest of their two children, both now deceased. I can’t imagine.<br /><br />I feel a deep sadness for George. I met him so late in his story, I at most rate a footnote. But I always sensed his deep capacity for joy, capriciousness, silliness. I know Brian enjoyed his company probably more than anyone else’s he knows.<br /><br />I could tell George struggled with loneliness and depression. I seem to have radar for such things, and an affinity for the lonely souls and misfits of the world. But I had hope that something would change for George. Maybe he’d move closer to us and we could be closer friends, or maybe he’d meet someone wonderful who appreciated him and would fall head over heels for him, or get back on track with his career. He was so smart and funny, wickedly clever and unremorsefully catty sometimes, and yet also unfailingly polite. He was devoted to Brian, and though they were both largish gay men of the same approximate age, they both insist they were never once attracted to each other; they were from the start just the very best of friends.<br /><br />I am sad for George, that he will never get to turn that next corner in his life, never find joy on earth amongst his friends again. And I absolutely ache for Brian, who just lost his best friend of close to 20 years and is reeling from the shock.<br /><br />There will be no funeral, but maybe we can find someway to send his spirit off as friends. I’d like to do that for Brian.<br /><br />Rest in peace, George. You made a difference here, and are missed. I wish I’d known you better.</span><br /></span></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3801970665613776620.post-67397279598291267742009-01-21T11:25:00.008-06:002009-01-21T12:18:07.057-06:00Thoughts on WALL-E<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiislnyeyzVybPZgFhRdMfcInk4TbwUJKBecXPButjc6okRGSFzQYBeVbWlMWyvWfiotpe_-26_bMcz6jpIyz46O-HREimhDsUhoM7ejUWhEzU-g94dIsQLv9NT1c66bCYv7ta2R0hmfGg/s1600-h/walle060208-01small.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiislnyeyzVybPZgFhRdMfcInk4TbwUJKBecXPButjc6okRGSFzQYBeVbWlMWyvWfiotpe_-26_bMcz6jpIyz46O-HREimhDsUhoM7ejUWhEzU-g94dIsQLv9NT1c66bCYv7ta2R0hmfGg/s400/walle060208-01small.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5293812975597600018" /></a><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><div><br /></div>This isn't a film blog, but I frequent quite a few every day. My favorite is </span><a href="http://livingincinema.com/"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Living in Cinema</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">, where the posts are always smart and funny and insightful, and the highly lively comments section has discussions among the two-dozen or so regulars that will go on for days or weeks, spinning wildly off topic at times. They are for the most part, way more informed about films than I am, but all are welcomed to discuss. If any of you are movie buffs, check it out. </span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Yesterday, a very nice and intelligent feller from New Zealand on there politely asked what he was not "getting" about WALL-E, 2008's animated movie from Pixar Studios. It's won a bunch of critics' awards, even some Best Picture prizes from various esteemed critical groups, and he had just watched it, and couldn't quite see why it was so acclaimed. Movie watching is subjective, of course, but I thought I'd respond with what I thought were the film's strengths. </span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">I liked the film the first time I saw it, then watched the DVD with my family again over the holidays and fell head over heels for the little robot story. Here's what I wrote over in the comments section at LiC. It's a rather long comment, but a nice size for a blog posting, so I figured I'd double dip and use it over here, too. It's not a formal review, and not as polished as it would be if it were, but I thought my rather forgiving parents, et al, might enjoy reading it.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">If you haven't seen WALL-E, try to find a copy soon. I don't own it yet, but I will.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></div><div><blockquote><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Here's what I think the critics are seeing, that for whatever perfectly valid reason, you are not.</span></blockquote><blockquote><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">WALL-E is at its heart a celebration of humanity's ingenuity, creativity, and capacity to overcome even our worst selfish, slothful impulses and grow into something better, for the sake of something bigger than our own bloated selves. It's about the power of one, the power of two, the power of many. WALL-E himself is as much a human invention as the mess he was created to clean up; his character traits (resourcefulness, curiosity, loneliness, dilligence, loyalty, friendship, love, rashness, courage, the ability to learn) are a direct reflection of our own. Eve, too, is a product of us, directly or indirectly. It's a story, not new, but told in new ways, that reminds us through hyperbole and metaphor of how much we, today, now, need to remember to cherish life in all its forms and have the courage to trust and reclaim our own creative spirit.</span></blockquote><blockquote><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">WALL-E tells this story in a dazzlingly beautiful technical feat of animation that on a somewhat meta level itself makes the same thematic case: Look what beauty we can create, how warm and imaginative this technology can be, bringing us closer together and to our best selves. We mortals cannot be underestimated, and neither can the possibilities of animation. The art direction, animated cinematography, editing, sound, all the technicals are top shelf.<br /></span></blockquote><blockquote><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">And as a bonus for film critics, WALL-E simultaneously draws from eight decades of cinematic history–most notably, from the dawn of cinema–to quietly honor film's most powerful and poignant role in our lives, that of sustaining us in the dark times and reminding us, through whatever improbable means (Hello, Dolly, of all films, is the one highlighted), of what's really important. It's a film rich in symbolism and layers of meaning that is steeped in film history and makes a strong argument for film's future.<br /></span></blockquote><blockquote><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">The screenplay gives equal weight to humanity's dual talents for destruction and construction, using the current gathering environmental crisis as a trope that grounds the otherwise sci-fi fantasy in relevance to our immediate future. The real villains in the picture aren't mutinous AI, but the demons within ourselves that compel us to consume more and more and faster and easier and forget what it is that makes us human, that creative spark and need to forge a path ever forward.<br /></span></blockquote><blockquote><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Meanwhile, it has a timeless love story between a bumbling but charming and well-intentioned Chaplin-esque male and a fierce and feminist female who connects to her softer core self, each of whom changes and grows better for knowing the other during the course of the film. That's what real romance does, makes us better people individually and as a couple for discovering that soul-sustaining partnership. It is a love that was never programmed to be, and yet, must be.</span></blockquote><blockquote><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">It's a film that like the best of sci-fi asks, "What if?" and then takes us on a bleak path that does not have to be. It's a film that channels the deep undercurrent of hope, even amidst the darkest of crises–the death of our planet and the devolution of our species–and has a resounding echo of the rallying cry of 2008: "Yes we can!"</span></blockquote><blockquote><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">To top it off, and almost as asides to its other many treasures, WALL-E also contains significant amounts of humor that don't rely on fart jokes and pop culture allusions, a misshapen band of merry Island-of-Lost-Toys-esque robots who discover they still have value, a prolonged and joyfully magical cinematic sequence of robots in love spiraling through space, and an endearing cockroach who just won't die.</span></blockquote><blockquote><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">It's one heck of a great film, in my opinion.</span></blockquote><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></div><div><blockquote></blockquote><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></div><div><br /></div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3801970665613776620.post-68905203390994252009-01-20T10:07:00.004-06:002009-01-20T10:12:09.110-06:00Four Sentences<div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">1. It's Inauguration Day.<br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">2. Barrack Obama is about to become the 44th President of the United States of America.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">3. In a few hours, George Bush will be leaving the White House in a helicopter.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">4. I could not be happier. </span></span></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3801970665613776620.post-12727167710665309722008-12-20T08:29:00.029-06:002008-12-20T10:09:46.620-06:00One of My Favorite Things About the End of the Year<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEqANjyuu_8hkFJdf-vvv-zZVr4SNclWguhPymdw5soMR_bupHw0nk1fl1X-A6s-2OapR_XD0YKIvB2ROQBlMQO-NEWTKHmKvjfYRUvI22K4_iWVlDehWKQVdoQ9GLs2RiT6NYtCB-6hE/s1600-h/01_baobama1.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 263px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEqANjyuu_8hkFJdf-vvv-zZVr4SNclWguhPymdw5soMR_bupHw0nk1fl1X-A6s-2OapR_XD0YKIvB2ROQBlMQO-NEWTKHmKvjfYRUvI22K4_iWVlDehWKQVdoQ9GLs2RiT6NYtCB-6hE/s400/01_baobama1.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5281895030675641474" /></a><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Presidential candidate Barrack Obama at a rally, in the rain.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br />I don't know about you, but I get into all the end-of-the-year countdowns, 10 Best lists, retrospectives and the many different ways we find to look back over the past 12 months, this year we just lived. Some of them are of course unnecessary--I don't need to watch a countdown of 40 Unforgettable Moments from Season 10 of The Bachelorette, for example--but there's a lot of quality stuff out there, too. </span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Probably my favorites each year are the photo collections. So many of the lists that come out, like book and film lists are so subjective and exclusionary, but Best Photo collections, the Year in Pictures, are hard to argue with, and are something that can be immediately appreciated. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">I always forget to anticipate them until they are released, but the best photography of the year often affects me on several levels. First, of course, the aesthetic. Photography is one of my favorite art forms, perhaps because I have some inkling of how hard it is to get a really wonderful picture--at least, if your subject matter is something other than small children, puppies or kittens. A professional news photographer may take 800 shots and find three or four that are worth publishing, if that many.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Another thing I love about these collections is the time capsule aspect--the visual record, beautifully told, of who we were at this moment in time. Seeing some of the highlights of the major news stories, in pictures, helps me reflect on how the world changed this year, or didn't, and what that might mean for the future.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Finally, because of the inclusive, international nature of these news photography collections, I am always astounded by how much I don't know about the past year and the world around us. Reading the photo captions, I learn about conflicts, spectacles, disasters, sports, natural wonders, and even whole cultures I did not know existed. It drives home the idea that my little life, sitting in my Arkansas home, typing on my laptop, following the Oscar season, cooking dinner, while it is 99 percent of what I experience, is only the tiniest fragment of life on this great, beautiful, painful and wondrously diverse planet. It's awesome, in the truest sense of the word. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Someday, I hope to be able to travel the world. It's one of my great hopes. Until then, I'm content to let brave and talented photographers show me what's out there. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><a href="http://www.boston.com/bigpicture/2008/12/2008_the_year_in_photographs_p.html"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">Here is a link to a collection I found last night of 120 of the year's best photographs</span></span></span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">,</span> separated into three parts. It takes a while to get through them and read the captions, but they are worth it. The editors acknowledge that these pictures are not necessarily THE definitive best, and that there are countless more that tell other also-worthy stories. I think they did a fine job. I know some of you won't be able to load so many photos on your computers, so I will post a few here, as well.<br /><br />Full captions and dozens more great photographs are on the original site. Click on the pictures for bigger versions.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Good stuff. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">This volcano erupted in Chile for the first time in thousands of years, attracting an electrical storm as it erupted, which apparently is a common phonomenon:</span></span></div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1qvA5GOFEoQkcQE9LOCLCt2g_30VQJJdyucPS533u1A7oBvHyIi3k1JjFip3Tp_7voyIaOCwtDBW29qVZBZHHGQTmWytMY-WDmgI-vvuDvQVURNhS4kYbQH0QGcfMfg1hSwSm8QtHPw4/s1600-h/01_chaitenv.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 252px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1qvA5GOFEoQkcQE9LOCLCt2g_30VQJJdyucPS533u1A7oBvHyIi3k1JjFip3Tp_7voyIaOCwtDBW29qVZBZHHGQTmWytMY-WDmgI-vvuDvQVURNhS4kYbQH0QGcfMfg1hSwSm8QtHPw4/s400/01_chaitenv.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5281898077382189938" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Students at a Chinese martial arts school:</span></span></div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGmlIqsbHG65lfh19d5ec8D8XCf9THOhbhvNuqklK6Dj6WYT-B67uJlHhVXYeqzZhDpUzEMTa6URhFwHsSa_OD23JB1QBVfCGoSt9qhkOnjhREB_uDZ2XIGWhaPdnraX2XQffFxe-A3OE/s1600-h/02_17219525.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 246px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGmlIqsbHG65lfh19d5ec8D8XCf9THOhbhvNuqklK6Dj6WYT-B67uJlHhVXYeqzZhDpUzEMTa6URhFwHsSa_OD23JB1QBVfCGoSt9qhkOnjhREB_uDZ2XIGWhaPdnraX2XQffFxe-A3OE/s400/02_17219525.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5281894063124886306" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">A giant mechanical spider at a cultural festival in Liverpool, England. Freaky:<br /></span></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7ZMZfEzVaktVstnRScaiQhHEgqkOdMogJZLCngu-ZhuA6mYZEgrQ8tBGqcKnHAKsop0bBX8ilULKGUsvs0kWGHDWuZdHGRCgkVz2z4tW4DHGmzY9xp50ruV13ccsU1yFCH8FSMAf4Cg4/s1600-h/29_17251943.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 242px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7ZMZfEzVaktVstnRScaiQhHEgqkOdMogJZLCngu-ZhuA6mYZEgrQ8tBGqcKnHAKsop0bBX8ilULKGUsvs0kWGHDWuZdHGRCgkVz2z4tW4DHGmzY9xp50ruV13ccsU1yFCH8FSMAf4Cg4/s400/29_17251943.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5281893890569972434" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Diving Asian fella:<br /></span></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9SbDlKL8vw3__EkTdTjbqvuYkLj6_F0WzL82R2PE0U9ba_pRZfYAA-aBNMJQDt1g9JZxjwIT99ycY2PQJZ8rq0j5-HvSe-yplkRQghLqNG7d0H2bEbLf8UAX5Cezeh8ysjUt1DtLkjw8/s1600-h/16_17252285.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 244px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9SbDlKL8vw3__EkTdTjbqvuYkLj6_F0WzL82R2PE0U9ba_pRZfYAA-aBNMJQDt1g9JZxjwIT99ycY2PQJZ8rq0j5-HvSe-yplkRQghLqNG7d0H2bEbLf8UAX5Cezeh8ysjUt1DtLkjw8/s400/16_17252285.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5281893529004578386" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Massai warriors going into battle against warring tribes with bows and arrows. I thought at first they were hunting antelope, then realized they were hunting people:<br /></span></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbagXVvkb9Pio8Fsd-hGsJJWTBYo6ZOBC2TCUPlIPZQJJ9X6KbPOmZaUumFOp-0LJS3wI8Xzjlsm3_Em1mNr-SrpvdmcvuPrJlflLJJVF7dJOjynfdUMPqWuXaI-RrpVxie_WTB93DOpM/s1600-h/23_17118961.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 238px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbagXVvkb9Pio8Fsd-hGsJJWTBYo6ZOBC2TCUPlIPZQJJ9X6KbPOmZaUumFOp-0LJS3wI8Xzjlsm3_Em1mNr-SrpvdmcvuPrJlflLJJVF7dJOjynfdUMPqWuXaI-RrpVxie_WTB93DOpM/s400/23_17118961.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5281893391598445490" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">This is an Important Physics Thing that may solve many mysteries of particle physics when it gets activated next year. I think it looks like a lion or sun emblem, something that would look pretty on my wall:<br /></span></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJfJyTcAynLiP8YPH_sOEdfMQ6zo4BxE_rESAxK_4fg-w-xSMC-D083cE6_oyBZltGvK6-E1wZZqIAoZRDKqU4D11a76mmqN2A8tgVjLGEb7x6kgghZJAplAQ4moCqp1stsj0mNJlxF_0/s1600-h/11_largehad.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 247px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJfJyTcAynLiP8YPH_sOEdfMQ6zo4BxE_rESAxK_4fg-w-xSMC-D083cE6_oyBZltGvK6-E1wZZqIAoZRDKqU4D11a76mmqN2A8tgVjLGEb7x6kgghZJAplAQ4moCqp1stsj0mNJlxF_0/s400/11_largehad.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5281893105867495682" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">A mother learns her child was killed in a conflict between Georgia and Russia. Her husband tries to comfort her:<br /></span></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGpNunuAD7OQy0yhNDAFAzbTKhdJ8FID5cHfkvxAZLAtbFNS9B_vbid2-x3lLUTL7q9SUeibxDTZjxzKsNjiZTX8rXQ0LoUsMcvyZzh0uINbSKEDjvMCBxPvNHOJsZ3SXSOqJrtofHyWg/s1600-h/15_sossetia.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 272px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGpNunuAD7OQy0yhNDAFAzbTKhdJ8FID5cHfkvxAZLAtbFNS9B_vbid2-x3lLUTL7q9SUeibxDTZjxzKsNjiZTX8rXQ0LoUsMcvyZzh0uINbSKEDjvMCBxPvNHOJsZ3SXSOqJrtofHyWg/s400/15_sossetia.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5281892946389373890" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">A real live Viking festival. I bet there is grog.<br /></span></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirtNT8v_TUqqh0nA0Fo_TgM-JvE58XN3WtzvuTuUuT-YVI4NFJHl6Bsg6XmFPYfAER6G_hwzbOxdvlD5Uc_sCQVGIPR3kDgLcG7E1wt4QY5T7n74aDc5cyVhaQ_o7S5RjHLtJtAgi-hNo/s1600-h/30_17108519.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 264px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirtNT8v_TUqqh0nA0Fo_TgM-JvE58XN3WtzvuTuUuT-YVI4NFJHl6Bsg6XmFPYfAER6G_hwzbOxdvlD5Uc_sCQVGIPR3kDgLcG7E1wt4QY5T7n74aDc5cyVhaQ_o7S5RjHLtJtAgi-hNo/s400/30_17108519.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5281892632808520082" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Children of a fallen police officer who died while investigating a bank robbery comfort each other at a funeral in I believe Pennsylvania.<br /></span></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixeg8u0khbUbEt24S8l9SPco_ajVvGDdO9XMv3RsJOSkdAASo8PARYb4_RkOJP6Y05MNWbmAUl8unk8dhnk9X_VLUAo09YkWJPDeJua5F2EJB5HIPI-fObB0SQX7BT77ih5PLmK00v6TA/s1600-h/15_17228179.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 269px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixeg8u0khbUbEt24S8l9SPco_ajVvGDdO9XMv3RsJOSkdAASo8PARYb4_RkOJP6Y05MNWbmAUl8unk8dhnk9X_VLUAo09YkWJPDeJua5F2EJB5HIPI-fObB0SQX7BT77ih5PLmK00v6TA/s400/15_17228179.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5281891657144259570" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Drummers at the Opening Ceremonies at the Summer Olympics in Beijing:<br /></span></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2euiCDXDXwbXcb8qGo189IlllX14HPGjp9JnjxdDgrlVYKTjPvDZCx7CynXlPhH6Lr8FhtFR0C6SxYyvG8GeY3UI14hEsYMVTQUp1SF1bl3O6HiLBBFk1CFTyvQyxQeed23i2JJZJhZ0/s1600-h/17_olyopeni.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 253px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2euiCDXDXwbXcb8qGo189IlllX14HPGjp9JnjxdDgrlVYKTjPvDZCx7CynXlPhH6Lr8FhtFR0C6SxYyvG8GeY3UI14hEsYMVTQUp1SF1bl3O6HiLBBFk1CFTyvQyxQeed23i2JJZJhZ0/s400/17_olyopeni.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5281891497020643746" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">A view from the base camp on Mount Everest at night:<br /></span></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0FN9yWt68TS4qM7XKLHqkl80V0xIuD6zDP6cDQBrjoUxicfd-tfolcKUsmF5hpvB9ZnbNRnkVf6a-OYeFNQ_wTDIVUHG0iCGCE-ubI1iRXZTAZIiALiPfFIyCmYSQ6VuoZPFOEWQYd70/s1600-h/38_17250511.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 239px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0FN9yWt68TS4qM7XKLHqkl80V0xIuD6zDP6cDQBrjoUxicfd-tfolcKUsmF5hpvB9ZnbNRnkVf6a-OYeFNQ_wTDIVUHG0iCGCE-ubI1iRXZTAZIiALiPfFIyCmYSQ6VuoZPFOEWQYd70/s400/38_17250511.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5281891362269119682" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Rescuers try to save a donkey buried in rubble after an earthquake:<br /></span></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGkQo_ZaPt5X-Sh4ZbrK4uIi40M-EnfTARiZvjh9s7Z6LbtpYtmBK5JX-VegLQNtsSecgcBl6PQHJnBhzJyhGdnneOtI-QUxBtjAdmVZN0k6NcPwyNe1QA2DxVIZv-M6BFQzTsxoETSeg/s1600-h/31_17349871.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 255px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGkQo_ZaPt5X-Sh4ZbrK4uIi40M-EnfTARiZvjh9s7Z6LbtpYtmBK5JX-VegLQNtsSecgcBl6PQHJnBhzJyhGdnneOtI-QUxBtjAdmVZN0k6NcPwyNe1QA2DxVIZv-M6BFQzTsxoETSeg/s400/31_17349871.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5281891195941821602" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">An indigenous Amazonian mother tries to keep police from forcing her family off their ancestral home. She did not succeed:<br /></span></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMesk3NbZDBH6nAVP1cCFuh4_tBKfG-CsDcsN0YnLMkNFC3dP0_RsZrF0CHTNQjH-dxnpAJtNFW_tiRs4hcHsJTemlTm1VAlreKQcNDuJJzaVSsE1XMBN8U0glrt1Mhr5ZexKzD09uuvA/s1600-h/26_17227873.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 249px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMesk3NbZDBH6nAVP1cCFuh4_tBKfG-CsDcsN0YnLMkNFC3dP0_RsZrF0CHTNQjH-dxnpAJtNFW_tiRs4hcHsJTemlTm1VAlreKQcNDuJJzaVSsE1XMBN8U0glrt1Mhr5ZexKzD09uuvA/s400/26_17227873.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5281890986678710642" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">A whole lot of people going to a ski festival or competition:<br /></span></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgr9VbVepAd-89itBFMsr8D4VFKG5VDy1S_LJLJfoUnloPZm3tS2TOROI9qI6K5vuPrwOOC3XGso2ltFVo6btPr-UBJC1H8YK8pFin-JFjQqYQbiiSEiAFj7nt8I0pNX4OsA0t8LW5_4RE/s1600-h/26_17351069.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 256px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgr9VbVepAd-89itBFMsr8D4VFKG5VDy1S_LJLJfoUnloPZm3tS2TOROI9qI6K5vuPrwOOC3XGso2ltFVo6btPr-UBJC1H8YK8pFin-JFjQqYQbiiSEiAFj7nt8I0pNX4OsA0t8LW5_4RE/s400/26_17351069.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5281890575769700098" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Red balloons on the beach in Rio di Janeiro to bring attention to the thousands of poor who will be murdered there in the coming month. <br /></span></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjf1PDbc94tpFdFLRWG7z96LOpWeuVZ_N3PCJY2QmijzjW-zxlSpajE8tF6zAeuMLMT5kznoQ2fiD4FhVRs98iDLc2LpMSZyWmP4uEvt9aQ7EuOVQXx4Oz46zyOWkq7BBitUk-JxbT8t0E/s1600-h/32_17350417.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 251px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjf1PDbc94tpFdFLRWG7z96LOpWeuVZ_N3PCJY2QmijzjW-zxlSpajE8tF6zAeuMLMT5kznoQ2fiD4FhVRs98iDLc2LpMSZyWmP4uEvt9aQ7EuOVQXx4Oz46zyOWkq7BBitUk-JxbT8t0E/s400/32_17350417.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5281890444453964482" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">A swimmer, suspended in time:<br /></span></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhziBZe3oWjadniCTwFoyCMNojQ3AkPd4atGIoTvgdqQg4k7W9lySNjNyoEQhxGV55rAwJG_y7958B4EYjtX34jwJ6R74yIEI4aWmrdrPaXzBtYaFIer-tyEwAar-yybAkRlC3OktDfbu0/s1600-h/33_17350925.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 249px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhziBZe3oWjadniCTwFoyCMNojQ3AkPd4atGIoTvgdqQg4k7W9lySNjNyoEQhxGV55rAwJG_y7958B4EYjtX34jwJ6R74yIEI4aWmrdrPaXzBtYaFIer-tyEwAar-yybAkRlC3OktDfbu0/s400/33_17350925.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5281890346425857506" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">I think this looks like a classic movie set, something very melodramatic, but it's actually a burned trailer park in California:<br /></span></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgx1Fl9sa929YL1kjPJkqsFZCWxQQLuQjo3ddGlP4B0TJojO8guHwzYHaQdE0tlEz86nKmPGAqW2BMdS0y4mvhvGpyJTvQhMJW3AXkzK4uTtqW8bLaOyUm_MfmE7KHdJJeDvZtLbBaTmNw/s1600-h/11_cafires2.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 247px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgx1Fl9sa929YL1kjPJkqsFZCWxQQLuQjo3ddGlP4B0TJojO8guHwzYHaQdE0tlEz86nKmPGAqW2BMdS0y4mvhvGpyJTvQhMJW3AXkzK4uTtqW8bLaOyUm_MfmE7KHdJJeDvZtLbBaTmNw/s400/11_cafires2.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5281889926048572802" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">A child being lowered into a sapphire mine in Madagascar:<br /></span></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaM8y8Wxrj0FuLqjkED8-UfiajMPywD3ahtwymZQphMbfyJRjIb1mlB7GUn2Qhgg7x9u9fBv5ufgqC-JS_zDJwhOuYARlCgg07-7XmR74wwBj4sWW6jpKn6xZ2tztjHw09GT_udNMst8c/s1600-h/08_sapphire.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 283px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaM8y8Wxrj0FuLqjkED8-UfiajMPywD3ahtwymZQphMbfyJRjIb1mlB7GUn2Qhgg7x9u9fBv5ufgqC-JS_zDJwhOuYARlCgg07-7XmR74wwBj4sWW6jpKn6xZ2tztjHw09GT_udNMst8c/s400/08_sapphire.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5281889788644940338" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">A U.S. Marine, dwarfed by the majesty of ancient ruins in Iraq:<br /></span></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkai0P0ix7UzqwA5zc5V41nWa0j-kWgG4-Ozvu4fA41eai_MjcXoW9c7lKrCX3T_kfx0CWiVCYWyS-MqgcnhYZQnMDAbgy3GljobRYXxeS1RHtQEKMPi4DIpossdVQrWoSnWFB2XNw29Q/s1600-h/07_iraq0001.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 343px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkai0P0ix7UzqwA5zc5V41nWa0j-kWgG4-Ozvu4fA41eai_MjcXoW9c7lKrCX3T_kfx0CWiVCYWyS-MqgcnhYZQnMDAbgy3GljobRYXxeS1RHtQEKMPi4DIpossdVQrWoSnWFB2XNw29Q/s400/07_iraq0001.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5281886955323171106" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"></a></span></span></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><br /></div></a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3801970665613776620.post-12200214664013852582008-12-19T18:47:00.002-06:002008-12-19T19:01:39.112-06:00Ta-Da!<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Yup, I did it. I finished. How? Because I rock. That's how. : )</span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I still have to take some pictures of girl scouts in the morning, and I still have some Medical News articles to finish before the New Year, but my slew of pre-Christmas deadlines are now history. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I'll be working Monday and Tuesday on more articles in the hopes of knocking some out before the holiday. My new niece will be here in the state (I believe she's also bringing her parents, Laura and Kyle) and I'm hoping to get some auntie bonding time in sometime during that week between Christmas and New Year's, so I want to have as little work hanging over me as possible. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Although I am now done, the Chez Boulden weekend celebration is not yet getting underway. Ben is having a similarly intense workload this week, and just when he thought he was about out from under it, more breaking news happened. He is staying at work late tonight, possibly as late as he's had to stay since I've known him, likely five or six hours after he normally comes home. Plus, he has to go back and work at least one day this weekend. Poor guy. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I'm about to go take him some dinner and then come home and straighten up so it's a more pleasant place to come home to when he finally gets off work. He is taking off a whole week and then some after Christmas. I'm hoping he can rest and recover, rejuvenate then, cause he's getting more rundown right now than I like to see. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Ben's a wonderhusband in every way, every single day, and I love him dearly. He's really an amazing guy and even loves me back. I am so lucky to have found him. Must go take care of him now and give him a hug. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><br /></div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3801970665613776620.post-45329117275513454342008-12-19T16:18:00.002-06:002008-12-19T16:23:26.202-06:00One to go...<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Of the 16 articles I've been writing lately, I have just one to go, due in a couple of hours. </span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">My typin' fingers are stubby little nubs now, but the light at the end of the tunnel is shining on my face...</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Now back at it for another bit, and then, perhaps just perhaps, a weekend!</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana; font-size: 13px;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana; font-size: 13px;">Ah, there's my motivation. Catch ya later. I gots writings to write. </span></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3801970665613776620.post-50763188628780031942008-12-17T16:33:00.008-06:002008-12-17T17:38:11.798-06:00Overwhelmed with Work? Time to Blog.<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I've done it again, gone and gotten myself overbooked with work assignments, none of which pay much, but all of which help keep the heat on. I do that, always have, maybe always will. So far, it's worked out okay. I think the stress gets to a certain point and then it just gets kind of numb and I go into Turbo Jen mode for a few hours that somehow are about 800 percent more productive than any in the preceding three months. And then I collapse and start to feel the stress again, but all washing away instead of building up. </span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">No time to blog, but I'm at a point where I'm waiting on callbacks, out of energy to make more calls. So blogging, even if I don't have the mental energy to say anything much interesting.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">With the glorious exception of becoming an aunt to the world's cutest baby, it's been kind of a rough week here at Casa Boulden. Ben and I have both been stretched thin (unfortunately, only figuratively) with work, made more difficult by sharing the car. Money's tight as usual, but tighter. We're a long way yet from going hungry or anything, but for the first time in our marriage a trip to the grocery store really does need to last until the next paycheck, so there is markedly more room in my pantry than I'm used to having. I've had to get creative with the budget cooking even when nothing I can find in the kitchen remotely inspires me. We decided to discontinue our cable TV, going down to the most bare bones level. We took the digital box back and the guy came out today and disconnected the vestigal channels. No more cable news, movies, or the cable shows we watch. That's ok, though; we actually feel good about making that sacrifice for the sake of the household budget and we own more books and DVDs than we ever find time to get to, so we aren't hurting for entertainment options. It'll be kind of fun, I think, disconnecting from the "talking picture box." Since I work from home and depend on the Internet to do my job, we haven't disconnected it.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Anyway, just when we're being bombarded with advertisements and incentives to purchase all the shiny, best things for the people we love lest these stores go out of business and everyone in America loses their jobs. There are some great deals out there, but they all require money I don't seem to have. It's frustrating. Even when I was making plenty of money, there was never *really* enough to get my family and friends everything I'd like. I'm trying to be creative, thrifty and a bargain shopper, make some of the gifts. There's a challenge in that I like, and they are fun to do, but it's also a lot more work and I'm already up to my elbows in projects. Me and my ideas. We'll see how many manage to come to fruition. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Today, Ben got a small "bridge loan" from one of his brothers to tide us over through this particularly low fundage week until my next check arrives. I hate to have to do that--we've had to before and always try to repay it pretty quickly--but he was very gracious about it to us, no questions or recriminations. No strings. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">It's nice to have help, and nice to know that much as they may need things themselves, my family understands tough times and doesn't have unrealistic expectations of mountains of lavish presents, the kind I'd like to give. It's good to come from a family that knows that's not what Christmas is really about.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I'd been feeling kind of humbuggy, but I mustered up enough optimism and energy over the weekend (actually, I think I was still high on having a niece) to get the Christmas decorations down and put up the tree. No one is coming over likely this season considering our schedule and Ben and I are not exchanging gifts or stockings--but it is nice to have the tree with all the ornaments we've already collected in the three years we've been married. It's lovely, festive, quiet and undemanding, and didn't cost a thing. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Here are a few pictures. I haven't yet discovered the trick to taking good pictures of Christmas trees, mine never do them justice. Still pretty, though:</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRbKR6C_it5O-q21XUzLlOFVvlzHSI1Zn8Xsx5-svUFrups6RVIV6RYEjIXfZvtlXCwMyzjxSnEoCM5mhozFFPPrQoWsulvsTOtcYYYRGA4i3I832v9e0sH2Obe3-xHya5ot4fZ5-U3bk/s1600-h/P1010030.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRbKR6C_it5O-q21XUzLlOFVvlzHSI1Zn8Xsx5-svUFrups6RVIV6RYEjIXfZvtlXCwMyzjxSnEoCM5mhozFFPPrQoWsulvsTOtcYYYRGA4i3I832v9e0sH2Obe3-xHya5ot4fZ5-U3bk/s400/P1010030.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5280900514798684114" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmID9RtjKTitMqVaUz85sRRMHrU6s2ctB7mtJzW-80A5vvLa4u_RwEW4t5g2KqosDn2TUXzkHc4VEsQHzRjyu_u5nk-nREJhXxZGsVOu7lqRKtYCsiodWht0Jq3RTCxId476_fd_ER8Ns/s1600-h/P1010020.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmID9RtjKTitMqVaUz85sRRMHrU6s2ctB7mtJzW-80A5vvLa4u_RwEW4t5g2KqosDn2TUXzkHc4VEsQHzRjyu_u5nk-nREJhXxZGsVOu7lqRKtYCsiodWht0Jq3RTCxId476_fd_ER8Ns/s400/P1010020.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5280900381726349282" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXLKZtfBqehSi0UsQnFkQ11A4ODCz1MroI1MLgEYubPwMJpHXPvdqQE_IuCvAIZptTQMh7Ar-m_w6t-M5unRlMj6zM_GAXXpBGTu6NAumWLazq6xQWDx0Awv35GjM4W-b_M2cnJh8r6fI/s1600-h/P1010017.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXLKZtfBqehSi0UsQnFkQ11A4ODCz1MroI1MLgEYubPwMJpHXPvdqQE_IuCvAIZptTQMh7Ar-m_w6t-M5unRlMj6zM_GAXXpBGTu6NAumWLazq6xQWDx0Awv35GjM4W-b_M2cnJh8r6fI/s400/P1010017.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5280900194941303394" /></a></div><div><br /></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3801970665613776620.post-74153821958487882332008-12-12T16:23:00.007-06:002008-12-12T16:42:40.737-06:00It's a Brand-New, Beautiful Day. Meet Abigail.<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;">My first niece was born today, right about sunrise. Her name is Abigail Katherine Shachmut, and she is beautiful, perfect, amazing. I'm already ridiculously proud of her and of my sister and brother-in-law for making her and bringing her into this world. I'm joyful for my parents, who became grandparents today, for my grandmother, who has her first great-grandchild, for my brother who is going around feeling impossibly "uncley" and giddy with glee. </span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;">We hope to meet her over Christmas, if everything goes according to plan and the new family can safely make the trip from Boston. I want to hold her and kiss her on the nose, tell her how wonderful life is, how much richness she has in store for her. I want to tell her that she has parents who are amazing, remarkable people in their own right and tons of family and friends who will love her each day of their lives. I want to watch her grown into her own little person, hear her laugh, soothe her tears. I want her to come to me for advice someday, or call me to tell me about how funny something this totally gorgeous boy in her class did was, or just stop over, banging the screen door behind her to cop a few fresh-baked cookies from the counter and plop on my couch. I want to watch her do her first Tiny Tiger taekwondo moves, and I want to watch her graduate from high school. I want to be her aunt and her friend, as mine have been for me. I want to be in her life, always, for good.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;">Here are some pictures, sure to cuten anyone's day and definitely to class up this blog:</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'trebuchet ms';">Abigail Katherine Shachmut</span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;">Born December 12, 2008</span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;">Brighton, Massachusetts</span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_XTFRDULgzBLc0xaYv7g53W_bNC_TYSaGaWB14QWy4ZpAqniMrcV-g1bzR7McurozzSMQkFghe-4huGeX_OZASBbWlnLsQ-7_uysPk2YCJijR46kfhEw-jKN4E29EXPVAIf019IvE8wM/s1600-h/Abby+6.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_XTFRDULgzBLc0xaYv7g53W_bNC_TYSaGaWB14QWy4ZpAqniMrcV-g1bzR7McurozzSMQkFghe-4huGeX_OZASBbWlnLsQ-7_uysPk2YCJijR46kfhEw-jKN4E29EXPVAIf019IvE8wM/s400/Abby+6.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5279035152636329138" /></a><br /><div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_-RwVM98L0CHr58TwA-MjTIXhKSYyrbrakIvVLgJWpWWC8PrSlMhqp4vAYzNUfHRYLll47xEWS82LlW-JkJ4p7dYKiwc2BjP1d4eZQNE05W1bgXXZxqBXFk8ZL524087RfAfdWrm46SQ/s1600-h/Abby+2.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_-RwVM98L0CHr58TwA-MjTIXhKSYyrbrakIvVLgJWpWWC8PrSlMhqp4vAYzNUfHRYLll47xEWS82LlW-JkJ4p7dYKiwc2BjP1d4eZQNE05W1bgXXZxqBXFk8ZL524087RfAfdWrm46SQ/s400/Abby+2.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5279035444336704978" /></a><br /></div><div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDTks3_LxTKwMOdzmTMQ_y8gKMNFcwRontBsHO1XKLDIaxq-KjhFDuXcL09BzpEeo63J78AwRS6xVvzDzeX0WIpnfsWa4E5LeeFw7zDjIRrP-aet9mcW3kTzhnVip2dzehF0u9e1vPS5k/s1600-h/Abby+1.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDTks3_LxTKwMOdzmTMQ_y8gKMNFcwRontBsHO1XKLDIaxq-KjhFDuXcL09BzpEeo63J78AwRS6xVvzDzeX0WIpnfsWa4E5LeeFw7zDjIRrP-aet9mcW3kTzhnVip2dzehF0u9e1vPS5k/s400/Abby+1.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5279035840663350386" /></a><br /></div><div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwNF1DBebJqhlmyPT8FoYgMbjd7wSvAMqZaDVOgGTo4V4WmCcsnNuB0UzDn3ifZFUGaSZjPKJnXXMsQQ11d2EmBYRa9DtL_vIJ0dfjULKL2dtgz39FgFJSAPkrNKpGjckdnwQr3aHQCA4/s1600-h/n57301416_30644490_8332.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwNF1DBebJqhlmyPT8FoYgMbjd7wSvAMqZaDVOgGTo4V4WmCcsnNuB0UzDn3ifZFUGaSZjPKJnXXMsQQ11d2EmBYRa9DtL_vIJ0dfjULKL2dtgz39FgFJSAPkrNKpGjckdnwQr3aHQCA4/s400/n57301416_30644490_8332.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5279036108370600194" /></a><br /></div><div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmZffjGtF6fLzqGCj8CBEib-GkRWg38mBteUdWsVrNqj0-5ChNTLmVDwkQqREebwq3gDwg4u0k-xkcpTUP3kouvLl_hXkeorpFdsgJ1dGbFOzHlTmOSVZ6Iry_RatbHQ-h2yYASZaQuQ4/s1600-h/n57301416_30644489_2027.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmZffjGtF6fLzqGCj8CBEib-GkRWg38mBteUdWsVrNqj0-5ChNTLmVDwkQqREebwq3gDwg4u0k-xkcpTUP3kouvLl_hXkeorpFdsgJ1dGbFOzHlTmOSVZ6Iry_RatbHQ-h2yYASZaQuQ4/s400/n57301416_30644489_2027.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5279036444740382818" /></a><br /></div><div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6fxs6D4nPhiyAOwdykovmJx80MBGokgLRR6-k0FWHvExcQSHflosEFmnKbDJICiPoJN0McdCH2HYbGdweuPxNOBFOHio5Y04c_TB-Qe2n_IqrXKV-_xgJl6AFaHmG6uECRzNhu3w7Xzo/s1600-h/Mommy.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 285px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6fxs6D4nPhiyAOwdykovmJx80MBGokgLRR6-k0FWHvExcQSHflosEFmnKbDJICiPoJN0McdCH2HYbGdweuPxNOBFOHio5Y04c_TB-Qe2n_IqrXKV-_xgJl6AFaHmG6uECRzNhu3w7Xzo/s400/Mommy.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5279036704129647986" /></a></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3801970665613776620.post-55845520524095039312008-12-10T19:42:00.004-06:002008-12-10T20:01:54.947-06:00Quick thoughts while dinner finishes cooking<ul><li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;">Insta-realization: I keep wanting to like ground turkey, but I just don't. Except in certain turkey burgers. Other than that, it just tastes like ground beef that's gone off. Which bodes poorly for the dinner I've just fixed of turkey mac (chili mac with turkey). But sometimes you just have to clean out the pantry and fix what you've got. </span></span></li><li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;">I wrote four articles today to meet my deadline. Wasn't as prepared as I should have been, but got 'em done. That's what I do. I feel better now and am temporarily resolute to do the next five in steps over the next week instead of all at once. We'll see. </span></span></li><li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;">Project Clunkerpool is going better the past two days. I've been busy, so have just stayed home. Amazing how few car problems I have when I don't leave the house. Starting to get a little stir-crazy, though. </span></span></li><li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;">When you're going stir-crazy in the house, walks with the dog are especially good. The weather has been cold and fairly icky, but I've found that if I bundle up everything but my face, it's just refreshing, not miserable. </span></span></li><li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;">My sis is still pregnant, hanging around in limbo waiting to meet the daughter she will know and love for the rest of her life. I think that must be an amazing feeling, knowing you will love this little person, always, more than anything, and no matter what happens, and yet not knowing anything about them except how hard they kick your insides and that they used to give you nausea. Love's neat that way.</span></span></li><li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;">I can only imagine the deluge of emotions she's going to go through between now and the end of the month. We're an emotional people, we Armstrong/Brooks clan, deeply in love with family and friends and holidays and carols, Hallmark commercials, and random sweet moments and bits of beauty. Having a firstborn child this time of year, wow. That's intense. Good intense, I hope, and nothing but happy. </span></span></li></ul>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3801970665613776620.post-73833711480836867882008-12-08T09:21:00.004-06:002008-12-08T09:54:28.008-06:00Needing Some Hail Marys<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><div>The saying absence makes the heart grow fonder is true for cars as well people, I can now report.</div><div><br /></div><div>Ben and I are facing the prospect of sharing one remarkably unreliable car for the next two weeks while our one good car, the Scion, is in the body shop. It is finally its time to get the extensive hail damage from April repaired, and it may be in the shop for two weeks. Believe it or not, this is actually earlier than expected. Because of the thousands of cars in Fort Smith damaged by the golf-ball-sized hail here in that giant April storm, the body shops have been booked solid through well into next year. Our appointment was scheduled to be in February, maybe March (nearly a year after the storm), but Ben called a few days ago to see if there was an opening sooner, and they actually had one. <br /></div></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;">That, plus the fact that the detailed estimate they gave us was lower than the insurance estimate, so we likely (fingers crossed) won't be out of much from our pockets for the repair, is the good news. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;">The bad news is that during this very busy holiday season, for the next two weeks we have to share Ben's 17-year-old Honda Civic. Ben, always the noble one, drives it most regularly, and lets me drive the Scion XB we bought new just before I lost my job. The Scion is comfortable, cute, safe, reliable, spacious. The Civic is none of these, and though it drives passably well for Ben most days, it has a propensity for dying at inopportune times. Particularly, any time I drive it.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;">This morning, for instance, as we were (no joke) leaving the body shop and casting an eye towards a major wreck that had occurred minutes before a few hundred feet from where we were, the car died as we were pulling out on the street. The full length of it blocked two lanes of oncoming traffic just over the crest of a small hill as we attempted to get it started, had the gearshift lock up on us, then get it started again and try to keep it going as we dodged the oncoming traffic from two directions and the emergency vehicles already blocking traffic from the other direction. It was a minute or two of panic, topped off with almost getting hit by a firetruck rushing to the scene. It all worked out, of course, and though the car died exactly seven more times on the way home from dropping Ben off at work, I did in fact, get home safely. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;">I will not be going out for lunch today.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;">Insurance reimbursement for car rental is not very much, so a rental for two weeks will get pretty pricey pretty fast. We're trying to see if we can finesse our scheduling so we can just share the Civic until the Scion is ready, but Project Clunkerpool did not get off to an auspicious start.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;">I'm not Catholic, but considering the nature of the storm that caused this problem, a few Hail Marys for Ben and me seems in order. We need all the help we can get. </span></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3801970665613776620.post-42749048400222601772008-12-02T12:02:00.002-06:002008-12-02T12:11:40.741-06:00Habit of the Month: Straightening the Living Room before Bed<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Hello, girls and boys, it's that time again. Time for another of Jennifer's crowd-pleasing Habit of the Month posts! </span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana; font-size: 13px;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">[waits for cheers of applause and exclamations of joy]</span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Seeing as I have successfully mastered the fine art of keeping the bathroom clean every day for the past month and a half (YAY!), it's time to move on to the next domestic challenge. This one will make an even bigger difference in our household happiness, since it involves significantly more square footage, and that square footage directly connected to our front door. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Ben and I are each independently and even more so together, clutterbugs. Stuff just accumulates around us and then breeds more stuff. I think I get this from my Armstrong side. Not sure about Ben. Anyway, the living room--being the room in which we do much of our living--is ground zero for daily clutter. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">So for the next month, I pledge to straighten the living room every night before I go to bed, so it is fresh and inviting every morning and no matter who drops in unannounced during the day, there will never be more than a few hours worth of clutter. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Since much of this month the house will be decked out in Christmas decor, this ought to be fun. And since I usually do holiday mess-spreading things like wrapping presents and leaving random packages in the living room, it ought to be something of a challenge this month, too. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Anyway, that's the habit for this month. If it gets too hard or scary, look for me in the bathroom. At least it's staying clean. </span></span></div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3801970665613776620.post-58210287900104671002008-11-26T09:25:00.005-06:002008-11-26T10:26:11.941-06:00A Sharp Insight, Unbidden<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">I meant to write about this a couple of weeks ago, but I'm still thinking about it, and in light of the upcoming holiday it seems somehow </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">apropos</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">.</span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">There are certain odd moments that are for whatever reason permanently seared into my memory. I'm not talking about the important Kodak moments--birthdays and graduations and getting married. Those are supposed to be there. But others just remain, and remain forever associated with certain triggers. For instance, whenever I'm driving around a curve on the highway at enough speed, I always think about my aunt Y telling me when I was about 11 and she was driving me around a winding road to Camp Tanako that she'd finally figured out the secret to those curves was to slow down a little bit on entering them, then speed up at the end. Now, Y has told me many a memorable thing in my life, but I can't go around a curve without remembering her voice saying that. Every time, it comes unbidden, even though I long ago figured curves out myself. It's a little irritating, but at least that particular memory is fairly useful. They aren't all.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">The first time I remember noticing this phenomenon I was about seven and sitting on the front step of our house in Little Rock, kind of picking at the grass and mulling over life. Ironically, I don't remember what I was remembering at the time, but I thought to myself, "OK, if something doesn't have to be important for me to remember always, can just be anything, I'm going to test it by trying to remember the most boring thing possible for the rest of my life." I then tested my theory by staring at a nondescript section of my blue corduroy pants for about 30 seconds until my eyes glazed over. Of course it worked. That diagonal pattern of fuzzy cornflower blue is what first springs into my mind whenever I think about these random memories and associations. I'm pretty tired of that particular image after thinking about it regularly for the past 27 years, but it's here to stay.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">I've been thinking about these because of a small thing that happened a couple of weeks ago when I was tutoring the girls down at the jail (I still really love the tutoring, even if me teaching math is scary for all involved). I had two students that day, and we were working out geometry problems when one of the girls broke her pencil lead in the middle of something I was explaining. She looked startled and said, "Oh, my pencil lead broke! Am I in trouble?"</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">I said, "Of course not, we'll just get you a new one," and proceeded to try and finish explaining the volume of a cylinder formula to Girl #2, but she was no longer paying attention. She was staring at Girl #1 in horror. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">"Where did it go? We have to find it!" she cried, and got on her hands and knees, searching the ground.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">"What's going on?" I asked, as Girl #1 joined her on the floor and looked like she was about to cry.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Girl #2, who had been incarcerated longer, explained that a sharp pencil point could be used as a weapon, so if you broke a pencil and didn't find the lead, the guards would have to strip search you to make sure you weren't concealing it. Then they would have to search your cell from top to bottom as you sat naked on the bed and another guard watched over you.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">"Just me, or all of us?" said Girl #1, tears suddenly streaming down her face as she stopped the search for a moment to ask.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">"Both of us!" her friend said, in a hushed, urgent whisper, "but not her, of course," indicating me.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">I spent about five seconds looking for the stray pencil lead on the speckled concrete floor, then told them to just call the guards and it would probably be fine. The guilty girl got a guard's attention through the glass that looks into the control room, and a female guard came to see what we needed. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Before I could explain, the girl said, her voice shaking, "I broke my pencil, and we can't find the lead, but we've been looking for it really hard and can't find it anywhere and I didn't mean to get in trouble."</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">The guard, a nice woman who had let me in earlier, looked at me and at the terrified girls, shook her head and said,"What was it, just a pencil lead? That's OK this time. Do you need me to get you a new pencil?"</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">And that was that. The girls said they were lucky, that they were OK because I was in there supervising them. Maybe there would never have been a strip search for something as tiny and un-weaponlike as a pencil lead, but the girls fully believed there would be, a consequence of being incarcerated in a place where security is necessarily top priority and likely of a life's worth of getting in disproportionate amounts of trouble for anything they did wrong.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">I realized how little I understood about their daily lives, both before they came here and while they served out their sentences. To me, a broken pencil lead has never been more than a nuisance. To them, it was terrifying.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">And thus, I know that I will remember that incident every single time I break a pencil lead, or perhaps even look at one. I take my freedom for granted, I know, and my privacy, too. It's not something that--despite my teenage complaints to my parents--has ever been an issue in my life. For many, though, a life without freedoms is the reality, perhaps all they know. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Thinking about tomorrow, Thanksgiving, it gives me one more thing for which to be thankful. And it's one thing I'll not be sorry to remember, time and again.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><br /></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3801970665613776620.post-60514626897123498382008-11-19T12:49:00.004-06:002008-11-19T13:37:17.551-06:00Happy Birthday Laura!<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinweg0YG7Sr6Z88SnZiIcXjUTSRJmAszcvgd8MHeeSDTNOlRw02mDksR1Y2x26Xyla9WEZD85gPXL_hrntswOs6tYNDyPZqSM_ZA_Vu3FTjvtKddPRndE5lKAM_hl4KHBFHKRHo3tZN10/s1600-h/snuggle+beach+bunny.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinweg0YG7Sr6Z88SnZiIcXjUTSRJmAszcvgd8MHeeSDTNOlRw02mDksR1Y2x26Xyla9WEZD85gPXL_hrntswOs6tYNDyPZqSM_ZA_Vu3FTjvtKddPRndE5lKAM_hl4KHBFHKRHo3tZN10/s400/snuggle+beach+bunny.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5270452430303354578" /></a><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">Today is my little sister's birthday. She turns 26, a great age, in my opinion. I was thinking about what to write, and--as it so often does in our family--a little rhyme spilled out. (There are better and more sophisticated forms of poetry, but we're not a very sophisticated family, so this is the kind that comes most naturally to all of us. My apologies to the aesthetically sensitive.)</span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">For Laura, with love. Thanks for changing my life 26 years ago, and every day since. Happy birthday!</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">My World, With Laura In It</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">The first years of my life </span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">Were an only-child treat</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">Yet somehow our family </span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">Didn't feel quite complete.</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">So I began asking for a sister,</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">Pleading year after year,</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">But until I was nine,</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">None did appear.</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">I wanted a sister to dress up like a doll</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">A best friend to teach about diaries</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">And take on shopping sprees to the mall.</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">And then she arrived, one night in November,</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">And everything changed, all I remember.</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">For all the sisterly dreams I had erected,</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">The actual sister was not quite as expected.</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">She took up space, took up my time.</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">The toys I outgrew were no longer mine.</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">She cried and fussed and filled diaper after diaper</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">(And whenever she'd soiled them the worst</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">Seemed to be when I had to wipe her).</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">She broke my things, then wet my bed.</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">Yes, having a sister was quite different instead.</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">It was different, yes, but</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">Though it took a while to unearth it</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">Having a sister was entirely worth it.</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">As a baby, she'd smile and look up at me</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">With eyes filled with wonder,</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">She'd laugh at my silly faces</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">And cling to me during thunder.</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">She'd hold onto my finger </span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">Because her hand was so tiny</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">And gradually she became</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">Markedly less whiny.</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">She grew and she grew</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">Getting more fun each year,</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">A daily joy</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">Though far or near.</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">We look nothing alike,</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">Not one single bit,</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">But even so,</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">We're as close as sisters get.</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">I call her all the time</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">And she even calls me back.</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">We have keen sister-sense,</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">A kind of psychic knack</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">For feeling what's up with the other</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">Or knowing when something's down,</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">For thinking the same crazy things</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">In our two very separate towns.</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">I both adore her and tease her,</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">But she gives as good as she gets,</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">And though I got a nine-year head start,</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">I'm no match for her wits.</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">She's someone charming and funny,</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">But simple and true.</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">She likes finding little happy things</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">And making them, too.</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">Now she's making another small, happy thing,</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">A new daughter (and niece!)</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">So as my baby sister turns again older and wiser</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">I'm wishing her new family a world full of peace.</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">I wish her a world of surprises</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">A world of motherly delight,</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">A world of sweet joys</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">And a future that shines bright.</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">It's the beautiful world I know,</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">Made more beautiful still,</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">By the sister I've loved from the start</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">And the hearts that she fills.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><br /></span></div><div><br /></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3801970665613776620.post-48475603203144142672008-11-12T15:01:00.002-06:002008-11-12T16:06:00.765-06:00Movie Alphabet Meme<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">This is one of those memes that's making its way through the cinematic blogosphere. While this isn't a movie blog, I haven't started one of those yet, so this will have to do. </span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I tag Laura, Melisser, and anyone who wants to play along either on their blog or in the Comments. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">THE RULES</span></span></div><div><ol><li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Pick your favorite film to represent each letter of the alphabet.</span></span></li><li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The letter "A" and the word "The" do not count as the beginning of the film's title, unless the film is simply titled </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">A</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> or </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">. No legitimate films are named <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">A</span> or <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">The</span>, so don't try it.</span></span></li><li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Movies go by whatever name they were known by for their theatrical release. For example, <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Return of the Jedi</span> belongs under "R" not "S" as in <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Star Wars Episode IV: Return of the Jedi.</span> This rule applies to all films in the original <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Star Wars</span> trilogy. Same thing with <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Raiders of the Lost Ark</span>--it goes under "R," not "I" for I<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">ndiana Jones and the Raiders of the Lost Ark</span>. Conversely, all the <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Lord of the Rings</span> films belong under "L" and all films in the <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Chronicles of Narnia</span> series belong under "C," as that's what those filmmakers called their films from the start. Confused yet? Don't worry about it; it's not like you're going to get fined. </span></span></li><li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Films that start with a number are filed under the first letter of their number's word. Thus, <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">12 Monkeys</span> would be filed under "T."</span></span></li><li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">These don't have to be what you think are the best movies ever made, just the movies that if you had to watch a movie that started with that letter, you'd never mind watching. Thinking of it as Movies I Could Watch At Any Given Moment, Regardless of Mood or as Movies I Always Get Sucked Into Watching When They Are On TV is a good rule of thumb. </span></span></li><li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Any feature film counts, as long as it's on imdb.com. Docs, dramas, comedies, horror, whatever. TV and mini-series and made-for-tv movies don't.</span></span></li><li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">You have to have actually seen the movies and be able to recommend them. </span></span></li><li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Select more people to play along. </span></span></li><li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Change the rules if you don't like them.</span></span></li></ol><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">JENNIFER'S LIST:</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">A</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">nnie Hall </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">B</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">lade Runner</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">C</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">hicago</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">D</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">eparted, The</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">E</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">ight and a Half (8 1/2)</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">F</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">erris Bueller's Day Off</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">G</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">odfather, The</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">H</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">arold and Maude</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">n America</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">J</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">ourney of Natty Gann, The</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">K</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">ing Kong</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">L</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">ives of Others, The</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">M</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">ary Poppins</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">N</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">o Country for Old Men</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">O</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> Brother Where Art Thou?</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">P</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">an's Labyrinth</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Q</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">ueen, The</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">R</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">atatouille</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">S</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">hawshank Redemption</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">T<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">reasure of the Sierra Madre</span></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">U</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">sual Suspects, The</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">V</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">ertigo</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">W</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">aiting for Guffman</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">X</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">anadu</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Y</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">ou Can't Take It with You</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Z</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">orro, the Gay Blade</span></span></div></div><div><br /></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3801970665613776620.post-55450185797497429392008-11-11T13:10:00.003-06:002008-11-11T13:19:15.322-06:00Odd Moment of the Morning<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">After doing my tutoring this morning at the detention center, I decided to stop by the grocery store for a few ingredients for supper. </span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I was walking towards the entrance, and this heavyset-but-perfectly-fit-looking middle-aged black man was walking out of the store carrying two or three bags of groceries. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana; font-size: 13px;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">He saw me and said, "Would you put these groceries in that car over there?"</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I looked to see what he was talking about. He didn't look old or frail or really in need of help, but maybe I wasn't seeing the whole picture. I probably looked bewildered, but said, "That car?" and pointed to the old Pontiac he was heading towards. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Then he just laughed.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">"Aw, I'm just messin' with you. This is America, that's what you gotta do. You gotta mess with people in this country, have some fun. It's what we do here."</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">And then he walked off, laughing and laughing and laughing.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">And I walked into the store, laughing myself, so maybe he was right. </span></span></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3801970665613776620.post-77639773273280181112008-11-09T22:02:00.002-06:002008-11-09T22:43:59.786-06:00Things I Learned This Weekend<ol><li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;">Papa's pizza is even better after just meeting a big deadline and writing for 10 hours straight.</span></li><li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;">People at the next table who throughout dinner repeatedly rock the opposite side of the booth you're sitting on by pressing back on the seat to wiggle their fingers into their too-tight jeans pockets over and over despite me angrily and unsubtly, pressing the seat back towards them really make me mad. It's just rude and unnecessary.</span></li><li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;">When ordering a custom <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">omelet</span> with everything...don't. Just pick a couple of ingredients or so. Otherwise you'll end up with cheese, onions, tomatoes, peppers, olives, bacon, ham, sausage, <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">jalapenos</span> and a few other things, wrapped in a thin layer of egg. Not good.</span></li><li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;">No matter how incredibly good the coffee is, if Ben has the equivalent of about 8-10 cups of it, he's going to regret it later. </span></li><li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;">When shopping for a baby shower for a little girl, it's almost impossible to resist the urge to buy something pink.</span></li><li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;">Someone in Fort Smith makes incredibly good cupcakes with incredibly good lemon icing that I am just going to have to learn to make.</span></li><li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;">Baby showers are mostly all the same, except when you are related to the baby of honor or except when they have incredibly good cupcakes with incredibly good lemon icing. </span></li><li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;">Walking the dog on a late autumn afternoon is the best. </span></li><li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;">I still like the movie Castaway a lot, perhaps because I only saw the last hour of it.</span></li><li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;">The Nazis were way more into art than I ever realized and the story of the massive numbers of masterpieces that were stolen or accidentally or purposefully destroyed during the war is pretty fascinating, even though the documentary "The Rape of Europa" about it could have been better.</span></li><li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;">Starbucks' new gingersnap lattes are not as good as the gingerbread lattes were, and the shreds of real ginger in them are kind of weird.</span></li><li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;">It really is best not to discuss politics over lunch with opinionated mothers-in-law who completely disagree with your views, but if you have to, best to do it as you are already on your way out the door and telling her you love her and appreciate her cooking. </span></li><li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;">Ben finds it hard to relate to films about French teenage synchronized swimming girls coming of age. </span></li><li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;">When soaking a cotton shirt in bleach, don't forget it and leave it in your best stainless-steel bowl overnight and expect your bowl not to be corroded almost completely through in the morning..</span></li><li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;">When washing something that has soaked in bleach all night and corroded your best bowl and gotten a nasty rust stain on it as a result, don't then try to wash it in the washing machine, even on gentle cycle. It disintegrates.</span></li><li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;">Peanut brittle that you bought from an eager volunteer outside the grocery store promoting autism awareness tastes better than other peanut brittle.</span></li><li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;">Dexter is a very well-written show, if creepy as all get-out and even if it is about a serial killer. It's interesting and not gratuitous.</span></li><li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;">Mountains of clean clothes don't fold themselves any more than dirty clothes do and can be equally overwhelming.</span></li><li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;">Slipcovers are so named because they slip and they will be my forsworn nemesis until the end of time. Or maybe just my <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">frenemy</span>. </span></li><li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;">Weekends are wonderful, whatever minutiae they entail, when I spend them with Ben. </span></li></ol>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3801970665613776620.post-53011896732995426902008-11-04T23:32:00.004-06:002008-11-05T00:14:15.768-06:00Yes, We Did<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">I am so proud of my country tonight. Ben had to work the newspaper's election coverage, so I had to stay home watching the returns come in by myself. I was tapping away at my computer, trying to convince myself I was calmly following the election results, taking nothing for granted, keeping my emotions in check, Obama-style. Then from across the cacophony on the TV a phrase broke through: "Barack Obama has won the presidency. He will be the next President of the United States," and that was that. I became a bawling, shaking, flooding ball of unmitigated joy. </span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Then the scenes that followed on the TV: shot after shot of people hearing the news, breaking down like I just had, young people cheering, old people crying, black people doubled over in euphoria and disbelief at the historic moment. This is history, I thought. This is one of those defining moments in the history of the world and I'm experiencing it, I'm part of it. It was as intense as 9/11, but with joy and hope replacing that day's fear and despair. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">I've been an Obama supporter from the beginning, and by that I mean from about two seconds after I first heard him speak, the day after the 2004 Democratic Convention, when the morning NPR show was all abuzz with this amazing new keynote speaker. They played clips, and I was enchanted. That morning, I thought, "This man has greatness about him (with some people, you can just feel it). He could be President someday." The thought gave me chills. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">The more I heard about him over the next couple of years, the more excited I got. He was everything I wanted in a candidate--smart, articulate, thoughtful, respectful, self-made, engaging, inspirational and on the right side (mine) on almost every issue. Plus, his personal story and his melting pot genetics seemed to me just the thing the country needed to bring us back together and make some big changes. Other than giving him a sex change and making him an avowed Academy Awards buff, it would be hard to design a candidate I'd like more. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Curious about digging a little deeper into what this guy was about, Ben and I listened to his audiobook of <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">The Audacity of Hope</span> a few months before he announced his candidacy. We were wowed by his writing, his positions, his ideas about what this country could do and how we both needed to and could bring everyone together to effect real change, not further divide us. I was officially hooked, in for the long haul.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">So of course, feeling this passionate about a first-term senator I'd never met from another state, I was also convinced he was too good to ever be elected, ever do more than be a "what if?" It would never happen. When he announced his candidacy, I couldn't decide how I felt. I was excited, but he was such a longshot, it seemed rash. America needed him, but wouldn't recognize that yet. As much as I wanted him in the White House today, I didn't trust the American people to put him there. They're the ones who twice elected George W. Bush, after all. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">But they did recognize that greatness about him. Over and over, people chose to believe in Obama, just as I had, despite the relentless smears and overt bigotry that dominated too much of the campaign. Tonight, enough people chose him to make him the 44th President of the United States, the first African-American ever elected to the nation's highest office. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Over the past two years, I've become an incorrigible political junkie. I live online and have followed this election with the intensity of a bloodhound tracking a leaky meat truck. It's been an intense experience, this roller coaster of an election that brought new twists, new highs, new crises and world developments, new outrages, and new encouragements every day. It's changed me, I'm sure, though I'm still figuring out how. As disheartened and sick as I was over the past eight years, as cynical as I was becoming about the political process, I am sure it was and is and will remain change that I, at least, need to experience in myself. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Tonight, though, I am just proud to be an American, tired, euphoric, overcome. Here, now, in this moment of profound grace and beauty, it's an amazing time to be alive. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><br /></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3801970665613776620.post-33967691039887321872008-11-04T10:54:00.007-06:002008-11-04T11:17:05.131-06:00My Halloween Scare<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Don't you hate it when you screw up something months before and only realize it too late? That happened to me this morning. </span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">I used to have a problem with deadlines. Deadlines set by me arbitrarily just didn't seem very important--if I set it, then I should be able to reset it, right?--and I regularly missed mine. Then I started having deadlines set by others, others who paid me to get the project done on time and didn't pay me if I didn't. Suddenly, it was a whole different ball game and I got pretty good at it. I make my deadlines now. It's a point of pride.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">So, I've been working towards a deadline for Friday for a publication I edit, where the deadline schedule is set for the year by the national company that owns this publication and several others like it. I manage several freelancers and gave them the Friday deadline, too. But, there's a problem I found out about in my e-mail inbox this morning: the deadline was actually last Friday, on Halloween. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">I got a nice e-mail from the national editor this morning asking me politely if my stories might be ready soon. He's pretty laid back, but the e-mail woke me up in a flash. What? Stories ready? Why would he be asking me that now? With an impending sense of dread, I opened up the editorial calendar for all the different markets, and looked under the December issue. Yep. Arkansas deadline: Oct. 31. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Several months ago, when I was transferring all the dates to my calendar, I managed to look at the wrong line, the one right below it for some of the other publications, which were to be due Nov. 7. Agh!</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Whoa. Not only had I missed my deadline, I and all my freelancers were going to miss it by a week! I sent back a quick and profound apology and explanation, asked for further direction (Get whatever we could scrambled together today? Turn in stories tomorrow? Hide my head in the sand and think about changing my name and hair color and never surfacing again? Give up my first-born child?), e-mailed my freelancers for status updates on their stories, and generally found myself in problem-solving mode, on turbo. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Meanwhile, I amped up my efforts this morning to reach all the contacts I needed for my various articles. These people, mostly doctors and healthcare administrators, are notoriously hard to reach and take days to return calls. This morning, however, someone sent them the memo that I needed a break, and I've gotten a hold of pretty much everyone I needed, and more. I think I've already interviewed or set up interviews with 10 people, and it's not even noon. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">In the end, it turned out OK. My editor said to go ahead with the Friday deadline, and we are all on track to meet that. I still feel awful and guilty and irresponsible, even though it was an honest mistake, but at least I'm running on adrenaline now and getting all kinds of things done. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">See, I even got a blog post written. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><br /></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3801970665613776620.post-83622884069980060172008-10-28T16:19:00.005-05:002008-10-28T16:43:01.697-05:00Most Disturbing Family Picture Ever<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">First of all, I do not know that this is actually a family picture. I rather hope not. But when one is perusing an old box of random pictures of one's family through the ages and one comes across this loose, unidentified gem, it gives one (okay, enough with this "one" stuff, let's just say me) pause:</span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyscNK2hmrm3DjAeAEMPrhRKafGrtCvNKsIUU-cyqfQBtOHhAmVlPFItGCHGz2kdmhR0zJCpTc8fcR9RhuHilVeIdqXfVF2R0FVgJJDiik2Mus0K-DDexU1nrJOCB78EdXk33OjJCQxMg/s1600-h/Disturbing+baby+gator+picture.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 288px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyscNK2hmrm3DjAeAEMPrhRKafGrtCvNKsIUU-cyqfQBtOHhAmVlPFItGCHGz2kdmhR0zJCpTc8fcR9RhuHilVeIdqXfVF2R0FVgJJDiik2Mus0K-DDexU1nrJOCB78EdXk33OjJCQxMg/s320/Disturbing+baby+gator+picture.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5262321087234493618" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">I mean, seriously. What. The. Heck.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">Foreground: Innocent baby on a blanket. Birds chirping. Peaceful winds blowing. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">Immediate background: A maniacally ruthless, hungry, mouth-frothing, possibly bedeviled or otherwise malevolently empowered likely undead alligator looking at said infant. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">Babies are some of my favorite things. I was once one myself, actually, and my little sister (also once an infant) is having her own this year, a much-anticipated event here in Jennybeeland. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">Alligators, though, are something else entirely. In my subconscious, they are the embodiment of all evil, dread, threat, and general badness. When I have nightmares, I almost always find an alligator (or crocodile, same difference when their big snapping jaws and infamous death rolls are upon you in your sleep) in there somewhere. Sometimes the nightmare has an actual alligator, sometimes it's a sign with something about an alligator, sometimes it something as simple as Dream Me realizing the shoes I'm wearing are alligator skin just before everything starts going wrong. They're insidious, I tell you. Creepy, creepy, creepy. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">At any rate, alligators are not on my friends list. So, to find this picture inexplicably mixed in with the photos of my ninth-grade piano recital and my family riding carousel horses at Libertyland and my once-toddler brother gnawing on a remote control was a little startling. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">I suppose I should ask my parents for an explanation. Maybe there's glass in front of the child? Maybe it's a stuffed alligator at a natural science museum? Maybe it's the sacrificial first child that came before me? (I haven't read the entire United Methodist Church's Book of Discipline, so no telling what's actually in there.) </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">Any theories? Explanations? I'm a little afraid to ask. </span></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2