tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-85514179300967070612024-02-07T22:51:08.869-05:00Spunkerfly Amusing tales posted Thursday nights-ish. Mostly funny. Sometimes sad. Always entertaining.Unknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger89125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8551417930096707061.post-44395680902904768932014-08-22T21:39:00.001-04:002014-08-31T02:59:38.364-04:00Welcome 3 F's Home! Back in the 516:) 4 weeks worth of FLY!<br />
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<b><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">*Happy 15,000 views fly larvae!! This blog is long enough for the next 4 weeks, if not years. We are moving to Westport, Ct. YIKES! We will be busy missing you and you will be busy doing whatever the third F it is that you do:D* xoxoxoxo!</span></b><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;">Songs: <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UFrnsANLRW4" target="_blank">It's All Over Now by Eric Hutchinson</a><br />
<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KwznGu7y8JU" target="_blank">Glow by Donovan Frankenreiter</a><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwO8wr3rb3uVOjqjg3ozmKj0USBKyoTb8hStAZ-GZ1vsjIivtdeglNFr8iQwZd8tN647KfU37lfOc5wkQaM_ZfWeXWqH9he378olLED8NSycV9jcIrVlF5bExoJY03KsbDwn_2A6nqUg/s1600/IMG_7421.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwO8wr3rb3uVOjqjg3ozmKj0USBKyoTb8hStAZ-GZ1vsjIivtdeglNFr8iQwZd8tN647KfU37lfOc5wkQaM_ZfWeXWqH9he378olLED8NSycV9jcIrVlF5bExoJY03KsbDwn_2A6nqUg/s1600/IMG_7421.JPG" height="200" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Actually, love Instagram!<br />
<b>Follow me@ susiesaraf</b></td></tr>
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<a href="http://www.spunkerfly.blogspot.com/2014/08/what-to-do-when-you-get-hosed-happy.html" target="_blank">About last post*.</a> Due to responses...have to rat myself out. Despite my ULTRA CHARMING up front personality;D- socially- I'm half hermit, half hermit. Occasionally, I will 'spit' for a friend. It's a term from my former days as rapper ZQ. A friend shares their pain and I'll write a blog on behalf. I must be getting better at writing cause so many thought I was talking about myself. No, no, no! The place where I said I was, I was. Also, I don't cyber stalk. I barely check my own feed, less anyone else's. If it weren't for pimpin' this blog, I'd be FB free, so- no worries. I am thrilled everyone is out having fun.<br />
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My idea of fun? Any night I get to spend curled up with my lil hommies. Be it watching <u>Alaska The Last Frontier</u>, chatting, reading or writing my book:)) I have no idea what I'm missing. Or<i> had</i> no idea. Now fack off and stop telling me to see! <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlXYSLXBjJTvzUNejzCp7QQAOWQuDDqEI6W867SCJskLlk4pVbUssBPo7zvclWlFNKXO296B5kOUsRcaf1PtBSrn2XODhIAlNxyloxlab96rg7-aw_xTaCo_xz7E4Vzb56h9GMYowFiQ/s1600/IMG_5425.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlXYSLXBjJTvzUNejzCp7QQAOWQuDDqEI6W867SCJskLlk4pVbUssBPo7zvclWlFNKXO296B5kOUsRcaf1PtBSrn2XODhIAlNxyloxlab96rg7-aw_xTaCo_xz7E4Vzb56h9GMYowFiQ/s1600/IMG_5425.JPG" height="200" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">winter fun</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgi4afsCTrQjDwE8Tf5okQ4drL6MjYGTr4NjDQFFfwCV-L6VOkpENOfgVeks1q9hpygAsv6Ktf1yR_nUhelmo7pgIVNa8zlV5HDtkvFBiYN0pcL8C99e74VNE1ZjkWo8xoDhwtCXOdjlg/s1600/IMG_6319.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgi4afsCTrQjDwE8Tf5okQ4drL6MjYGTr4NjDQFFfwCV-L6VOkpENOfgVeks1q9hpygAsv6Ktf1yR_nUhelmo7pgIVNa8zlV5HDtkvFBiYN0pcL8C99e74VNE1ZjkWo8xoDhwtCXOdjlg/s1600/IMG_6319.jpg" height="150" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">summer fun</td></tr>
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OK, SO. Currently, I'm three weeks back on Long Island, the (516), from five weeks in serene, well-paced and peaceful Maine. I am now more or less, mostly less, reintegrated into my typical ballistic, unsettled, closed-off self. However, for a while I was calm, serene and possibly even- vulnerable.<br />
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Someone had the misfortune of asking me how it was to be back. "It's a shit-show." May not have helped that my Songza playlist was "Bad B*tch Alert" -female rappers going off non-stop about their amazing vagina's and how hard core they be's, but...<br />
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This was my third day home:<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4Z4BBxO4E7hcTNcf1f1DFqbtVojs3N2tz0nKABoDfa9gyU9imTAMezYbalbGWO4rUWn5wvjTAfzW6rPwPiglu7bkEpPb5a4cNkU4OIG2n9UoMlJ3CKiOsX3zZ93OTk40v5A9ak3tVJQ/s1600/IMG_7889.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4Z4BBxO4E7hcTNcf1f1DFqbtVojs3N2tz0nKABoDfa9gyU9imTAMezYbalbGWO4rUWn5wvjTAfzW6rPwPiglu7bkEpPb5a4cNkU4OIG2n9UoMlJ3CKiOsX3zZ93OTk40v5A9ak3tVJQ/s1600/IMG_7889.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Long Beach Boardwalk at night - best! </td></tr>
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1.) 6:05pm -I'd just barely escaped death by a 25yr old with greeeeezy hair, a black tinted windowed BMW, wearing a muscle tee and a hard on for road rage. We'll circle back to that one.<br />
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2.) 1pm - National Beach. Long Beach, NY. Finagled a beach pass from 16 year old beach chair attendant- head phones on, gum snapping, tan-bombin'girlfriend waved us in to the beat of something Beyonce. LOVED HER. That's the way you handle your age appropriate beach job. However, the party ended there. Next. Harranged by a large broom yielding power-crazed public bathroom attendant. She started yelling at me the second I walked in. I ignored crazy. I had one kid in my arms and two waiting by the outdoor showers. I had no time to get into it with ol lady cookoocoo. That screamer would have made better use of her bristles by riding them then by <i>nearly</i> splashing me with the surface slime she insisted on swooshing all over the bathroom floor.<br />
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The reason my feet escaped the vile public beach sauce? As soon as I caught sight of the broom coming my way I got clear. My voice behind the bathroom stall door told her (my three year old straddled me koala style as I peed) that if she came an inch closer with that thing, she'd be sucking the slushy sand stew up for lunch. Through a straw! Who am I? I'm a mama bear with claws, that's who. Back the broom up.<br />
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3.) 11am-I called the effeminate twit I needed to buy a beach pass from a "Fucking LOSER!" Not my finest hour, nor our first collision. Though he had aged a generation, (even managing to grow some stubble), I immediately recognized him from a few years ago. This man-kid had the most evil energy and I went right in, again. No beach pass for <b>me!</b><br />
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Us, actually, as I was not alone.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8zXaIpr9CG4B2a9DN8_Q0gjwquVQ6BZbWB6-Xkc8QkUEzHSloMH5JhiyAuYxBkOjHQ3HBsm2BvZ3Sy8V8UdjalnApBwJUVFm_kagfOFdxR49JU-3w8B7HTdPLUoxWdqE9OL9JhYCaJg/s1600/IMG_7615.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8zXaIpr9CG4B2a9DN8_Q0gjwquVQ6BZbWB6-Xkc8QkUEzHSloMH5JhiyAuYxBkOjHQ3HBsm2BvZ3Sy8V8UdjalnApBwJUVFm_kagfOFdxR49JU-3w8B7HTdPLUoxWdqE9OL9JhYCaJg/s1600/IMG_7615.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Are you taking an attitude with ME?<br />
(btw-lol-I was not posing for my son.<br />
Jules took this while HRH told him to put on his flops. <br />
"Now.")<br />
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To Turbo-beach bitches credit, nearing the end of my tether, I had asked him if he "was taking an attitude with me?" I <i>may </i>have sounded a tad The Queen Mother. He answered by slamming the plexi-glass sliding window closed across my face and pulling down the shade. Really? Before I registered that now he was sitting alone in the dark of a trailer?! I reacted by shouting said expletive into a wall. Now, reading that... who was the loser? I've got my hand up. Like I said, I wasn't alone- I had my boys with me. And he was like 20. Punk.<br />
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My eldest son, Colbert, (8, double water sign) battled tears while staring at me, stick-still embarrassed by his mom's new level of crazy. Likely feeling literally the son of a bitch. My middle guy, Jules, (6, fire and earth) smiled in awe and said, "awesome," in a voice alarmingly akin to <a href="http://movieclips.com/xutX9-fast-times-at-ridgemont-high-movie-spicoli-orders-a-pizza/" target="_blank">Spicoli</a> -(please click that link). My youngest, Hank, (3, earth and air) threw his head back and laughed so loud I almost thought it was worth it... I know, so bad. I'm still not sure if his cackle was born from pleasure or wanting to prove he was part of the conversation. Fine, I know he just wanted to belong. A mom can dream!<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi415TRxz5Osbcu5TfRvDxIUWUbp1jeAXlW2sQbl-cB3CLE_QB9gID5S6Tg6BeS1yK87r1yTsi4Y4hea_NzHzsaaoOA7bubBnylclRlEGBpjWkLYtS_QS5CAFIv_Q6QHUs6cLBBA0vpAA/s1600/IMG_8090.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi415TRxz5Osbcu5TfRvDxIUWUbp1jeAXlW2sQbl-cB3CLE_QB9gID5S6Tg6BeS1yK87r1yTsi4Y4hea_NzHzsaaoOA7bubBnylclRlEGBpjWkLYtS_QS5CAFIv_Q6QHUs6cLBBA0vpAA/s1600/IMG_8090.JPG" height="320" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My latest bookmark, he still loves me, third F and all-phew!</td></tr>
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I was horrified at myself, eventually. It took ten minutes of cooling down while explaining to my kids why Mom had gone postal. I mean, I knew I was in the wrong as it was happening, but horrified? That had to sink in. I'm telling you this kid was eeeevvviiill. The guilt crept in on me the way truth over ego = shame- always does. Are you aware of that formula? I just made it up. Seems true enough. Then Colbert, oldest, (did I write 'eldest' earlier? There's that HRH again), finally gathered himself to ask the question most on his mind.<br />
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"Why did you use the third 'F'?" His eyes were the saddest brown, his hair the darkest tawny. "You said <i>The third<u><b> F </b>M</u>om</i>? You used the<b> third F</b> <i>and</i><b> Loser</b>."<br />
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<b>*When he was five he came up with a system for F's. Cursing hurt his heart.</b><br />
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<b>First F= friggin'</b><br />
<b>Second F= freakin'</b><br />
<b>Third F= you got it. Bombs away.</b><br />
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Welcome back to the NY Party. Cars sped by us as if it were a racetrack, not abutted to family beach parking. Honking and speeding.<br />
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"Have I spoken like that to anyone else?"I asked, in a creepy sweet mom voice, while making sure they stayed on the sidewalk.<br />
"Dad."<br />
"That is not true! Dad..." I said. OMG. Are Mother of the Year nominations out yet? It's all mine.<br />
"No," he said.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJfw7doHeNqiowT_w_N6JSswF50NWEQHJlbwEtnpr1Knybapd1kt1alTm26WBpZolNLDiyo658TUVxDFZDxBphHs8L-jqWkIGa4HZHBsruHfBABbzw-JU6pgUVk0hC_hwLlS9zlHpjzg/s1600/IMG_7273.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJfw7doHeNqiowT_w_N6JSswF50NWEQHJlbwEtnpr1Knybapd1kt1alTm26WBpZolNLDiyo658TUVxDFZDxBphHs8L-jqWkIGa4HZHBsruHfBABbzw-JU6pgUVk0hC_hwLlS9zlHpjzg/s1600/IMG_7273.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Easy breezy Goose Rocks Beach</td></tr>
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"Well, we have to understand, in life there are <i>predators</i> and there are <i>prey</i>," I said, holding on to the rationale as long as possible."That guy was a predator. Guys, (cool mom) obviously, I'd rather be laughing and having fun- but I can't joke around in the lions den! You're my babies. I have to be stronger than every predator that comes at us."<br />
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"It's like the Discovery Channel," Jules, (fire/ earth) said.<br />
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"Exactly," I said. I corralled all of them back up away from the street traffic and onto the sidewalk for what felt like the millionth terrifying time. "If you treated lions like house cats would you survive?"<br />
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"No," Colbert (double water) said, but he still didn't like it. Or me, he still didn't like me.<br />
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"My job is to keep you safe," I said, as if I had done my job. All of their faces said otherwise. My guilt began eclipsing my anger, ugh. "Okay, I should not have used the third F, that made you feel unsafe, I'm sorry. It made me feel unsafe too. Plus, I shouldn't have let that (<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">little pussy</span>) cat get the best of me," I said. "Sometimes you have to be a predator or else you're prey. I'm not prey."<br />
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"No, (you're not)," Colbert said. I must admit, my sons convinced I wasn't prey made me happy. My kids can think I'm nuts, but they cannot think I won't be able to protect them. Then, shaking his head as if recalling my outburst, he finally giggled.<br />
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Oh my gosh he's so cute, it's crazy. Then he thought for a moment and asked. "Am I prey, Mom?"<br />
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I stopped walking. Looked him straight in the eyes and lied.<br />
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"No."<br />
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Cause we all are... sometimes.<br />
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I love New York. Of course I do. I first, second and third F love it. It's home, I've been here pretty much my entire life, that's why I can bag on it out loud. It's mine. <u><b>You can hate out loud what's yours but not somebody else's. </b></u>Them the rules. Thing is? I'm kinda done. It's a combination of too much energy, cars, honking, (where else do people honk? Jersey?) congestion, noise, weather, taxes... stuff that grates on the nerves. Reintegrating was tough. I'm tired of tough. I'm tired period.<br />
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<u>CAN YOU BLAME ME?</u><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Maine - Damn I look good.<br />
(But where did my boobs go? Kids. Not only do <br />
they take your boobs, they take your dreams!:) </td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Country roads take me home! </td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption"> THANKS MOM! Her insane LB condo is for sale;(</td></tr>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjILt1tXXMuwFQAVrMf1fT4a7QSbYvcoPwE32YUbCe6i02_9DFKHV-aSF_ibP_WeTIQB9Y6qSAZV_gHLf8TD_cN4m6y_gqgbrhW96PmlggdymyQPoXpZzJpR9ztk-Glm_J1znIvqw3Tbw/s1600/IMG_6825.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjILt1tXXMuwFQAVrMf1fT4a7QSbYvcoPwE32YUbCe6i02_9DFKHV-aSF_ibP_WeTIQB9Y6qSAZV_gHLf8TD_cN4m6y_gqgbrhW96PmlggdymyQPoXpZzJpR9ztk-Glm_J1znIvqw3Tbw/s1600/IMG_6825.JPG" height="320" width="320" /></a><b><u></u></b><br />
<b><u></u></b>
After spending over a month on The Freedom Farm, where the guy who owned it back in 1948-raised money, boated over and rehabbed Eastern European families from WWII, gave them language, a trade, the will to live and the means to do it, for <i>free...</i> I'm a bit weary of having windows slammed in my face and nearly being run over by grease balls and threatened by brooms. <a href="http://spunkerfly.blogspot.com/2014/07/maineyiac-how-i-love-vacationland.html" target="_blank">As per the Maineyac post</a>. Some may mock how quickly I adapted. Sure, I bet you wish I'd shut the third F up and go back already. I don't blame you. Who wants to keep hearing about the new friend? However, the difference in how people treat one another outside of this bubble of quick and nasty is literally<a href="http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/astonishing" target="_blank"> astonishing</a>. I don't mind saying so. I'm not talking about friends and every single person! Of course not.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKSh6TqkFwtwpVAM3hHHZSt6ka49LV8ZSdVxbp90SUotQhzDfBlqSjMOEyL3sYrAN3950uxL97evybh_qxhb7FrO3c-YVeAoVf9qnHCvHKVG2KSNGpsN-Cd-vOk-BZuIdxmKXpUABnJg/s1600/billy_idol.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKSh6TqkFwtwpVAM3hHHZSt6ka49LV8ZSdVxbp90SUotQhzDfBlqSjMOEyL3sYrAN3950uxL97evybh_qxhb7FrO3c-YVeAoVf9qnHCvHKVG2KSNGpsN-Cd-vOk-BZuIdxmKXpUABnJg/s1600/billy_idol.jpg" height="200" width="183" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px; text-align: center;">What? </td></tr>
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Go visit the south (where "yes m'am doesn't mean "yes, hag", the north, southwest, go out west! Incidentally, I've never been midwest- but have<br />
been accused of being a mid-westerner many times! So they must be duh-ope! I'm talking about the majority of my exchanges with everyday NY people as opposed to Mainers. "...<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Vtc7A67kZlQ" target="_blank">the people that you meet when you're walking down the street..."</a>. When I tried this convo on some fellow natives, they got immediately shockingly defensive. I thought we all already knew? I get it. I am of it. Not these folks, who, ironically, got super pissed, one even popped the Billy idol lip.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmlERSMKyJMQ-EdweBHYzKgdN2wVZTvzVNdC_ropN8dcoeU2mVVHWzn-53AH2K0UdLn5okXZt3_lHjmqeyEHrRddiA6m3NhB-sYLXvZX2h56-70Pv6PZHuLAW21RqKEtQ2eZ4zv8hweA/s1600/IMG_8010.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmlERSMKyJMQ-EdweBHYzKgdN2wVZTvzVNdC_ropN8dcoeU2mVVHWzn-53AH2K0UdLn5okXZt3_lHjmqeyEHrRddiA6m3NhB-sYLXvZX2h56-70Pv6PZHuLAW21RqKEtQ2eZ4zv8hweA/s1600/IMG_8010.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Stress-free condo! <br />
TWO BATHROOMS! No slime! <br />
Or very little once I leave:)</td></tr>
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<br />
<br />
I liked it in the land of "How can we help you?" and "Hey! Let me get that!" and "Is there anything more I can do for you?" I softened up. I liked it. A lot. "What? I totally disagree. We help people out all the time. We're just not fake!" That's my favorite, that the immediate conclusion is that if people are pleasant and helpful, interested in having a simple chat- they're fake. Cause why would anybody waste their time hearing your story?! For what? As for my quick adaption...don't we all adapt quickly to an upgrade? Having a cool family we just met on the beach offer me their parking spot when I was alone muling my three boys and 29 beach toys, was a helluvan upgrade. When I made a quip about their offer sounding like the beginning of an episode of Cold Case? They looked confused. Not everyone's a cynic! Upgrade. You may understand the analogy of going back to coach after flying first class. Fresh cotton linens vs polyester? Sex vs abstinence? Clarity vs. confusion? Dependable vs disappearing? Adoption vs foster care? Whatever, dig deep, you will find a comparative circumstance and you will understand. I would love to hear them!<br />
<br />
So not only did it feel hectic to be back in the land of the third F, it also felt great. Feels great. It's home and it's an island and I am a beach girl. Maines' beaches are beautiful, easy to access, no crowds, super clean, water as green as sea glass, (albeit cold as a mother refused a beach pass.) Even the seagulls are easy going. They'd stand 20 ft. away while we ate- patiently waiting for a scrap- a NY gull has swooped and swiped a bag of chips out of my hand...more than once. The amount of funny, and many times fascinating conversations I had while <i>sitting </i>and the kids played within eyesight was the way beaching should be. The way the tides come in and out so fast. As if the ocean is being controlled by the turn of a faucet, fastened my belief in God.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHfOO9snIPX-yKK-UzlPU-TCBlIlFB3wJO8-W5qnJjueatBLLwU9UAzRpdPoZtkXERxC78CAD-EWteXTjx2B6fm-LzRNalUpFIAhinE4-UwUGIOjIqmLnI4KfiRpF5GPsa3llksN-4YQ/s1600/IMG_8029.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHfOO9snIPX-yKK-UzlPU-TCBlIlFB3wJO8-W5qnJjueatBLLwU9UAzRpdPoZtkXERxC78CAD-EWteXTjx2B6fm-LzRNalUpFIAhinE4-UwUGIOjIqmLnI4KfiRpF5GPsa3llksN-4YQ/s1600/IMG_8029.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Nothing like South Shores Atlantic </td></tr>
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Yet, there is nothing like the south shore of Long Island's beaches. Maybe Florida. For me, being of it, it's Long Island all day- whether you're out east or on the south shore. (My fave beach is in Long Beach's West End- this cool little spot off Tennessee Ave.) It's like living in New York City and then going to any other city. They're not cities, they're towns. San Fran? A town. Boston? Bean-<i>town</i>. Paris? Oh, right, haven't gotten there yet. So, although I wanted to get the boys to hang ten, I looked at the mild sea and thought, um, think we'll wait and do<a href="http://skudinsurf.com/" target="_blank"> Skudin. </a> There are places to surf for sure, Fortunes Rocks looked great, but not GRB where we were. I'll speak to Long Beach and Atlantic Beach, NY, cause those are my spots. It's like NY itself. The beaches are for the most part huge. Most days the waves can knock you down, you get air, you lose your top and bottom, your sense of self and balance. I get out blowing snot rockets and laughing dizzy like I've been in a washing machine on full spin. It's exciting, fun. Well, fun if you're not alone with three kids under eight. There are no conversations, fascinating, dull or otherwise, I have to watch my babies like a ref at a high stakes tennis match, sans chair.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEW2uBPZlNtHMEzfPEq1uCvwTCDxzkoiNL8lGpzNcFq3zAio1e9pnLq_j6Od94XGJ1u6lgmjrbG6JNVrqJdMg0-_3RBcBzJbGbsb3LnTRt7A77HHVBNZbRPanLWr6eP5Rv-1NPWTrmjA/s1600/IMG_7995.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEW2uBPZlNtHMEzfPEq1uCvwTCDxzkoiNL8lGpzNcFq3zAio1e9pnLq_j6Od94XGJ1u6lgmjrbG6JNVrqJdMg0-_3RBcBzJbGbsb3LnTRt7A77HHVBNZbRPanLWr6eP5Rv-1NPWTrmjA/s1600/IMG_7995.jpg" height="320" width="109" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Yes, lifeguards look! </td></tr>
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Even if it's calm water, it's a massive job. One second you're getting checked out by a pack of cute lifeguards, (yes I second F do get checked out, possibly in my own mind, but yes!), and the next number 3 has to go number 2 and that's how I found myself in a concrete bunker trying to escape death by swamp foot.<br />
<br />
*6:05pm. There's this nebulous intersection on my way back home. It's a fork spear situation only a person with time and the skill to write could describe. (When you find her, tell her to call me!) You can't tell who has the right of way, there's nothing but speeding cars, so at a certain point you just have to call it and gun it. I predicted the next car was going left, when suddenly this Greezeball comes right at me! Seconds from collision, eyeball to eyeball, I could see the writing on his black muscle tee, the snicker on his shiny face. I swerved hard to the right. He went left as I had originally anticipated. <br />
<br />
I had to pull over. I could no longer breathe and drive at the same time.<br />
<br />
"Did we crash Mama Cute?" Hank, (earth, air) asked.<br />
<br />
"No, baby,"I said. "That greasy, 25 year old <i>muscle tee</i>, black car with shady tinted windows, tried to run us off the road, for fun. Like, way to go, cool-boy! Way to try to kill a young mom and three little kids."<br />
<br />
"You're not young," Eldest;) calls out from three rows back. I hadn't forgotten him. I was hoping he'd hear how gross guys in muscle tee's were. He wants one and there's no way.<br />
<br />
"What?" I looked at him in the rearview mirror.<br />
<br />
"You said "young"," he repeated. "You're not<i> young</i>. You're mid."<br />
<br />
"What? What's mid?" <br />
<br />
"You're mid. You're 40, that's middle. 30's young. If you add 40+40 you're 80, you lived a long life," he explained. "30+30=60 Mom, that's young to die, that'd be like sad. You're 40, you're mid."<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj51-MFRnQ5__SSSD5fOkD8tDwYnjz6Szdnh9B5Ngkism5yQq2N-71wVvuLqGGr4DFGe883EweEgDaFAxxXpTDTrq8Nw4Dr21CGhL5Ngn1yg57dHQdk6Br0ZrKIXOtjZspsDI5090hhTw/s1600/IMG_7959.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj51-MFRnQ5__SSSD5fOkD8tDwYnjz6Szdnh9B5Ngkism5yQq2N-71wVvuLqGGr4DFGe883EweEgDaFAxxXpTDTrq8Nw4Dr21CGhL5Ngn1yg57dHQdk6Br0ZrKIXOtjZspsDI5090hhTw/s1600/IMG_7959.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I love you Colbert!!!So handsome, kills me.</td></tr>
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"Coco, who?! Cares?!" I asked. "Fine, I'm mid. That meathead tried to kill you, your mother and two brothers. And that's the thing, that I'm mid?" <br />
<br />
"I'm still getting a muscle tee," he said.<br />
<br />
But now I'm stuck on <i>mid</i>. What's the value there. Besides getting back at me for putting the breaks on his mooley shirted dreams?<br />
<br />
"Are you guys young?" I ask.<br />
<br />
"Oh, yeah, we're really young," he said.<br />
<br />
"So if I got killed it wouldn't matter," I said. "But if you guys did it would be sad."<br />
<br />
"Oh, my gosh, Mom!" He threw his hands up to his head, <i>what aren't you getting?</i> "If we died it would be way worse than sad, it would be a disaster! It would be like on the news! (Then he settled down and looked out the window.) But yea, if you did...it's like, no offences but it's like whatever."<br />
<br />
No 'offences' taken. Totally offended.<br />
<br />
Why did I swerve again? <br />
<br />
"I'd care Mommy," Julian (fire, earth) said. "I'd care so much."<br />
<br />
And that's why I swerve. Plus, a hundred other reasons- but to hear that then in his sweet soft voice, in that moment- I could breathe again. Then Colbert punched him for being a kiss-ass. I loved that. I totally would have done the same thing, even though I felt bad for sweet Jules.<br />
<br />
Have a great month everybody. I all F's love you!!! xoxxxooxoxxo<br />
<br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8551417930096707061.post-33644655157246089292014-08-09T21:43:00.001-04:002014-08-16T22:04:07.424-04:00What To Do When You Get Hosed- happy week!! xxix <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CfihYWRWRTQ" target="_blank">Can You Love Me Again by John Newman-</a> love this dancing<br />
<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fsKsFU766Io" target="_blank">Breakdown- Tom Petty and The Heartbreaker</a>s- "I ain't afraid of you runnin' away honey, I get the feelin' you won't." - See? TP my kinda nut.<br />
<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-tRdBsnX4N4" target="_blank">Beast of Burden- The Rolling Stones</a><br />
<br />
<b><u><i><span style="font-size: large;">"If someone doesn't respond to you the first time, that's their answer." ~Holly Smith</span></i></u></b><br />
<br />
Oh, man. I've never tried that one. I'm one of six kids, pretty sure it's why I assume I need to talk fast and repeat often...no? No. Turns out, no.<br />
<br />
There is no need to hammer away at ourselves for being confused/distraught when someone whom we were in regular contact, shared side splitting laughs or bang on intimacy- disappears. <br />
<br />
When you realize they've gone missing you may find yourself compulsively attempting to reach them. Out of fear, out of hope, out of expectation, out of denial. Out of self-doubt.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6vI4Y4T4lod-z7wcWSSy8A83Lx4cD8gIwQk7Qmb_ue8xk1e7qxu6zLY9joUMPnvZGbO-DnDx8rV5sqzxHDXfJ0Ia_aldSghtyaw68wZ-rK66YyDp1JQmAmHEE56yinAlRww8Bo2Ns6g/s1600/IMG_4544.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6vI4Y4T4lod-z7wcWSSy8A83Lx4cD8gIwQk7Qmb_ue8xk1e7qxu6zLY9joUMPnvZGbO-DnDx8rV5sqzxHDXfJ0Ia_aldSghtyaw68wZ-rK66YyDp1JQmAmHEE56yinAlRww8Bo2Ns6g/s1600/IMG_4544.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A true friend is hard to find but easy to talk to. <br />
I'm so lucky I found this nut.<br />
Congratulations Holly on Walker William. 8/6/14xx</td></tr>
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There is no need to hammer away at the person who dropped out of your orbit either.<br />
<br />
Even though....<br />
<br />
Okay, so let's set the scene. Hypothetical of course (hypothetical means <i>phony</i> in five syllables. I even know someone who's name means <i>phony </i>in three.) If only high school ended in high school, but it doesn't. Sad but true. But since we're grown...<i>I'll play your game, but I'm going to be the coach. </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>S</i>o you realize that you haven't heard back from (fill in the blank) in a while. You notice, but there's no concern. You then see that you called a couple times and no response. Hmmm. You reach out with another call/text. Straight to voicemail or watching them on Messenger as they ignore you- good times! I hope s/he's okay? You wonder if s/he's depressed or busy and needs help- that's it. S/he hates to ask for anything, pride leads the parade to overwhelmed. Waiting to hear back you say to yourself. "Well, self, in the meantime, let's go me-time!" You check the fading Facebook or whatever social media you thrive on- only to find not only is your pal Houdini perfectly capable of getting out and of dressing. She's able to put her arms around other Smiley Good-Times just like her and pose! This brings a twinge of self-pity followed by a shot of guilt. Well, what about me? Well, at least she isn't dead. Is that a pic of s/he dancing at your mutual friends party? Suddenly, your cheeks burn red in embarrassment. While you were leaving messy messages in the humor you once shared, you were actually persona non grata. Every pic tells the same story. Your once talk-twice-a-day is immersed in social connection while giving you zero percent call back. The once (because a face turns ugly after betrayal) cherished face is a gleam amongst a bevy of people, (or two) who also appear to be having a blast. Aren't those the people your friend never liked? Who are those girls? So you scroll comments. "Hey best thing everrrr! Awesome seeing you!!" or "We'll be in town tomorrow, join?!" and the response, "Totally, call me!" Huh?<br />
<br />
Dear friend is not only over your ass but being celebrated by every ass in town. Confused and rationalizing you call/text again. This time you leave a lengthy message basically saying "I'm onto ya." Alienating? Possibly. No, definitely. Who wants to read that? Satisfying to write, stomach churning to receive. As the sender, I have delivered myself the torture of pressing send too soon. There's no getting it back. Cyber F'd.<br />
<br />
I have been on both sides. I'm not great with the phone. Forget not great, I do not like talking on the phone at all. There have been people in my life who are still in my life, who think I'm making it up. They decide that I'm lying. They choose to think I do like talking on the phone- just not to them. Haha! But hey, I can't laugh too hard because I make up my own stories all of the time. I have listened to a message or two and after being blown away from their confusions delayed their request for communication. I understand that too. It would just be too hard for me to let anyone suffer and never from a good friend, like in that above scenario. That is tough terrain. Sure, I've gotten served un-fun email. No one <i>likes</i> confrontation, but no communication is terminal. For me, it helps to take care of it quick. I feel better if when I can gain an understanding of whatever trippy madness is going on (jk). That we can turn down the noise as early as possible. Even if it's about me-yuck. Otherwise the volume inevitably gets turned up, even blaring. I am not a fan of heavy noise. I prefer to sing to the music. We're all nuts, we just have to find the nuts that are our kind of nutty- again Holly.<br />
<br />
<b>Hand me that hammer.</b><br />
<br />
Merci;)<br />
<br />
There <i>is</i> a need for you to hammer away at your psyche and discern why you would continue to invite a person into your life who has left your proverbial party without so much as a wave? You are asking for more than they are capable of giving, you know that already because they didn't even take time for two words, thank you. Yet, you are still back at your own party asking them to scrape off dinner dishes and clean up your mess. Yes, yours. It was your party for one, if it were their party, they'd still be there! <br />
<br />
The fact is it really doesn't matter what they tell you, if they tell you. The heart is a savvy selector. Many times the trust is gone. They may have very good reasons, they may have none at all. You may have made the whole thing up (they will for sure say:) We tell ourselves a lot of stories. The only person you can truly work to know is yourself (and not to get all 'praise Lord' here), and the God that created you. Yes, even you. You pathetic, needy, overly sensitive soul. "You are the word of God spoken just once." Just once. So, while it feels humiliating to realize someone you used to know and laugh with or who loved you- doesn't want to acknowledge you anymore, others acknowledgement is not what qualifies you as a person here on earth with a job to do. Your acknowledgement of <i>your gifts bestowed</i> and <i>your truth</i> does. If you did right, there is no wrong for you to fix. Time to get another job.<br />
<br />
I write what I need to read. In my own life I need to constantly take the blinders off. When in doubt I consult a trusted friend. I prefer someone a bit older or who's been through the trenches, they know more stuff, plus they've heard it all and nowhere to hide. Like that gem, stated simply and eloquently and quoted above, <b>"If someone doesn't respond to you the first time, that's their answer."</b> Ay Carumba, speak it sister. I never do that! I'm all for bombarding. And fair warning to Holly, I would never let her go with one call. I barely know where my phone is half the time. I can't imagine being like, ok she didn't respond, time to find an acorn. See how I do that? Excuse me, DID that. That is the past. I chose to start listening today. The first time.<br />
<br />
If you find yourself in this rocking sinking ship, save yourself from further pain and walk away from the slamming, piercing silence. Without self-hating! Only a sociopath wouldn't feel the loss of a friend, especially when they are committed to making you notice and fish. Consider your need to know "the why's" as none of your biz. You have bigger nuts to crack! Find your people! If we truly cared about the cowardly-bags that ditched us, we wouldn't want them to feel burdened by their choice. This is the land of the free baby? Remember? Who just said that? That was not me. You drop me, go ahead and feel it. Let's not bother caring about people who don't treat us well. If they once were respectful and are now giving you the short shrift, they know it, those types of people are not my brand of nut, that's all. Press on. There are so many cool people out there. Go help yourself to a handful of nuts. I do! Lots too!<br />
<br />
Good week all!!<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8551417930096707061.post-25718051216930941362014-07-26T13:23:00.004-04:002014-08-21T08:54:57.261-04:00Maineyiac!! How I Love Vacationland<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCbhQDXyN8T3Hgw0CKWwAxReqtJ4Rc12UJsOU6Z1ddMXPMLB9QEM8Gjtz0LLdmYr122u3cpDzTYWvfDY4uWPb55CWa9pAh-HhX1H7HS7rQGTvdnyw6qCW7kiwJOCdXDoSlrss-Aj5Wcw/s1600/IMG_7217.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCbhQDXyN8T3Hgw0CKWwAxReqtJ4Rc12UJsOU6Z1ddMXPMLB9QEM8Gjtz0LLdmYr122u3cpDzTYWvfDY4uWPb55CWa9pAh-HhX1H7HS7rQGTvdnyw6qCW7kiwJOCdXDoSlrss-Aj5Wcw/s1600/IMG_7217.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px; text-align: center;">Lean on me;/</td></tr>
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<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GwQDgUlNOHM" target="_blank">Darling Be Home Soon- Joe Cocker Cover</a> 1969<br />
<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oA1I11IeF8U" target="_blank">Cathedral- Crosby, Stills & N</a>ash<br />
Scroll for more pics...<br />
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Kennebunkport, Me. July's end 2014<br />
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I love Maine. My brother lived here for years- some years ago. He gave me this term. You ready? People who love Maine are...wait for it...Maineyiacs! Elbow, elbow. Hey it's summer-you must have some corn! I am a Maineyiac. We have been here for a month with one week to go and I am sad beyond words to leave. Seriously, if I weren't a person who hates long bouts of bitter cold, I could live here for sure. The music, the people, the food, the vistas, the people, the people. Yet, it is cold. As it is in New York, I start to bottom out by the end of March, by April I'm done for. I have PTSD. Post Traumatic Snow Disorder. The climate isn't all that different in Maine, and the people so wonderful, I would do it. Yet, I've been watching myself for years. That last stretch of about 4 more weeks of winter Maine maintains while NY thaws, would make me light myself on fire and toss my own ashes.* I will remain, God willing, a 'summer person.' That's what they call us. Summer people. Amongst other things. Ha, here's one. On the beach one day this charming lady from Canada, told me a kid from Massachusetts insulted her son. Her son asked him to build a sandcastle and the child said, "No, thank you." "Can you imagine? Who says that?!" I hated to admit that my oldest says it to anyone who comes within in twenty feet of him for any reason. Yet, I agreed with the Canadian woman, of course it's perculiar, but arent we raising peculiar? Anyway, I was proud that my son wasn't afraid of boundaries and said thank you. So I found this to be a rather small gripe. Well, small for me, it got her miffed. She put her hand up to her face-shielding her mouth so that only I could hear, "...that's why they call them Massholes." Haha. I couldn't believe it, I'd never heard anything like that. I didn't agree, but I am fond of word play. How great. "Is that right?" I asked. "Oh, you can bet ay, big Massholes."<br />
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Everyday, except for the two times we had visitors and it poured (that put an end to having visitors;) it's been a beautiful Maine day. Sunny, hot, breezy, with cool nights, breathtaking sunsets, flying bugs the size of small planes-yikes and oh, I almost forgot, ticks. I pulled one, like a hysteric out of my ankle while shaving, bad move. Then one from my ear, while driving. One from Henry's ear, a nymph. That's another sorta problem. Nothing, anywhere with anybody comes without a trade-off.<br />
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I've never seen so many cemeteries. Along with the staggering beauty of the homes dated 1810, 1709, 1645. I was struck by the amount of cemeteries. Everywhere you look there's another headstone with a persons name on it; in front yards, side streets, hiking trails. Each with an attribution rubbed out over time, (naturally, because it doesn't seem like anyone has died here since 1904?) less the words, 'DIED' 'Blessed God' and a date somewhere between 1535 and 1848.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnvQoVeayEB57iwQgsColRfAZTXpnlF1EaO15khfNGnZcXExfvwh0bVF79QSkCYEb7SbEsahClxCwoiRfHsBhV9wA5N9vyThoX08jEmdMIi_7AbOHrengqLhe69YOarHj_4JMXWYz-Aw/s1600/IMG_7230.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnvQoVeayEB57iwQgsColRfAZTXpnlF1EaO15khfNGnZcXExfvwh0bVF79QSkCYEb7SbEsahClxCwoiRfHsBhV9wA5N9vyThoX08jEmdMIi_7AbOHrengqLhe69YOarHj_4JMXWYz-Aw/s1600/IMG_7230.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a>Being a horrible person, I did <i>briefly</i> wonder if they weren't all legitimately from that era. Was it possible that some people found a family member had flat-lined and asked, "So, where should we bury Dad?" Hmm, here's good." (Son, picks his eye tooth and points to a spot near the end of their property line.) "Pick up a solid stone rectangle-scratch 1842 into it, no one'll know the difference." Then Pops is buried toe-up in the front yard looking like a piece of Americana when really he's circa 2013. It was just a thought. Relax. I quickly realized I was savagely irreverent. Bad, bad Sue-sue.<br />
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Listen, burials aren't cheap and they sure do add to the history of a place.<br />
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That said...when it's my time? *Incinerate my person and spread my ashes out over the NoPa. If you don't know what NoPa is, it's not your job, so don't bother trying to figure it out. Simply no burials for me. Property lines change. Nobody's going to build a road around this gals tombstone- so keep your money in your wallet family- or spend it on a flight to NoCal and cast me asunder.*<br />
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Short break for my WILL AND TESTAMENT-If indeed cash becomes too tight for flight- I <i>might</i> not mind (my dead self might not mind) being scattered in the ocean by Ogunquit, Me or Fortunes Rocks, Me. Which is remarkably similar to parts of the craggy Northern California coast and where I am spending the summer with my family now as we did two years ago. Kennebunkport, Goose Rocks Beach, Gooch's, Cape Porpoise, Kennebunk, Portland. Southern Maine. It is heaven. Heaven with a lot of cemeteries. My mind has changed from thinking of them as spooky to ubiquitous and as regular as living. To live is to die. It's so much more personal and intimate to have the plots on your property. It shows lineage and pride. As well, the plots make a fine juxtaposition amidst the salt of the earth Mainers I've encountered whom I've found royal at the art of living. They are lobster men, they are gentiles, they are kayaking, praying, painting, writing, gardening, crafting, creating, communicating, building, biking, fishing, harvesting, eating well, surviving long cold winters that blossom into stunning summers. They are living abutted to those that have earned their mortality by doing the same- generation by generation. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhh8_-2Tgtxf6P0LAyEV2gvyryGHEKIkJl50XgZLt4DNDPRX14zmy-NyEdLlXV1ESvbzo5WJuSnkS_gAqAuKyZ1myPuzYRVKnSKS9Z0t00PM21abQVwl_vXpKcoctY3tOYbeP-bxNL7Eg/s1600/IMG_7214.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhh8_-2Tgtxf6P0LAyEV2gvyryGHEKIkJl50XgZLt4DNDPRX14zmy-NyEdLlXV1ESvbzo5WJuSnkS_gAqAuKyZ1myPuzYRVKnSKS9Z0t00PM21abQVwl_vXpKcoctY3tOYbeP-bxNL7Eg/s1600/IMG_7214.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a>History is shouting out. Sometimes quite sadly. Upon closer inspection, I've too often found a headstone with the date etched stating the departed didn't live past 23 or worse that they died before they had the chance to lose their first baby tooth. What our forefathers did to get us here...how they endured spending an entire day churning butter had me staggering. Losing a child? Children? How can I not be flooded with reverence? What holy grace. My favorite cemetery, (there's a sentence I never thought I'd hear myself say), is the Hutchins Familys' on Arundel Rd, in Kennebunkport. Strictly fascinated by that family. It seems they were hit hard in 1840 and 1848. They lost, from what I gleaned four children, one 3yrs and 3mos. My six year old pointed it out and added, "Hey, that's how old Henry is!" Our youngest is 3yrs and 3mos. I looked at him differently. I wanted to know how those parents endured, what caused all of those deaths? What saved them? My research has come up empty. Many old families have donated tons of acreage to preserve the land by creating The Conservation Trust. It's a fabulous testament to their character. I met a woman on a trolley ride who had not a tooth in her head but was proud that her great-granddaddy donated all of their inheritance to the people living and visiting "Vacationland." I had to look away. Does it get any less selfish? I would pick <i>my </i>having teeth over the masses enjoying great-granddaddy's backyard any day, and twice on Sundays. I'll work on that.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTn3be09PzPLNMVE0IDPlXUZVBZ4QhO4Ep9UcUbyqy_-wP7iZ2EX3v-T4pd96jSb19zFgbszbTN4laHZhjOF83HrOHl_21Z8TU51xfVV8hKBHL6RA75CFlnamA1aOuJ81pMgoV1Y2vYA/s1600/IMG_7005.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTn3be09PzPLNMVE0IDPlXUZVBZ4QhO4Ep9UcUbyqy_-wP7iZ2EX3v-T4pd96jSb19zFgbszbTN4laHZhjOF83HrOHl_21Z8TU51xfVV8hKBHL6RA75CFlnamA1aOuJ81pMgoV1Y2vYA/s1600/IMG_7005.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px; text-align: center;">Goose Rocks Beach</td></tr>
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I went for a run yesterday morning. "Run" may give you the wrong idea. I'm more a dancer, walker, spinner with some running mixed in than a straight-up runner. I'm like Billy Elliot out there. (Currently playing at the<a href="http://www.ogunquitplayhouse.org/" target="_blank"> Ogunquit Playhouse</a>.) Likely, I looks insane. But who's on the road? Not many. Mostly me. And other Maine-iacs. I put on my playlist, (this morning was Songza's 90's work out jam...who had it better than us coming up in the 90's. Awesomely bad, "uhuhuhuhuhuh Let me clear my throat!") and hve the time of my life. People are so friendly. Everyone smiles and waves. It's pristine. I like the country. I never want to leave.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyoY6EN8plz15ZVgWzRgl7pFaGV6OGsBByE7HCHb5gMhzPILoPq4F_QkFo8VPgpQkOK3Y1SGta0-7fcPB3De5JZBasuNwCzXrLFA6_Z4Kxh1PlMhY0tCRpKweAQ2x0gI3n-vFd5jvVzg/s1600/IMG_6870.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyoY6EN8plz15ZVgWzRgl7pFaGV6OGsBByE7HCHb5gMhzPILoPq4F_QkFo8VPgpQkOK3Y1SGta0-7fcPB3De5JZBasuNwCzXrLFA6_Z4Kxh1PlMhY0tCRpKweAQ2x0gI3n-vFd5jvVzg/s1600/IMG_6870.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px; text-align: center;">The Sugar Shack<br />
"Like a kid in a candy store"</td></tr>
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However, Portland is no slouch. What a fabulous city. Aside from the great museum and that it's on the water. It's like hipsters on steroids. So much cool. The Freedom Farm where we are staying, I will dedicate an entire post to. Suffice it to say, it came with a turntable. Portland has a great little shop, Strange Maine, (pictured below), where I picked up some epic LP's everything from Lovin' Spoonful to RunDMC. There were two guys outside talking about astrology, hello!? Speaking my language much? Later, we stopped at <a href="http://twofatcatsbakery.com/" target="_blank">Two Fat Cats Bakery</a>, cause my oldest is a sugar addict, and we enablers. The guys in there were too cute for words. So young, with requisite beards, they created all these delicious fresh baked yummies made with locally sourced ingredients. Turns out their Woopie Pies were voted best in the country or something. I'm not huge on sweets, I've never actually had a Woopie pie, but I had one that day. Yes. And more yes. Award them.<br />
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"This reminds me so much of Brooklyn," I said to the cashier. He looked to be about 30 with his heavy beard, but was probably closer to 22. He also looked 5'2"/180lbs with his heavy beard but was probably closer to 5'8" and 135lbs.<br />
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"Oh, yea," he smiled, his voice was kind and groovy. "It's kinda similar with the locally sourced<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZXpbnWOg6RGzDCjzyxMt-3c_uuP5qos45QPr1F-C07LtUQMb1xYf_O4zcXgYp8ifkBytPGq4v5E-YXL3erHjXApNvK4c13anhHlwtJvLk0TesU55DUt5VHiwJOD7OkC2GfiUvJJUsrQ/s1600/IMG_7249.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZXpbnWOg6RGzDCjzyxMt-3c_uuP5qos45QPr1F-C07LtUQMb1xYf_O4zcXgYp8ifkBytPGq4v5E-YXL3erHjXApNvK4c13anhHlwtJvLk0TesU55DUt5VHiwJOD7OkC2GfiUvJJUsrQ/s1600/IMG_7249.JPG" height="320" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Gettya LP's on</td></tr>
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ingredients and all."<br />
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"They're shaving their beards in Brooklyn," I whispered. "Just.. noticing that. Was there recently."<br />
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"Oh, really?" he laughed, stroking his massive reddish face-fur, "thanks for the heads up."<br />
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"Yea, I think you've got like 4 months max left with that," I said quietly with a wink that said he would thank me later.<br />
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"So, will it be just the Woopie pies and the brownie?" he asked, laughing.<br />
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Haha. We have fun. I'm glad he didn't give me any advice. :D *I don't want to know what they call people from New York. Actually, yes I do! I hope it's just as hilarious.<br />
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Oh! Another thing, well there are so many more things, but everyone has an American Flag. Ours is rolled up on it's side in the garage on Long Island getting all kinds of filthy. With the amount of history and country pride, one, (this one) could feel like a gosh darn commie. What a disgrace. Here, in patriotic Southern Maine, Old Glory is out and about. She's hanging off of cars, mailboxes, trucks, garages, barns, boats, lit up on poles...and of course marking too many a headstone in those beautiful, sacred cemeteries.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">snorkel for hermit crabs</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPabbhldc1CSTE5ehmhpGZiUKBjpheGiDkNFhJGl5akXLcZzzejX9HCuedxrGGOBHnV5J9GKxnQSMgvwcRqgdzCXQHsT09sSfWiBfyi28XSV2q0ctFIdxF_6jkK1lmozuvCUtDJdeIBw/s1600/IMG_6906.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPabbhldc1CSTE5ehmhpGZiUKBjpheGiDkNFhJGl5akXLcZzzejX9HCuedxrGGOBHnV5J9GKxnQSMgvwcRqgdzCXQHsT09sSfWiBfyi28XSV2q0ctFIdxF_6jkK1lmozuvCUtDJdeIBw/s1600/IMG_6906.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">catch a 5th of july parade (rained on 4th)</td></tr>
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<tr><td><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqYE94kmB2PN8g7dFS3RvRCuMwnAeiGTJIL18lpA9F3qY426lNu5dUwRSBYIedw0k4M63-HWpFdTpyhu-SEB1twLjOfwqjOsITSHQAfB4M9QE6L0OSN5RFLG7ONZLZ7EMMoX-i-FTV4w/s1600/IMG_6943.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqYE94kmB2PN8g7dFS3RvRCuMwnAeiGTJIL18lpA9F3qY426lNu5dUwRSBYIedw0k4M63-HWpFdTpyhu-SEB1twLjOfwqjOsITSHQAfB4M9QE6L0OSN5RFLG7ONZLZ7EMMoX-i-FTV4w/s1600/IMG_6943.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;">Cigarette ad on Trolley built in 1912</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmY5Zz9PN3TMIYRbVt7hUUhKwc7GphLCelhRcb9zP_ada4NUcoVUFB1Zd6qff7S4cjuzo7mqu3Ipekbwoq3ohVr-JYZgKoVr7grCu1m61YJKe9I8A0CPnJsuc49wLOYAxOW6jQgtwCLA/s1600/IMG_6974.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmY5Zz9PN3TMIYRbVt7hUUhKwc7GphLCelhRcb9zP_ada4NUcoVUFB1Zd6qff7S4cjuzo7mqu3Ipekbwoq3ohVr-JYZgKoVr7grCu1m61YJKe9I8A0CPnJsuc49wLOYAxOW6jQgtwCLA/s1600/IMG_6974.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Can you believe how cool Mom is? No! </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgN3Y9t2rSq9oO5ZVLjnL2ELX1iIU7tUr9Fh_fSm1iY6_Z45dZEZz8Sdvyx4zWaC27tF4N6fIkRkgGpPya4KyaPTOppZWcVbQ6gclZfTqesgwLtLmRFPRBK2C7wZ5gNW0wtqecr11tEow/s1600/IMG_6991.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgN3Y9t2rSq9oO5ZVLjnL2ELX1iIU7tUr9Fh_fSm1iY6_Z45dZEZz8Sdvyx4zWaC27tF4N6fIkRkgGpPya4KyaPTOppZWcVbQ6gclZfTqesgwLtLmRFPRBK2C7wZ5gNW0wtqecr11tEow/s1600/IMG_6991.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Outward Bound, Sail Sail Sail</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7_FFQ3SBs2XL4pkUfu7iIDcOhPMIGk_JDKKMw15_9KhKNQNIdH94yBvJzVjWzW1tvrdqajqOdUa9UQd8HA3JdXSkHgOW2T-Ku3ci70vlKGBoI4gKuxTN813MDrNOWTVEL0iEpQptaIQ/s1600/IMG_7086.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7_FFQ3SBs2XL4pkUfu7iIDcOhPMIGk_JDKKMw15_9KhKNQNIdH94yBvJzVjWzW1tvrdqajqOdUa9UQd8HA3JdXSkHgOW2T-Ku3ci70vlKGBoI4gKuxTN813MDrNOWTVEL0iEpQptaIQ/s1600/IMG_7086.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Nymph deer tick looks like a poppyseed</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfxhq9ErlcvMTF8WBSbxlFv7E7FHm9hsZ_REx6OsfTgNQmHoXd6EedrQgjJLCM6QM5uogFMlcM_qPaqN_CfG1HRi6kZT8va-OIQXVFWI5uZAFZtoaKY7J9Ia-iroc8y_rwtwI4J_k9yA/s1600/IMG_7101.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfxhq9ErlcvMTF8WBSbxlFv7E7FHm9hsZ_REx6OsfTgNQmHoXd6EedrQgjJLCM6QM5uogFMlcM_qPaqN_CfG1HRi6kZT8va-OIQXVFWI5uZAFZtoaKY7J9Ia-iroc8y_rwtwI4J_k9yA/s1600/IMG_7101.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">stop and snell the wild flowers</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghrjAj72OUKnPQYVOy3VCXcUitiZ9FjomVcOHm9sdGDITwnZriIl2Iw3u9TuajhLzflFciB5X0VvAHrAG6Evzf3rZA_tVPLVFUcxWSMR36LItKq8MuP5XI4DjYqp8vrCyU2KEfzX7EXQ/s1600/IMG_7131.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghrjAj72OUKnPQYVOy3VCXcUitiZ9FjomVcOHm9sdGDITwnZriIl2Iw3u9TuajhLzflFciB5X0VvAHrAG6Evzf3rZA_tVPLVFUcxWSMR36LItKq8MuP5XI4DjYqp8vrCyU2KEfzX7EXQ/s1600/IMG_7131.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Kayack</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Great BLT's</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFJ3VLtxiaoepV6navdZVWbjAtyxXpskkoBlh8dKc1bxdL39pBHG5XgpsXWpJpc-JSAEUMu1GXfGYgOCnW2d_lItml32HkPZID65_0cFSq6_1TT8sRa6DwPZJ6jMNusrMnW2ZCXZ4dig/s1600/IMG_7219.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFJ3VLtxiaoepV6navdZVWbjAtyxXpskkoBlh8dKc1bxdL39pBHG5XgpsXWpJpc-JSAEUMu1GXfGYgOCnW2d_lItml32HkPZID65_0cFSq6_1TT8sRa6DwPZJ6jMNusrMnW2ZCXZ4dig/s1600/IMG_7219.jpg" height="320" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hurchins Family Cemetery </td></tr>
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<tr><td><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMnoKo6f_YKV_SJTWYIN5lp0nOJg-p6xbLePsc8P5_9YQTr_4_Fo6V7UnZCKaac1yiVX953jjY1vshVOtRvOvWhxRHrmz0MIv05fkBM1WY0GCYH_F1pjq7EmQF4MfvvDMm3ZmHqRRDgw/s1600/IMG_7234.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMnoKo6f_YKV_SJTWYIN5lp0nOJg-p6xbLePsc8P5_9YQTr_4_Fo6V7UnZCKaac1yiVX953jjY1vshVOtRvOvWhxRHrmz0MIv05fkBM1WY0GCYH_F1pjq7EmQF4MfvvDMm3ZmHqRRDgw/s1600/IMG_7234.jpg" height="640" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;">By Richard Estes- couldn't agree more.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4UZr74vAvg7Iq8f8VpcRMTY27sGA50H3xaqN7QrPoNleMhUu34pqjXm5a_RX9H5vgS71Qu7go7bL5TWAt9oDz3bMzObn__lUURYHU9h-HnYgjHpY0rp9NWrLzY2vpHPg9G3YFIOSERQ/s1600/IMG_7241.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4UZr74vAvg7Iq8f8VpcRMTY27sGA50H3xaqN7QrPoNleMhUu34pqjXm5a_RX9H5vgS71Qu7go7bL5TWAt9oDz3bMzObn__lUURYHU9h-HnYgjHpY0rp9NWrLzY2vpHPg9G3YFIOSERQ/s1600/IMG_7241.jpg" height="320" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">They said Bellows used chartreuse "a color not found in nature" but I found a chartreuse snail at Goose rocks.</td></tr>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8551417930096707061.post-34628276503116337992014-06-20T15:41:00.001-04:002014-07-13T22:23:59.131-04:00Guitar Hero<div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
He had just returned from taking our eight year old to an electric guitar lesson.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7MXu5vF6zZk7afpJJooazy63-3jmGDAnXUO9gYktsGaTGfyOF445d_hkskpgrpHFWm4mnGPvjIyaaEf40SWtksWOKDbWHHJtCGdvioTBDCx4-0gE2BTXpOIjGK7J0TZtWEGmTgZcxDA/s1600/IMG_6080.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7MXu5vF6zZk7afpJJooazy63-3jmGDAnXUO9gYktsGaTGfyOF445d_hkskpgrpHFWm4mnGPvjIyaaEf40SWtksWOKDbWHHJtCGdvioTBDCx4-0gE2BTXpOIjGK7J0TZtWEGmTgZcxDA/s1600/IMG_6080.jpg" height="200" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pictures that he will hate me for <br />
in no time. Then understand when it's his time.</td></tr>
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<div>
"This kid, like 35, at the music place, told me about a game where Colbert can plug in his guitar to the Wii U and play along," Danny said.<br />
<br />
"Kid" and "35" didn't seem to totally go together- but my bigger battle was insuring not another piece of Wii U paraphernalia came into the homestead. </div>
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<div>
"Whatever happened to <i>doing things the old fashioned way</i>?" I wondered out loud. "Like using the guitar app on the iPad?"<br />
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"Yea," Danny said, walking out of the room. <i>I'm gonna get it anyway.</i></div>
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Then Colbert came in to pitch the same spiel. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">He props his music on the ledge <br />
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"Hey Mom, there was this guy at the lesson place that said we can buy a cool thing for the Wii U," he said.</div>
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"The 35 year old?" I asked. </div>
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"Yea, this <i>old</i> guy," he said.<br />
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Ha!<br />
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But, I'm sure "35" and "old" don't go together either. Right?! </div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8551417930096707061.post-53476244493922772492014-05-11T15:03:00.001-04:002014-05-12T19:37:49.526-04:00SpunkerFLY Woman of The Month: NickMom's Andrea Rosen<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6BhKHnot-ZirfK1em0v7Xwc6HocaHL9BUWX6flHo_XDSN_A7qkHu90uRJmg6RpTVFJ0Ao8g1sAYHRDBNX4P5yshwdU5GdpiJiuoepvQr-10p10Ue8__LHST7-X0-58kzwWM2clzaxig/s1600/1604495_583051145122591_141733668_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6BhKHnot-ZirfK1em0v7Xwc6HocaHL9BUWX6flHo_XDSN_A7qkHu90uRJmg6RpTVFJ0Ao8g1sAYHRDBNX4P5yshwdU5GdpiJiuoepvQr-10p10Ue8__LHST7-X0-58kzwWM2clzaxig/s1600/1604495_583051145122591_141733668_n.jpg" height="400" width="400" /></a><span style="font-family: arial, sans-serif;"><b>Mother's Day Movie Pick: The Blindside - rent it on demand. </b></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><b>Song:<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VJ1GQFtHGxU" target="_blank"> I love a rainy night,</a> by Eddie Rabbit</b>. I remember my mom singing with us in the satin wagon- with no seat belts or car seats. So fun. </span></div>
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<b><span style="font-size: large;">Happy Mother's Day to all the moms and soon-to-be moms, and to those that miss their moms:) And my soul moms. If I missed a group- Happy to you too! Congratulations Andrea on your newest bundle of joy. </span></b></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family: arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large; font-weight: bold;">Pop Quiz! </span>Can you say Mom 30x fast? Our 3 year old can. All day. It's such a blast. Not that kind of blast. The sort of atomic blast that severs my nerves. I could use some SOS in the <i>patience</i> department. Where to turn? Take Me To Your Mother, Nickmom. </span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Andrea & cast from (our family fave) Old Spices<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2CIic4PJcGmesqT5Ces1v7s6o0K9MZgIbtUa3Gs7M6NKLtNbam4CpM_xS6ok79b6tc9REiJYW1z8WDK58fY-o8c-novpCnylvZYuNg3XYuSvoFCP4VEAVrd5AUC5gVhFsq-UqgpiqrA/s1600/10174904_617602905000748_2469609609375818021_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2CIic4PJcGmesqT5Ces1v7s6o0K9MZgIbtUa3Gs7M6NKLtNbam4CpM_xS6ok79b6tc9REiJYW1z8WDK58fY-o8c-novpCnylvZYuNg3XYuSvoFCP4VEAVrd5AUC5gVhFsq-UqgpiqrA/s1600/10174904_617602905000748_2469609609375818021_n.jpg" height="400" width="272" /></a></div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family: arial, sans-serif;">Yet, even the best of us can learn something from <a href="http://www.nickmom.com/tv/take-me-to-your-mother/" target="_blank">Take Me To Your Mother on Nickmom.</a> Andrea Rosen, new mama of two is the star, with a newborn baby boy. YAY! Congratualtions. On the show Andrea spends time with mothers from all walks of life and talks to them about parenting. What makes the show so fun to watch is Andrea. Alright, I said it. Take Me To Your Mother is great, I love the mom's she meets. However, for me, she's the captain and caboose. No one reacts the way she does, which is the way we'd want to but never be quick enough. Andrea's eyeballs speak to us in an aside as if we're in the room. It's so funny to me, because it's so her! Andrea can do that with anything. TMTYM is the perfect vehicle for her warmth, humor while getting to the point. That is not easy. At the exact moment when you think, well you're not sure what to think, Andrea looks over or says something that clears it all up. We're one again. Andrea is like Ellen Degeneres </span><span style="font-family: arial, sans-serif;">and all of the best comediennes because everybody is in on the joke, or the experience. There's a lot of laughter, born (no pun) from the humor that comes out of ordinary people doing an extraordinary thing- raising their child(ren).</span><br />
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What doesn't seem ordinary at first are all of the many subsects and brands of mothers out there. Thats where Take Me To Your Mother Takes us. Who knew there were so many camps and styles and practices? Well, okay you did, but do you ever really think about them? Take Me To Your Mother is a way to peak inside, gain some understanding, and feel better, we'll all be okay. Andrea is also in Episodes on Showtime with Matt LeBlanc. She did 3 episodes of it last season and it looks like she'll be back next season. I really couldn't be happier for her. She's one of the good ones. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family: arial, sans-serif;"><b>How we "met":</b></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family: arial, sans-serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-HyfQPOolYEDCrcRb2OABaRFVRb85-6n1Rbo5gZSFnhn9pgwAMXHY0H2Xls_BwDOo0tfUXAVPoermbhuWEPN7um9vLKPdXODggSA5X82KgiztNspXZ0FL1D4DUxWw3gd64n_IU8xbbg/s1600/1958366_595418717219167_20658485_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-HyfQPOolYEDCrcRb2OABaRFVRb85-6n1Rbo5gZSFnhn9pgwAMXHY0H2Xls_BwDOo0tfUXAVPoermbhuWEPN7um9vLKPdXODggSA5X82KgiztNspXZ0FL1D4DUxWw3gd64n_IU8xbbg/s1600/1958366_595418717219167_20658485_n.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a>I was on the UES going to NYU, my dear roommate had a brother. He not only secured us an apartment, but he got me a job. His friend Sean- (OMG- Andrea, Do you remember Sean?!) I met Sean the manager at E.J.'s Luncheonette, he schooled me for about 15 minutes on the art of scooping ice cream and making shakes. He stressed the importance of a proper malted. I didn't think he was kidding. An hour later I was in an apron meeting Andrea. I messed up almost every order. Every table got a malted. Andrea helped me scoop, malt, and most of all, laughed me back to health. Once she ordered her milkshakes in a British accent, "I'd lyke two black and whyte milkshakes, now Susan I CUHNT have them malted, I just CUHNT." she said. "Ahndrea, you CUHNT say CUHNT in a restauRUHNT." We thought that was the funniest. Well, I did. It was a busy place and I had no idea how tight the crew was. Andrea had me join along anyhwere they went- Come to Swifts, Come to ...I have early onset Alzheimers but wherever it was she included me, and that was huge. They'd all worked together for like- everrr. One day, I told her my secret, which was like coming out of the closet. I said, "Ahndrea, I want to be an actress." She looked at me like she could suddenly see only the whites of my eyes- "Of course! You already are!"</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family: arial, sans-serif;">She wrote a screenplay called "Is It Toast Yet?" How's that for a clever title. She gave me a bunch of parts, and pretended not to mind when I asked her four hundred times how many people thought I was great, even though she kept shrinking the number. She wrote and performed a one-woman show downtown. It was a big place, yet I can't remember the name- fargin Alzies. However, I have never forgotten one of the mannerisms she gave to one of her characters. She was playing a senior citizen- as she was talking, she blew her nose and tucked the tissue into her sleeve. It was so subtle. So true. I love art.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family: arial, sans-serif;">It's a miracle that after all these years we have remained in touch. I don't think either of us ever tried. It just happens. We would run into each other every couple of years. She told me of her show Variety Shac- of course I went, of course the applause was . and then FB has pretty much taken us from 2009 on. It's pretty cool. It's cool because I've gotten the privilege of seeing this determined gutsy funny woman's journey. Andrea is one of the good ones. Always. One of the hardest workers in the game but like she says in answer to my insecure projection (question 2.) "Did it ever feel like the impossible dream?" I never saw her sweat, she was always simply working, doing the best at what she knew she was meant to do. No clawing, no competition actually, which is not easy in the showbiz world. Well, there was that one time when she pulled a mild Naomi Camb, but hey, we all have bad days and she did her community service in high heeled hiking boots and a bikini just like the rest of the working hoes. Kidding, obv. She not only sees beneath the wink but adds on top of it a warmth that makes even the biggest oddball feel understood.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family: arial, sans-serif;">Andrea is perfectly matched to Take Me To Your Mother-she meets people and is not shocked by anything. She is looking to understand and uncover the light, the funny. It's fun. It's wild. It's easy. I couldn't be happier for her if it happened to myself, (but it didn't so fuck her.) Just kidding. This interview has been such a gift. It has made me remember a time in my life I may never have revisited while in a place where I really needed to. Just one more story...as long as I have you here I might as well keep you hostage right?! Once I called her from San Francisco, I quit my day job to be a Beat. William Burroughs? Meet Wilma. Well, turns out it was the late nineties, I missed the Beat generation, by 30 something years- oops. Ok, plan B. I wanted to try stand up- only I had two obstacles. I couldn't leave my apartment and I had no material. I had time to write material, but not leave the apartment. I'd seen a few of Andreas shows at Caroline's. I couldn't understand how she did it; brave, unapologetic, clever and fresh. I gave her a call. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family: arial, sans-serif;">"Just write what you're doing and find a comedy club and perform it." Andrea said. "Find an open mic."</span></div>
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"No can do. Just started a diet, I've gained 20 lbs, I can't get out of bed."<br />
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"Whenever I'm awake I eat-so I'm trying to stay asleep until it falls off." I said </div>
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"Write that. That's funny. Write that. Go tell people that," she said. <br />
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"Why?" I thought she had misheard me. I didn't get it.<br />
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"Sleeping to lose weight is funny," she explained. </div>
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I didn't get it. See, that's why I had trouble with comedy. People laughed but I didn't know why. Andrea not only knows why, she is the why. AH? I have no idea what that means. Maybe I'll try it out at Governors one night. Now I get it. That is funny. I'm so happy our paths cross in and out. My last audition was for a bridesemaid in 27 Dresses. I'm donzo. To see a deserved person you adore live hteir dream...well, there's nothing like it.<br />
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Sometimes years go by and then we'll see each other and go, "Oh. My. God. You cuhnt say CUHNT in a restaurahhhhnt." <br />
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Here are your 5 questions. (More like 10 yikes.) Do what you can…;D</div>
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1. Since there have been lapses in our conversation- I'm not sure if this remains true, but it seems to me you have been consistently on the path: hard working, hilarious, so kind and totally focused on making it in the world of entertainment and finding your true love. Yes! We'll get to the love next but did you ever think- this is the impossible dream, I'm going to get a desk job? Did you ever get a desk job?</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirFjhNIx5f2ucdffJpkV3z1smGP0EOmF5xkt1ksWbAWqpk77NTDDqwWBZm_NfGIyqVINJePCNyDP6fV-IjSMJoomTusCC1omf8dye4IFHFOsE-M71Mfw-3IpUcWhsE6ELLkVY2Lm85DA/s1600/10342495_630895347004837_6613795146391509615_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirFjhNIx5f2ucdffJpkV3z1smGP0EOmF5xkt1ksWbAWqpk77NTDDqwWBZm_NfGIyqVINJePCNyDP6fV-IjSMJoomTusCC1omf8dye4IFHFOsE-M71Mfw-3IpUcWhsE6ELLkVY2Lm85DA/s1600/10342495_630895347004837_6613795146391509615_n.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a><b><i>If waitressing counts as a "desk job", then yes,</i><i> I spent a looong time selling eggs and hash (with you), steak, guacomole, </i>(I remember that place!!) <i>saucy french food, beer, etceterahhhhh! Those were always survival jobs.(yes!) I was always pursuing comedy/writing/acting. I never stopped doing that. I guess if I thought I could stomach another profession, I would have pursued another profession. But I never thought I could do anything else. So I didn't. I never thought of it as an "impossible dream". I think if I thought of it like that, I wouldn't have been able to continue doing it.</i></b></div>
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Wow. You just boiled down The Secret into 20 words or less. You rock. Genius finds the easist way to do everything- Mark Twain (I'm guessing.) I am so glad you believed. Yeah, waitressing is not a desk job- HR, PR, CPR, Insurance sales...maybe? Whose next in line! I was just about to comment on how Insanely tired/ loopy I am- and then I remembered you have a 2 day old baby. Baby love is the best.<br />
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2. Speaking of the love. How did you meet your huz? </div>
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<b><i>I met him on a commercial and I loved him right away. He had just "gotten a girlfriend", and they stayed together for a few YEARS!!!! But we became friends. And eventually the timing worked out. And that was that. He's the best!</i></b><br />
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3. You said you loved Oprah when she put you in O magazine. Will you feel the same way about SpunkerFLY Woman of The Month? I mean we're kinda similar, no?<br />
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4. See how patience comes in handy folks? I wish this interview was in person, so many openings. OKAY, Is what huz does compatible with your career?<br />
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<i><b>He does a lot of improv and he is super funny and grounded and smart. OMG I think he's a genius. But he's not the kind of smart that makes someone not as smart (moi) feel not as smart. You know what I mean? He just did a pilot. And if it gets picked up, I'm going to buy a Vitamix Blender!!!!</b></i></div>
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4a)IMPROV! I love improv. Do you remember seeing each other on this Improv audition? The set up was "you're the worst blind date, you arrived ten minutes late-go." You sat down yawned, stretched your arms over your head and said, <i>"Sorry I'm late, I've been hooking all night."</i> I almost wet my pants. I hadn't seen you in years, but I still knew two things, 1.) I couldn't get enough of you 2.) I didn't get the job. hahah<br />
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<b>* </b>Pilot got picked up!! <a href="http://splitsider.com/2014/05/nbc-orders-david-caspes-marry-me-to-series/" target="_blank">MARRY ME</a> by NBC! YEEDEEDEEDEE!! Vitamix for you! VITAMIX for me!! I googled it and fell in love. </div>
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5. What's the biggest surprise about having your own show? Being featured in Oprah? And now Spunkerfly?(hehe) When it rains is pours. Plus, you are due with your second child soon… I'm tired just asking these questions. You're amazing. I need a nap. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Exactly! I just love her.</td></tr>
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<b><i>OMG I need a nap! I'm due in 3 weeks and I am zonked. Yesterday I took a 4 freaking hour nap! Okay, yes, I have a tv show. It's a super fun and creative and exhausting process. It's a perfect job for me at this juncture because it has everything to do with where I'm at - it's all about me being an exhausted new momma. Plus, I love meeting people I would never otherwise cross paths with - nudist moms, circus moms , a morgue mom, a hypnotist mom, and more! It's a very DIY show - small crew, no hair and make up/wardrobe - and I like that scale, it's very manageable... Biggest surprise...um I don't know. I feel too sleepy to be surprised by much of anything! </i></b></div>
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We emailed this interview 3 weeks ago. I am so happy Andrea had a safe and healthy delivery. A baby boy! He's so lucky.<br />
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Thank you so much for being in my life for all of these years. I hope I did a good job. I am bleary eyed, pulled an all nighter. Guilt trip? what would be Mother's day without one. </div>
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Andrea, You forever bring a smile to everyone you see, no doubt we will be seeing lots more of you. You are FLY. </div>
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Happy Mother's Day!! MUAH!! xo<br />
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<a href="http://at.nick.com/1019fwg" target="_blank">Take Me to Your Mother on NickMom</a></div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8551417930096707061.post-39002510473998032532014-05-02T22:39:00.002-04:002014-05-08T07:23:32.264-04:00Touch it, feel better<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<i>*Dear Mom, </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>This you might like: <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cjNBzaNxCwE" target="_blank">Patience Pays by Yogi Bahjan</a>, but I doubt the rest of the post will appeal to you. Please stop here. There's nothing </i><b>wrong</b><i> with it, but it's hard rap music- guaranteed to make you sick. Click away. Befriend your soul. I don't want beef. Love you, xo, Susan</i><br />
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I can't believe it's been a month since I last posted?! That went fast. For me.<br />
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It has been a stressful week. Whoever said raising boys was drama free? They never met the kids in RVC. That's said as if I'm rapping...why? <br />
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Driving down commercial strip mall f'nasty Hemptead Turnpike in Hemptead, NY (the "s" is missing on purpose. Yes, it is, y'heard?) Here's what exploded over my speakers and made my week. I was coming back from dropping Hank at his Spanish Immersion toddler program, about to pop on my <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cjNBzaNxCwE" target="_blank">Yogi Bahjan</a>, Patience Pays, when suddenly I heard "Turn it up." The voice, deep and sexy, was so authoritative I stopped on 105.1 FM and did just that. My head started shaking to the beats. My brain latched onto something other than trying to perceive my son's agony. <br />
<br />
Thank you Busta. Or, Mr. Rhymes. You have nothing but my respect. I like the additional rappers on remix III too. Agro MC's + artistry =<b> turn it up.</b><br />
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Once home, I youtube'd -loved the video...Touch IT ReMIX, felt better.<br />
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<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GDtn_FtU614">https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GDtn_FtU614</a>- watch this. Those cheerleaders in the opening? I could watch them all day. Awl day. "Get low ladies."<br />
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<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xYqTrnyUqTs">https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xYqTrnyUqTs</a> - listen to this. (*this is the version I heard on the radio however without the explicit lyrics- I'm not for them-they hurt- but...the beats! Nothin' but salve.)<br />
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That led to this link below...ahhhh Missy. She cracks me up. Is it worth it? Yes. Felt better yet.<br />
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<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zm28EEeyLek">https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zm28EEeyLek</a><br />
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Then <i>tha</i>t led to this link below. After that...all was right in the world again. Rap: Who can say boys aren't worth the drama? Never met this boys mama. Iggy Iggy Iggy scratch.<br />
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<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sWsBirqxEjA">https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sWsBirqxEjA</a>- Fallon and Timberlake.<br />
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Hope you had a better time of it, no matter, this last one above will make you happy, I'm sure of it. :) xxoxoxoxoxoxo!<br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8551417930096707061.post-25278957037931420972014-04-04T12:37:00.002-04:002014-04-05T01:29:26.505-04:00Tell Meeeheehee! <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Song: <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qscYgRLCmKI" target="_blank">The Power of Two- Indigo Girls</a><br />
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Here's how I first knew he was funny. He woke up in the middle of the night, crying. <a href="http://www.babycenter.com/0_your-18-month-olds-language-and-cognitive-development-speaki_1213794.bc" target="_blank">He was about 18mos. old.</a> No, that's not the punch line. I'm yet to be that sick and twisted, but gaining. So don't lose hope.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4s013h2hfjc-nMNNLz5pNUzaj5Rselo8sKOw0-HNS8HoX2xSWwzF6xeMp4eoX76IQ-Jverc2DBz3uMKh6r8fMNFsljAXL2HrDnP0BubB4wP-_iWdUU0O98fqY9k8M0Z0iGIgSHF5nIw/s1600/IMG_0211.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4s013h2hfjc-nMNNLz5pNUzaj5Rselo8sKOw0-HNS8HoX2xSWwzF6xeMp4eoX76IQ-Jverc2DBz3uMKh6r8fMNFsljAXL2HrDnP0BubB4wP-_iWdUU0O98fqY9k8M0Z0iGIgSHF5nIw/s1600/IMG_0211.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Earliest picture I could find <br />
of us on this computer.<br />
(July, 2010)</td></tr>
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I went into his nursery and pulled him into my arms, he continued to cry. Colbert never cried. Never, never, never. Very rarely for milk when an infant but other than that he slept seven to seven. I thought we could be a skit on SNL- The Worlds Most Annoying Parents. "Your kid cries?! In the night?! What's<i> that </i>like?!" (Don't worry we got paid back <i>severely</i> with the other two. Severely. Still.) Back to numero uno. Really he never cried. I actually thought he might have that thing where a person doesn't feel pain. He'd trip sending his body cracking onto the ground hard enough to make every soul in the room wince. He'd hop up, "I'm fine, I'm fine." Knees scraped, palms raw. "I'm fine, I'm fine." Anyway, so it was unusual for him to be crying. I cradled him in my arms and we rocked in the "glider". Remember those?! Ha, oh my gosh. I had mine reupholstered! BAHAHAHA. It all feels so long ago, I guess it was.<br />
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I'll never forget the night. It was raining. The sound of the drops hitting the windowpane were as soothing as my voice would be to my sons first midnight cry. Cozy as defined. I believe I must have been relieved he was crying. I know I enjoyed being up with him in the night, the one who got to be there.<br />
<br />
I figured he had a nightmare.<br />
"Tell me," I said. I had the gliding foot-rest too. I could not coordinate myself to rock both the chair and footrest in sync. This was probably reflected in my tone, failing our moment. "Tell me why you're crying?"<br />
He continued to cry.<br />
"Tell me," I said, sing song-ish.<br />
More crying, eyes closed. Again, with the glider-chair and the glider-footstool-spastically jerking us around. I ditched feet-up, went with legs dangling. Much better. Damn gliding footstool. Deep breath, gentle tone. "You'll feel better if you tell me. Tell me."<br />
He kept crying.<br />
"Tell me," I said, pleading. I didn't want to use complicated language he was an<a href="http://www.babycenter.com/0_your-18-month-olds-language-and-cognitive-development-speaki_1213794.bc" target="_blank"> early talker,</a> but "tell me" seemed the best directive, given the time of night and emotion. He was my first, I was a pro.<br />
More crying.<br />
"Tell me," I said. The undertone saying, I'm your mom, of course you can tell me."Tell me, you can tell meeeeee?"<br />
And then he spoke through the bubbling boogers under his wee nostrils.<br />
"Tell Meeeeeeheeeeheee," he said. And he started laughing as if I were tickling him, mimicking my soothing tone with pitch perfect inflection."Tell meeeeeehheeeee. Tell. Meeeeheeeeheeee." <br />
<br />
He was mocking me. My mouth dropped open. I stared down at what looked like Laughing Buddha with open eyed amazement. A wise-ass. Wait a minute. Could a baby be a wise-ass? Well, he mimicked me and felt better. So...you do the math. Chip off the ole block.<br />
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Fewer moments have felt as proud.<br />
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Do you have a proud moment? Tell meeeheeee;)<br />
<br />
XX</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8551417930096707061.post-53027272947743165812014-03-27T21:03:00.003-04:002014-04-03T14:47:35.073-04:00B- Roll<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfwxF82-MKXkXPia0tENc78GQH61scbF6_UqJdXqkyCYA_hseMqEcxIv-jfk36iM3JlH8QlnoImUg-cESJjE3Qf3iguSGFIALirQItRLfK6YaTxV6aXa0w6xOutOunI50VNVsUgmA01A/s1600/IMG_5256.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfwxF82-MKXkXPia0tENc78GQH61scbF6_UqJdXqkyCYA_hseMqEcxIv-jfk36iM3JlH8QlnoImUg-cESJjE3Qf3iguSGFIALirQItRLfK6YaTxV6aXa0w6xOutOunI50VNVsUgmA01A/s1600/IMG_5256.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
Song: <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oP8SrlbpJ5A" target="_blank">Born This Way: Lady Gaga</a><br />
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<i>*My apologies for disjointed photo configuration, getting the pictures up took 3 un-thankable hours and this is the result. Editors please apply:) Continue to scroll ALL the way down. :D</i><br />
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I'm here! I can't believe it's been three weeks since I've posted. My innards were churning. What's an innard? Who cares. I feel disappointed with myself when I procrastinate which only leads to more procrastination. Does this happen to you? Vicious cycle. But I'm breaking it. Ta-night:) I can't believe we've gotten almost 600 views since last post?...12, 744 to 13, 266. Well, I haven't been doing math...but that seems about awesome. Thank you!<br />
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Wonder where I<i> have </i>been? Take three guesses? Times up. Bowling. Yep, yep, you heard right. Our little Henry-who has become a legit Hank-is obsessed with bowling. Bowling and Hank? They go together. Bowling, Hank, chances of a posh girlfriend? Slim odds there. But hey, I can live with that;) I'm betting I'd <i>rather </i>live with that.<br />
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<b>A word on Hank.</b><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZ59PxjVY8NajI7-nhJuokI_Ar3dyZPzWOS82_nPLWM35kgwvcSN1e40wXySymsKmmwPTOak4GYPBFJrgBU00DJnrMdaQNXkBQy-MQ038zV2VBpznkiYvOeorZZanbv-R_Xj0xtV0n_w/s1600/IMG_0850.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZ59PxjVY8NajI7-nhJuokI_Ar3dyZPzWOS82_nPLWM35kgwvcSN1e40wXySymsKmmwPTOak4GYPBFJrgBU00DJnrMdaQNXkBQy-MQ038zV2VBpznkiYvOeorZZanbv-R_Xj0xtV0n_w/s1600/IMG_0850.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">His head was smaller than this flower</td></tr>
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I remember some Crazy Lady said to me during the first week of my most beautiful, glorious sons life, "So, what's a nickname for Henry?" Then before I could offer up Harry as wanted, she shouted and cackled, "Hank!" She might as well have taken a pocket knife to my babes angelic cheek. My upper lip curled under into a face that said,<i> I will chew you.</i> "Sure, as long as I can call your kid Carpenter Crack?" I asked. She looked defeated, but just to make sure I was clear (and crazier than she was) I added, "Henry is never going to be Hank." Hi nuts! Hi. Hi hormones! How are you today? Making friends as usual? Yep. Nope.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSuRAFhX3IA9AotNw-jEK3HqMSmdCIAmKvI8qUTfsTxC56GjYT8yHQLDCdvsyd5lq_xzzsAJRvzDWEE2hb1av-Bvr2YdalyasRrvKot42QMGBsVHO8yBUQrCs3vQpe3fkExqMd4FECbQ/s1600/IMG_4835.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSuRAFhX3IA9AotNw-jEK3HqMSmdCIAmKvI8qUTfsTxC56GjYT8yHQLDCdvsyd5lq_xzzsAJRvzDWEE2hb1av-Bvr2YdalyasRrvKot42QMGBsVHO8yBUQrCs3vQpe3fkExqMd4FECbQ/s1600/IMG_4835.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a>Never say never. Although I can't say I'll get it monogrammed on his lunch box, Hank is who he seems to be. What a lesson there. She who was Crazy Lady now appears to be a prophet. He loves it. He calls himself Hank, he sings to himself, "Hey Hankie, Hankie, I'm calling your name." It's the cutest thing I've ever <i>never </i>thought I'd want to hear. The more I see him operate in the world, that he is Hank makes perfect sense to me. He knows his own mind (bulldozer.) He curls his hair down like Elvis. Plus he's OBSESSED with bowling. There's lots more about him on top of those three that feel more Hank-ish than Henry...I don't even know where we got Henry from? Oh, yes, I was leaning on Harry and Danny thought, being half-Persian and hairy he had a good chance of being called Hairy Harry, so he picked Henry. By our third child, I'd seen the many sweet offspring of our friends and family. I learned we fall in love with the baby not the name. Whatever name he picked we'd love. Plus, I was really into The Tudor's then Henry VIII and all that. Sure, I'll have a King. What's in a name? Yet, would a Hank smell as sweet? (*<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/A_rose_by_any_other_name_would_smell_as_sweet" target="_blank">See Shakespeare. </a>Knowledge drop.) I wasn't sure. Hence, nipping Crazy Lady in the bud.<br />
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<b>Back to Bowling</b><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">begging to bowl</td></tr>
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Santa Claus made Henry a set of plastic bowling pins for Christmas. It was clear they were from Santa's workshop because they were synthetic and made in China. He's been bowling ever since. He carries the pins with him everywhere. Any part of the house is a bowling alley; the stairs, the basement, the bathroom and his favorite-my bed. When he's not bowling all over the house-he's watching himself bowl on my phone from the videos I take. If he's not watching himself bowl, he's virtually bowling on the WiiU. First choice however, is the bowling alley-RVC Lanes, in Rockville Centre. That's our jam. He asks to go <b>everyday. </b>If I say not today, he transforms into Hankenstein. How can I who has so little at stake here at home deny Hank his crown? How important are my daily tasks, my piddling aspirations? VERY. MOST. VITAL.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEkR3VslL1g3UeJpVcXFGM-lT25ownKQ1r9U9VFsbO0jDz0TZWLEwH07aHuY19P2Jlii8eZT1gq8Y1UGoU53lCEWnqHqYsjq8dUKIyZcrI2Z8pHTYMtYe5fHmx-cXrrXNWMIeVkZs8nQ/s1600/IMG_5142.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEkR3VslL1g3UeJpVcXFGM-lT25ownKQ1r9U9VFsbO0jDz0TZWLEwH07aHuY19P2Jlii8eZT1gq8Y1UGoU53lCEWnqHqYsjq8dUKIyZcrI2Z8pHTYMtYe5fHmx-cXrrXNWMIeVkZs8nQ/s1600/IMG_5142.jpg" height="200" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">aw, c'mon, my bowling! </td></tr>
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We are there 4x a week. I told him it was closed on Fridays. Last Friday, I woke up to him curled up around my face, gently brushing the hair off of my forehead, shaking his head sympathetically side to side. He was saying, (in his perfect english with a strong east Asian accent speak,) "Mama, I'm sorry, it's Friday, bowling is closed today, I'm so, so, sorry Mom." He had tears in his eyes. For me! I wanted to come clean. I wanted to sing to the tune of Evita, "Don't cry for me Argen-Hankenball, I lied about Friday's, it's actually not only open... but half price!" Instead I re-decided that another day at the alley would break me. So I kept mum. Can you say "selfish, lying dream squasher"? Well, don't say it to me. I can't imagine even one of you larvae doing three days in a row in any alley, no less four, unless it had fake handbags in it. Huh? Who am I talking to? Forgive me. Momentary lapse. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">works every time! </td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">notice anything? like my strike?!</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I can carry my own balls!</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Strike! </td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Holding a real pin! </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSHIHUtrnNoEvriJsxTUsEMNyv2XFBAuYy5Vrj-yx7Re9wNU4zBkhGG0BjqnRWsInENdO5W08Q4UTGSr8I0DNrQYsuWdTvL9_w5QRm00G_qUtl2RoI3TleEJGBZIZtc-xUMZFtuySzhA/s1600/IMG_5328.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSHIHUtrnNoEvriJsxTUsEMNyv2XFBAuYy5Vrj-yx7Re9wNU4zBkhGG0BjqnRWsInENdO5W08Q4UTGSr8I0DNrQYsuWdTvL9_w5QRm00G_qUtl2RoI3TleEJGBZIZtc-xUMZFtuySzhA/s1600/IMG_5328.JPG" height="320" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bowling bag</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Selfies!</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Summer leagues! </td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Waiting with the Senior Birds</td></tr>
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How sweet, my little Hank. Ugh, he breaks my heart. On Thursdays RVC Lanes has a senior group, the Senior Birds play every lane until noon. Hank was verging on Hankenstein. He'd wanted to bowl since 6am. Just when I thought he was going to knock an 86 year old man out with a bowling ball to the knees, he turned to me and said, "Mama, I'm SO HAPPY TO BE WITH MY BOWLING!"Anybody at any age being that sincere, that passionate, that loving breaks me up- but my baby at almost three desperate for bowling? Knowing that all that Friday means is "bowling is closed." Come on. Who turned on the lights?<br />
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I love to dream but I never dreamed I'd be spending huge chunks of time in a bowling alley. Never once. Even as the mother of three boys-I figured the odd birthday party, a rainy Saturday. But as a sport? Nein. I guess I figured lacrosse, soccer, football, well not really. I'm not a fan of standing or sitting sideline on athletic fields in general, cold, windy, portable chairs? Other parents? No, not my bag. I must have blocked that out with the use of spiritual books by <a href="https://plus.google.com/u/0/+EckhartTolle/about" target="_blank">Eckhart Tolle.</a> Staying in the now is swell for denial. Puppet theatre! Music! Costumes! I'd likely not get a shot at my artsy fartsy things. Hiking! Surfing! Skiing! Skate parks! Those I could get down with! However, I gotta say, I loved football with my eldest because he did. And now I love bowling. I'm a bowling mom. It's warm in there. It's rather anonymous, for now, no teams (leagues?), no traveling. Everyone there knows him, they call his name, welcome us. Then they throw up the guard rails, set him up with a dragon toddler ramp, put his name (Hank) up on the board and disappear. I sit at one of four swivel seated chairs attached to a table. Hank pushes the ball down the dragons back hurling toward a strike. And he's happy. And I'm happy. We heart <a href="http://long-island.newsday.com/recreation/sports-fitness/rockville-centre-lanes-1.2431107" target="_blank">RVC Lanes.</a> The music's playing, the pins are crashing. Free Wi-Fi. No one cares or knows if you're there. But what makes RVC Lanes so special is the people behind the counters. They are so nice. I recently saw an article in Newsday where the owners have even dedicated a spot for teens to hang out with flat screens, wi-fi, and comfy couches. Check that out. *We are gone by then so no worries on killing the cool factor guys...<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Set from TheLandofNod.com ($60)</td></tr>
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I figured he'd be over bowling in a week. Well, wrong again. His enthusiasm has never waned. Over the full length of the winter-(a substantial period considering 30 minutes usually counts as a career), he managed to dent every plastic pin so they now share the appearance of starched tube socks. Thick and white at the bottom-two circles of red tape at the top. Hankie earned himself an upgrade. The Land of Nod.com did not disappoint. What a set. He's more dedicated than ever. Hank. The name is just as sweet. Love to spare;)<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Happy son, happy mom:) xx</td></tr>
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Song:<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XAbY2cmEsS0&feature=kp" target="_blank"> Turn The Page - Bob Seger</a><br />
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<span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><b>"What I like in a good author isn't what he says, but what he whispers."<br />Logan Pearsall Smith, essayist (1865-1946)</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times; text-align: left;">** It wasn't the world of writing that was generous, it was the world of <i><b>Amanda Eyre Ward. </b></i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times; text-align: left;"><a href="http://www.amandaward.com/" target="_blank">Click here to link to her website. </a></span><br />
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My first blush was with <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Love-Stories-This-Town-Amanda/dp/0812980115" target="_blank">Love Stories In This Town</a>. The rest of her books are as delicious and inspiring. Please do yourself a favor and read them. I am honored and proud to host author Amanda Eyre Ward as the SpunkerFly Woman of the Month. Knowing her work I imagine her answers are deceptively simple, look close. <i><b>"A novel can't </b></i> <i><b>be tamed..." </b></i>So good. No matter what your ambition, Amanda's daily choices quietly reveal all we need know about setting goals, supporting those goals with strong boundaries and focus-in order to achieve the work-life balance that eludes most. (Run on sentence anybody? I'm out of breath. Editor!)</div>
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For creatives her words on craft are boss- <b><i>"I am very careful about who I show work to, and even careful about who I talk to on writing days."</i></b> That floored my inner/outer people pleaser. While Amanda admits that being recognized for her work has its rewards, her strongest message was that the writing itself remains the main event. Here, here! Since our interview I have integrated some of her techniques. I have written twice as much as I did before getting on board. Although, I haven't managed to break up with my T.V., I can't wait to to use, "I'm going to the motel to write for the weekend, mind the kids," wink wink...</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyIz-O2Ej8Fi_w6LYw6-H4tO9Pj-zKbrmYNXhBeBh59cgnnKqNuyitTj3ijzBY2r4eBT_iVYbG5UAtb-g9SqPhi-S9zzyDa9xFgXGq-P7Idwk1aKRaSMi9ZdefZ1OIAkqdOXMGVr6k5Q/s1600/amanda_ward_2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyIz-O2Ej8Fi_w6LYw6-H4tO9Pj-zKbrmYNXhBeBh59cgnnKqNuyitTj3ijzBY2r4eBT_iVYbG5UAtb-g9SqPhi-S9zzyDa9xFgXGq-P7Idwk1aKRaSMi9ZdefZ1OIAkqdOXMGVr6k5Q/s1600/amanda_ward_2.jpg" height="400" width="265" /></a><br />
<b><u>How We "Met"</u></b><br />
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I had been writing the same book for years. I had been writing by committee-finishing pages and then asking friends for feedback. Then I'd edit accordingly- ripping up the rhythm, removing characters, decimating plots and adding non-sense in hopes that this girl would like it, then that one. Talk about ridiculous. I wanted to be better, but the way I was going about it was by trying to be liked. Sound the gong! That doesn't work no-how for nobody. Unless you're commissioned-I guess. But then<br />
don't artists get commissioned for their work? Whose work was mine? Everyone's but.<br />
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I have always loved reading. I read everybody from Cheerios copy to Hemingway. Typically, I'd find myself most engrossed in literary fiction or anything with a historical bent. However, now, in 2009, I was trying to BE a writer- I was reading to break down stories in order to see how they were best told. What was the recipe? Why did this bunch sell out and that bunch collect dust? I understood why classics were classics- they were great! (Great at collecting dust:D.) I understood why "bad"writers went into consecutive printings- they were fun! Current and cathartic even. Then I'd go back and read my own stuff. Do you remember hearing your own voice for the first time played back on video or voice message? That's how it felt, the horror of thinking you are one way (cool, deep, amazing) and hearing clearly that you:<br />
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A.) Talk slow as shit and B.) Obviously suffer chronic sinusitis.<br />
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Oh wait, this is about you, not me! (Actually, it's supposed to be about our author. Slap my face. That hurt. Less palm next time.) Okay, so maybe your personal brush with your actual voice made you say something like, "I love my voice! It's even better than in my head!" Or like me, "That's what I sound like? Sign language for me. I'm <i><b>never </b></i>talking again." But you do because you must. So it was with me and writing. I had to write yet my voice made me cringe like I was watching someone chew bananas with their mouth open. It still does sometimes, (ie: this piece feels like the part where the mashed banana gets pushed through the slivers of the front teeth.) And while sign language is beautiful it's surprisingly complicated- not to mention the low numbers of co-signers amongst the general pop. I thought getting my Dad to co-sign on a Corvette when I was 16 was impossible? Try getting the kid at Dunkin' Donuts to swear he poured decaf while only using your hands and facial expressions.) But I had given up the idea of being published.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdw2gCl6C9uQ_lAflnubHfbRTTHb8GxkGV-18kIgfbiWhqQ2i2OlfM37_uXaLPk-aw85R6_PjSpfSumVFS7mLXoIKeQRS5Vabdq9Rh5rEZOjSz-mCrstz4f1CrFRb1ElsUc8KGmRXIaA/s1600/IMG_4132.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdw2gCl6C9uQ_lAflnubHfbRTTHb8GxkGV-18kIgfbiWhqQ2i2OlfM37_uXaLPk-aw85R6_PjSpfSumVFS7mLXoIKeQRS5Vabdq9Rh5rEZOjSz-mCrstz4f1CrFRb1ElsUc8KGmRXIaA/s320/IMG_4132.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px; text-align: center;">Packing up an old desk-I found this calendar.<br />
I used it to track my writing days XNOS=yes<br />
Look at August 6-<br />
"Read Amanda Ward..." </td></tr>
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Until this day. I was making a return to my roots of reading for pleasure. There was a display of "Librarians Picks"- books librarians themselves recommend. One paperback stood out- <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Love-Stories-This-Town-Amanda/dp/0812980115" target="_blank">Love Stories In This Town by Amanda Eyre Ward. </a> I love, love. I fell for these stories fast. But they weren't like any of the love stories I'd heard before. Fresh, twisted, deep, irreverent, funny. I was in heaven. She had her own voice and it didn't feel categorized. She was true to herself and in that I found the permission to be true to myself. Being true to yourself-the attribute that is always cathartic and in my case often requires dusting. Classic. I had a voice. A gift not bequest to all creatures-use it, I said to myself, you must. (I hope you will say that to yourself!)<br />
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I saw her email on her webpage and I typed with shaky fingers my first fan letter. She responded! After that I read her whole profile. She had been at Williams College, (my favorite summer was at Williamstown Theater Festival, she had little boys, I had little boys, I wrote in the morning, she wrote in the morning...). It became obvious that the universe was intervening. Or that I was becoming a stalker. I went with my first thought. (I had read The Secret). Unsurprisingly, I did the next embarrassing thing and asked her to read a few of my pages, (slap me again.) Amanda replied that she was on deadline for her next book though happy to refer me to her agent. Then she recommended two additional agents and told me to use her as a referral. I nearly fell off my chair. Talk about 'I'll do you one better'. Requesting her agent never even occurred to me. I had one run in with a writer- a <i>friend</i> who nearly took my head off when her agent asked me to submit my stuff- that left me terrified- no thanks. **Yet, here was a complete well-accomplished stranger handing over her connections as naturally as taking her next breath. It gave me a tremendous boost. If in your life, no matter what you do, if you manage to help one person feel hope for even one day-you have succeeded. I felt super hopeful. </div>
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That book on deadline? <a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/0345494482/ref=s9_simh_gw_p14_d0_i1?pf_rd_m=ATVPDKIKX0DER&pf_rd_s=center-2&pf_rd_r=0MZRM2BAJ2YCTHX5RKZH&pf_rd_t=101&pf_rd_p=470938631&pf_rd_i=507846" target="_blank">Close Your Eyes,</a> was published in July, 2011, received a four-star review in People Magazine, won the Elle Lettres Readers' Prize for September. was named Kirkus' Best Books of 2011, and won the Elle Magazine Fiction Book of the Year. It is now in paperback. </div>
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Here are my five (plus) questions and her answers, enjoy.<br />
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1. When you dreamt of being a published author (did you) what did you imagine life like and how is reality different? </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzTP4bm2bXthRK5TLSm7YXarg1wGjeuT7HcXNgvMMtJnvrh9aHIwIZ4Cj0n1bHUiPRaU_dkSVVrZWFJTV4iesmZQKvsQuOKaEWcUwhts02GSH-tCtysxb-NfrOipbKozID70O3slTJZA/s1600/amanda_ward_1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzTP4bm2bXthRK5TLSm7YXarg1wGjeuT7HcXNgvMMtJnvrh9aHIwIZ4Cj0n1bHUiPRaU_dkSVVrZWFJTV4iesmZQKvsQuOKaEWcUwhts02GSH-tCtysxb-NfrOipbKozID70O3slTJZA/s1600/amanda_ward_1.jpg" height="400" width="265" /></a>AEW: What a great question. It stops me in my tracks, actually. I guess I always knew how much I loved creating fictional worlds and how great it feels to craft a perfect sentence. That hasn't changed at all with book deals, etc. The actual act of writing is exactly the same as when I first typed on my Brother word processor in college. I have always written in a closet (or a motel room), and when we moved recently, I chose a big, gorgeous room to write in. After a few weeks, however, I moved to the closet, where I'm working now. I guess I just feel happiest here, as if I'm hiding in a Nancy Drew crawl space. I must admit that the validation feels wonderful. It can be lonely to write all day, and being able to talk to people about my work is extremely rewarding.<br />
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2. What steps did you take to first get published? </div>
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AEW: I went to graduate school, writing conferences, and contacted agents...the usual routes. But the best advice I got was from my professor, Bill Kittredge. As I was finishing graduate school, he said, "move to where your best friend is and write". It's really important to finish your first novel, and not get hung up on the first fifty pages, always tinkering, never hauling it over the finish line.<br />
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Interesting! See how she DIDN'T answer, "I tried to crack the code on my own perusing the RVCPL and then sent fan email before basically giving up." Shrewd. </div>
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3. How do you write with kids? Do you have a daily routine? How important are deadlines to your process? </div>
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AEW: I have three children. I write three days a week in my closet, and weekends in motel rooms as necessary. Two days a week, I hang out with my daughter and see friends, grocery shop, etc. I try to be completely focused on my work or completely with my kids. I don't watch TV, so I also read a lot. I try to say no to almost everything else. I make deadlines for myself, and stick to them. That said, novels can't be tamed: I just set aside a book I'd worked on for three years. I couldn't figure it out.</div>
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4. I had this friend read my stuff who insisted no matter what the story line-that the fiction was true and about me. It was so irritating. It was as if she were implying I was a hack (maybe;) and a liar. Does that ever happen to you? </div>
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AEW: I would never let this person ever see any of your work again. I don't show my work to anyone except a very few, trusted friends (mainly writers). It's so precious, and weird reactions can ruin the work. This used to happen to me, but now I am very careful about who I show work to, and even careful about who I talk to on writing days.</div>
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5. When you do pull on your life, do people get mad? Do others opinions freeze you up? </div>
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AEW: It is really hard, but I write fiction and of course, fiction comes from a mixture of my experience, my reading, my mistakes. <i><b>I do not worry about what is real and what isn't real AT ALL until the very last draft. I write the absolute best pages I can, no matter who might be upset or hurt. </b></i> In the final stages, I will sometimes ask my editor, "Do I really need this scene?" If she says yes, I talk to the person who might be upset. Usually, we can change the scenes to cut anything questionable. <b><i><u>I really try to make a bubble for myself where I can write, and I don't let the world into my closet until the very end.</u></i></b></div>
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Again, I can't thank you enough! You are FLY!<br />
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AEW: THANK YOU!!<br />
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*Amanda's new novel is to be published Spring, 2015! I can't wait. </div>
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<i>Coming up SpunkerFly Woman of the Month - <a href="http://www.nickmom.com/tv/take-me-to-your-mother/" target="_blank">Andrea Rosen of NickMOM</a></i></div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8551417930096707061.post-25315216687567702662014-02-20T01:34:00.003-05:002014-02-21T09:20:42.849-05:00"Someone will babe, someone always will" <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIhUCwVS1q_Ylg4egp6TbCtbSErEScwjsGmmAghiVFPOj8tJTKysYjgKcm9kiNBeL7WYsc2KOwdA2XXzXX7Fdu3lar7M1N9hz1hnu1WsgXbe38yiUHwQFXkoeNTHpXKcZgVUBWYlvQRA/s1600/IMG_3952.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIhUCwVS1q_Ylg4egp6TbCtbSErEScwjsGmmAghiVFPOj8tJTKysYjgKcm9kiNBeL7WYsc2KOwdA2XXzXX7Fdu3lar7M1N9hz1hnu1WsgXbe38yiUHwQFXkoeNTHpXKcZgVUBWYlvQRA/s1600/IMG_3952.JPG" height="320" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">One moment chewing a straw while crushing a can of Fanta<br />
(50" of solid truth)</td></tr>
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Song: <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gN3gNuRdVmg" target="_blank">Umbrella- Rihanna</a><br />
<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cpYMMrIsVBs" target="_blank">Old Spice Sprayed a Man of My Son, babe</a><br />
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<br />
I was upset about something I did. Something so critical and shamefully disappointing- I cannot remember it now-less than a month later...<br />
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I do remember rummaging through the den, the back entry cubby holes, and rifling through jacket pockets talking to myself, "Ugh, man, I can't believe I did that..." "How could I have..."<br />
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When my 8 year old started helping me out with the thing. And by helping me out I mean he stood close by and watched my frenetic bustling. I exhausted the space and moved into the kitchen. I guess I lost something. I cannot remember why I feel like I spoke out of turn and not lost something but am positive my actions were about finding something. I am prone to loss.<br />
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Colbert (8), my oldest light-hearted son, joined me again. Then propping himself up on a steel swivel stool, he set himself up to set me straight. His gentle voice consoled me with his delivery yet it was forceful in its wisdom. Without a trace of preaching, he simply wanted to make his mom feel better- to help me down from the latest hook I'd hung my self-worth on. Ugh, not his job.<br />
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"Mom, life's about making mistakes and correcting them. It's not about being right because there's always a mistake in something."<br />
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I looked at him in awe. I was searching through coat pockets coming up empty, here was a pocket of truth. Then quickly,<i> hold that thought. </i>One thing I never lose is scrap paper and pens- I pulled open the junk drawer and got to scribbling. This was brilliant, I never remember brilliant.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHvuU9d54kaaxcjSkGgm3OOEhJs9CsGnAxIEphkzkxGosO8YAW0yFsUrwrxcrBwuRGQ1sWgLHlwnzcOHfQMKGmq50a3Mt5ZLwhjwJzbqUME06MMK3eGKcEZEQukFU4QpYOwNu-AfbKUA/s1600/IMG_2999.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHvuU9d54kaaxcjSkGgm3OOEhJs9CsGnAxIEphkzkxGosO8YAW0yFsUrwrxcrBwuRGQ1sWgLHlwnzcOHfQMKGmq50a3Mt5ZLwhjwJzbqUME06MMK3eGKcEZEQukFU4QpYOwNu-AfbKUA/s1600/IMG_2999.JPG" height="320" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The next dispensing words of wisdom to his little Mom.</td></tr>
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I wrote his truism down as fast as I could. <br />
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"Wow. Colbert that is so... plus to be so young as you to think that, articulate it and share it with me..."<br />
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"You shouldn't worry so much Mama," he said. But in a hairpin turn I had gone from planning his coronation to skeptic.<br />
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"Who'd you hear that from?" I chided.<i> </i>"Spongebob or iCarly?"<br />
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"No one Mom," he said. Still in his quiet voice. I felt bad, cheating him, cheating our moment. "I'm sorry Bruss, well," I sighed as I read his words again-clinging to the permission they gave me to try again...<i><b>Life's about mistakes and correcting them, it's not about being right because there's always a mistake in something.</b></i> "I love that Colbert, that is exactly right," I said. "So was it me? Did you get that from me?" Hehe.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSYzJuEdxhbHSDPL40fJwZWj9534tFCw3d8JGtuUIeTYUfpRdznsuAecHaaq5AMb-g7PtIPz0HBuIsTxHBjhrx1gEbGVkZA88G7mfH2SKGj3K6UYE9hxc0Msw0vpaEUjfTIZvkjuad3A/s1600/IMG_4639.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSYzJuEdxhbHSDPL40fJwZWj9534tFCw3d8JGtuUIeTYUfpRdznsuAecHaaq5AMb-g7PtIPz0HBuIsTxHBjhrx1gEbGVkZA88G7mfH2SKGj3K6UYE9hxc0Msw0vpaEUjfTIZvkjuad3A/s1600/IMG_4639.jpg" height="200" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hard core love</td></tr>
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I fastened his words with an inspirational magnet by Emerson, thinking Emerson who? Colbert in the hiz. I studied the sentence again. "I can't see the wrong in that."<br />
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"Ohhhh, Mama." He shook his head while looking down, (he joked, serious time was over), <i>poor woman</i>, <i>you've so much to learn. "</i>Someone will babe, someone always will."<br />
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Babe. Babe?!<br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8551417930096707061.post-77400442074643127312014-02-09T16:53:00.003-05:002014-02-14T01:08:38.778-05:00Addiction Is The New Gay<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Song:<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KUmZp8pR1uc" target="_blank"> Rehab by Amy Winehouse</a> b. 1983-2011 RIP<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcsvQpz7_Uy1JdrMxDwcOrJ-f0FRezhzOFO1dX4a0U1k8UVmkE7U3YJhOapipaP4BjWODzKaCgJt9g1V9dSp0grFG1L-RtWlVQGzzOnNM7FGlmgIIZHxtgYG9iMD1f_OhXWWkmukY1Yw/s1600/IMG_4928.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcsvQpz7_Uy1JdrMxDwcOrJ-f0FRezhzOFO1dX4a0U1k8UVmkE7U3YJhOapipaP4BjWODzKaCgJt9g1V9dSp0grFG1L-RtWlVQGzzOnNM7FGlmgIIZHxtgYG9iMD1f_OhXWWkmukY1Yw/s1600/IMG_4928.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: #dbedfe; color: #3e454c; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 14px; text-align: left; white-space: pre-wrap;">Candle light vigil for PSH-he saved lives by being a sober example for many years and now being the proof that it took using for less than one to end his own. I lit my candle for that and his sweet generous brilliant theatrical soul- though iconic was still no match for his addiction.</span><span style="font-size: small; text-align: left;"> </span></td></tr>
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<b>Addiction is the new gay</b>. Gay is the old black. Do I need to tease this out further?<br />
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I guess I should since addiction is the <b>new</b> gay and unlike the old gay, which is by and large accepted as not only <i>not a choice</i> but<i> a matter of fact, not faith. </i> While addiction is still largely considered a choice and a moral defect. I am not of that opinion and spend my time primarily with people who are also not of that opinion. I came to uncomfortably realize this week that I have been cocooned in a way- sheltered by a world of creatives and healers. I was legitimately surprised to read so many "blaming""shaming" responses upon the death of Philip Seymour Hoffman. He was a genius, genius doesn't choose to break their kids hearts. He was an addict, addiction does. I thought everybody knew that, or most everybody. <a href="http://nypost.com/2014/02/09/philip-seymour-hoffman-cast-as-a-victim-of-disease/" target="_blank">This piece by Andrea Peyser</a>, was the fruity glaze on the cake of ignorance. No time to read it? No problem- her <i>choice </i>of bio photo, reminiscent of SNL's the Church Lady character, says everything we need to know. <i><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dana_Carvey" target="_blank">"Well isn't that special?"</a></i> Her piece also gave me a slight giggle reminiscent of how the most strongly opposed to homosexuality were soon enough paper macheing floats for the gay pride parade. </div>
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Up until recently it used to be outrageous to come out and say you liked to make out with a man if you were also a man. It used to be the thing that kept <a href="http://articles.latimes.com/2013/oct/15/entertainment/la-et-mg-greg-louganis-married-wedding-johnny-chaillot-20131014" target="_blank">super hero's closeted</a> and cave men popular. It kept major talents like Ellen Degeneres, you know her right? Ellen? Who keeps you laughing and uplifts your soul with her wit and generosity of spirit? It kept her unemployed. <a href="http://content.time.com/time/specials/2007/article/0,28804,1704183_1704257_1704513,00.html" target="_blank">When she came out her show was canceled and she was dropped like a cell call in the middle of Yellowstone Park</a>. Can you hear me? No. Nope, you cannot. You can't believe that something you think you know as truth is false. That it must be accepted because it is written into human nature but not your own. How can anyone be different when we are all the same? That doesn't make sense. That doesn't give anyone control. That's what we need- control. You feel this way or my world will not make sense and I need it to make sense so no to you, you homo, you degenerate drug addict, you alcoholic. Ellen sacrificed the cash and prizes so that she could take off her mask. Now we celebrate her, but it wasn't always that way. I wonder, if she admitted she was a recovering addict tomorrow, if we'd think her jokes were as funny, her charm as sweet, would she be employable? *For the record that is a hypothetical idea, I am not saying Ellen is an addict-at all.<br />
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"Isn't she the best? She's not really gay, I think it's an act," my mom said the other day as we were watching Ellen. She said it not to be offensive, or glib but with a wink in her voice, like she knew her old pal and her old pal wasn't one for beaver. I know my mom, like most woman of her generation, it's just too big a leap. She wasn't taught anything about homosexuality. It basically never existed. Then when all of the gays started coming out of the closet and she found out about it, it was weird. So to say that someone was playing at gay-that in itself is a world of change. That to be gay would be considered cool? An act to get higher ratings? That's progress. Being gay was (and still is for many not living in heathen cities like New York or San Francisco) the worst possible fate. <a href="http://www.nydailynews.com/sports/football/vacchiano-plenty-enlightened-locker-rooms-closet-article-1.1609173" target="_blank">Now, NFL players are ou</a>t. I'm not gay, but I never thought for a second that I could decide to be. Therefore, gay people wouldn't either. The logic played out in my head like this; being gay=being shunned+no heterosexual sex=misery. Who would choose to be gay unless they were gay? Voicing that being gay "was a choice" was a belief that if contradicted would make you a person worthy of a lynching. Absolutely ostracized.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Matt Damon standing next to me & amongst the crowd<br />
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at 155 Bank Street- the disease that doesn't discriminate<br />
Couldn't resist taking pic:D. Awkward.</td></tr>
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So it is with addiction. The logic is the same. No one decides they are going to be a slave to drugs or alcohol, lose their jobs, ruin their lives and their families to get high. They are experimenting or going along with the crowd then it adds up. This thing is a salve, an escape from some form of pain. Once an addict takes the first drink, the first pill, the first needle...they have no control. Then what felt good stops working- it's a quick downward spiral into hell. The job of this understanding is not to condone. There are a host of people to consult on how to best school us on how to treat an addict so they can get sober- for free or for mega bucks. I am not one of them. All I am convinced of, is that it is a disease. Progressive and fatal. The only choice is treating it or letting it progress. Addiction is baffling, painful, a home-wrecker - a host of horrendous things- but it is not a choice. Non-addicts have a choice- they try something and then say, 'oh that was a horrible hangover, no more for me,' they say, 'man that felt strange, no thanks.' Addicts don't have that. They try the substance and it fills that gap like nothing did before and their brain says, "MORE." Nothing else is considered after that. They are not thinking about how the alcohol/drug money should go toward the rent or the way their mom will blot her tears in worry or the way they look, sound or even if they will survive. They are thinking, "more." That's all. After the first hit, there is no choice. There is death or institutions. The only way for an addict to survive is by abstaining from that first drink/drug. We shaming them for a disease they would not choose does not help that effort. And for a person whose body is rigged to call for that first one, it is an effort requiring God-like assistance. Isn't that more comfortable to accept anyway? Wouldn't you rather put the blame on the disease than the person? I would. I would much rather my loved one be under the spell of his biology than opting to make me miserable. Blaming the addict makes a victim out of the blamer. Do you want to be a victim? Look how that addict is hurting me! Really, that addict is simply acting like an addict and needs help. You can't shame an addict into recovery, the same way you can't shame a homosexual into heterosexuality. The difference is being a homosexual isn't an express train to the cemetery (although the shame of it drove <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Suicide_of_Tyler_Clementi" target="_blank">Tyler Clementi there.</a>) If an addict has a choice, you are telling them they can stop at anytime and they can't.<br />
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So let's think about that the next time we shun someone we hear is an addict. How we all love a moment of "I may not be great but I'm better than THAT." Think about how helpful your gossip, eye-rolls and finger wagging will be to them, their parents, or their spouses and their kids when they are dead. How can a loved one come out to you if you are cold? Think about how much bigger a pay-off you would get by understanding-or praying for the will to understand. Then thank God that today you have a choice. Hopefully, it will take even less time than it did with homosexuality for the majority to come around. Then you can pat yourselves on the back for your forward thinking. Until then fake it till you make it. Who knows what's in store, the life you save may even be your own.<br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8551417930096707061.post-20501549141956444682014-02-01T02:47:00.001-05:002014-02-01T09:08:32.254-05:00SpunkerFLY Woman of the Month - January! <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Song : <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BcbqCssiBUc" target="_blank">You Gotta Walk That Lonesome Valley- Pete Seeger RIP</a> i love you!!! thank you!! <3<br />
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Okay, so it's not my favorite place, but thanks to Dr. Andrea Botar it's not my least favorite either-I think. Still, I get antsy in the chair and although Dr. Botar is pure professional, (she doesn't attempt to chat you up while you have a wad of cotton and a suction in your mouth), I did get to asking her some questions during a root canal- hey why not.<br />
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I couldn't believe her story. She came to New York when she was thirteen speaking limited english. Then without any fanfare or pity jumped right into her new life in an entirely different culture. Once establishing a dental practice after buying out a supposed reputable dentist, she has found herself succeeding against nearly impossible odds.<br />
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;">I am honored to have you on the blog and feature you as a Spunkerfly Woman of The Month. </span></div>
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1.<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;"> </span>Where did you grow up and how did you get to Long Island?<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="color: #1f497d;">I was 13 when I came to this country from Romania (but of Hungarian ethnicity) with my parents, I guess basically I grew up in NY.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #1f497d;">Why Long Island? After having practiced for many years in the city I felt as a mother I could stay closer to home if my new practice<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #1f497d;">Is close to my residence and my son’s school. I certainly didn’t want him to go to any school, I tried to pick a school with a good reputation and to find residence near it. Commute just didn’t work for me. I want to spend whatever extra time I have with my son/family.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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2.<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;"> </span>Becoming a dentist is a long hard process what made you choose it? <o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="color: #1f497d;">I was going to become a pediatrician. However, the more flexible hours and the fact that I didn’t have to spend years in a hospital </span><span style="color: #1f497d; font-size: 12pt;">made me think twice about becoming an MD. I also enjoy very much working with my hands. I love art and sculpting and dentistry</span></div>
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<span style="color: #1f497d;">involves both. I got lucky, I got into the advanced 7 yrs NYU program at the last moment (1 week prior to deadline) I guess it was meant to be.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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3.<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;"> </span>You were hit hard by Hurricane Sandy, what happened? <o:p></o:p></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Go see Dr. Botar and your teeth won't look like this! </td></tr>
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<span style="color: #1f497d;">Complete wipe out!!! I lost everything. What’s even worse is that the insurance didn’t pay for anything and the landlord sued me for<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #1f497d;">The damages that the building suffered- and he won!!! So now I pretty much worked all year for paying the bank note, the attorneys and the landlord!!!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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4.<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;"> </span>How has it been to rebuild your practice since? I love your office it looks beautiful. <span style="color: #1f497d;">Thanks.</span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="color: #1f497d;">It was difficult, God must have taken pity of me and said: here, this building is for your future business. I’ll give you a little break…there was a large piece that covered it, the complete article is on our website www.botar.com. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #1f497d;"> Basically I had no other choice but to make it work and restart again, otherwise I would have lost the business as well. And my sanity.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #1f497d; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt;"> I don’t think anybody really understands. The government allocated millions of dollars are still locked up after more than a year has gone by<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #1f497d; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt;"> And only God knows when and if anything will come of it. It’s very disheartening to say the least.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #1f497d; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt;"> But you got to stay optimistic and keep going. Nothing is easy in life, especially if you want to be good at it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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5.<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;"> </span>What challenges do you face being working mom and commuting? <o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="color: #1f497d;">I guess I am pretty lucky, only ½ hr one way from home to work. No trains, subways, buses needed. A car is enough.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Thanks Andrea!!! You are an awesome dentist and a remarkable woman. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="color: #1f497d; font-size: 12pt;">You can download a bunch of stuff from my website</span><span style="color: #1f497d; font-size: 12pt;"> </span><a href="http://www.botar.com/" style="color: purple; font-size: 12pt;">www.botar.com</a></div>
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<span style="color: #1f497d; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt;">And the article is on the website as well… so help yourself.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #1f497d; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt;">Thanks again for doing this for me, I wish a Happy New Year to you and your family.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #1f497d; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt;">Hugs, kisses, Andrea</span></div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8551417930096707061.post-8593651955129905692014-01-25T00:21:00.000-05:002014-01-25T12:47:59.546-05:00Shut Up, Go To Sleep<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Song: <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=10ASG55dj_c" target="_blank">My Kind of Love-Emeli Sand</a>e<br />
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I finally got Henry (2 1/2) down at 9pm. Two hours past his bedtime, the only thing that made me feel better was the thought that <i>"at least he will sleep through the night- for once." </i><br />
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How often my mind misguides my emotions. My emotions misguide my mind? Either way.</div>
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At 11 o'clock I was reading, finally! Danny was watching TV, when we heard a low cry. It was an indecipherable cry. One we pretended wasn't happening at first and then I muted the TV to see if it was our youngest and not a cold, frightened outdoor cat. By 11:01 there was no doubt the noise belonged to us. He was wailing. What was going on with this poor baby? Normally he started howling at 4am. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bummed, I cannot find the original artists name to give<br />
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"I think he wants you," I said.<br />
"Why?" </div>
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"Because he's yelling 'Daddy'," I said. </div>
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Danny went to Henry's room. It got quiet. Then I saw Danny holding Henry outside our door. He was shielding him from the view inside our room in case I balked. Henry started crying again. </div>
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"Oh, yea," I said. I realized what was being weighed and waved him in. Poor guy. (Make it stop.)</div>
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He has started coming into our bed. Not enough to call it a habit, but he's started. I know from our older two that it can go either way. Our oldest came in every night until he was five, "Oh, what's the big deal? It's not like he's going to climb into bed with us when he's 15? Let's enjoy it." I said. Kicking. That's the big deal and it happens way before 15. It starts hurting, shocking you out of sleep, when they're over a foot and a half. And the sleeping sideways is the big deal. They sleep sideways so you're scrunched hanging onto the edge of your bed like a rock climber in the middle of the night. It's not enjoyable. Breaking bad, wasn't easy. It took until he was five to give First Born the heave hoe. Then our middle guy came in maybe twice? Now, occasionally once a month if that. I can deal with the kicking and the sleeping sideways once a month because the rest is so precious. However, the few times Henry's come in he has plopped down into the middle of our King sized bed and crashed immediately, never moving. What could be easier? I love easy. Especially when I was about to find out if Hardy moved in with The Irishman *. </div>
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Henry wiggled his way to the middle. His eyes were closed. But instead of a quick conk- he quieted down for about fifteen seconds. Then he started yelling at us, cranky old man style yet with a lisp and a poor grasp of consonants. </div>
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"Turn off the TV! Turn it OFF!" His eyes remained shut tight. We started laughing. Having a two year old yell at you is funny, a two year old yelling at you behind closed eyes to go to sleep is ridiculously funny. "It's not funny! Turn it off!" We stopped laughing. Poor Henry. Little boss man. It's so hard to be taken seriously. Handle With Care...</div>
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"Off!" he begged. </div>
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I was reading* so it was no sweat by me. Click. Off. Danny looked at me like, <i>thanks. </i></div>
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Half a second went by where he seemed soothed, when another demand was issued. </div>
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"Stop it. Thstop it. Turn it out!" He barked, pissed off. "Shut off! Turn off the light!" </div>
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"But Henry, I'm reading," I said, in my most gentle soothing way (= annoying.) "We brought you in here but-"</div>
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"SHUT UP! Shut up the light and sleep!" he said. </div>
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Did lil homey just tell me to shut up? Nah, he got that confused. He meant "shut up the light." Whatever "shut up the light" means, it makes more sense to me than my baby <i>angel</i> telling me to shut up. We never say shut up. We think it. </div>
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"But I don't want to, I want to read-" </div>
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"SHUT UHP!! Shut up and stop it! Go to sleep," he demanded. "Do it!" </div>
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Okay, that time it<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Creeping to coup</td></tr>
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was clear. He told me to shut up. But he was crying and screaming so I felt bad for him and a bit scared. </div>
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Well, I was a little sleepy. </div>
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Without looking back at Danny or Bossy Pants, I switched off the lamp. 11:04pm.**</div>
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I woke up at 4am. Terrified of the Stalin reincarnate sleeping between us, I was afraid to move. I could not risk calling his name, but I think Danny came to at about 4:30am. When he whispered my name in a tone that begged not to get his ass kicked by our two year old, I was relieved to have a comrade. After a few rounds of barely audible whispers, we forgot about the sleeping dictator and went over his putting us down for the night. "Unbelievable, did you hear him tell me to shut up?" "That was the funniest part," "Not really, I mean, it was funny but it was kind of sad. A baby saying shut up?" "Oh, please... Shut up." Haha. "Thstop it."It was nice to be able to laugh without getting yelled at. </div>
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Henry slept until 6am. Our voices woke him. He was smiling, kissing us, laughing, glad to be in bed with his folks. Us glad we were back to being his favorite people, us glad he'll always be ours, us glad I will never wave him in again. :) </div>
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*(If you're looking for a great read-<i>The</i> <i>Imperfectionists</i> By Tom Rachman)- Let me know what happens with Hardy. Her name tells me it won't be easy.<br />
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**All told, it took him 4 minutes to get us to sleep. All this time we've been reading stories, telling stories, getting water, a blanket, a bear, singing, dimming lights, turning up lights, getting into bed with them- when all we had to say was, "Shut up! Stop it and go to sleep!" Abusive, maybe, and sure it lacked a certain tenderness but genius in its economy of time and with such clear directive. Hmm, something to consider. </div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8551417930096707061.post-11448447034701338632014-01-19T15:39:00.003-05:002014-01-19T15:39:56.164-05:00Hand Painted Stair Runner - Update Brown to Grey- (1hr.) <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8551417930096707061.post-90329827829528658832014-01-10T10:55:00.002-05:002014-01-20T10:20:34.926-05:00Theresa Caputo- "I talk to dead people"<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Songs: <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MvpjxfWrjzY" target="_blank">On Eagles Wings</a></div>
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<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=baWBHZ7Fo6c" target="_blank">To Where You Are by Josh Grobin</a></div>
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In Memory of<a href="https://www.facebook.com/crissy.fox.3" target="_blank"> </a></div>
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John G. McMahon and <a href="https://www.facebook.com/crissy.fox.3" target="_blank">Crissy Fox </a>* </div>
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<span style="text-align: left;">*Crissy Fox whom I never met but was introduced via Facebook by my friend <a href="http://spunkerfly.blogspot.com/2013/09/spunkerfly-woman-of-august.html" target="_blank">Christine Mullin</a> and was, like <i>many,</i> inspired by, is being laid to rest tomorrow. Her symbol is the cardinal.*</span></div>
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<span style="text-align: left;">*******</span></div>
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"But HEY, don't listen to me," she said, waving her three inch silicone nails over her head. "I talk to dead people."<br />
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My friend, Holly, surprised me with a ticket to see <a href="http://www.theresacaputo.com/" target="_blank">Theresa Caputo</a> psychic medium at <a href="http://venue.thetheatreatwestbury.com/" target="_blank">NYCB Theater in Westbury</a>. As a huge fan of the show Long Island Medium, with a heavy case of the doldrums, it was one of the nicest things someone could have done for me. That alone would have been enough. The thought would have counted. BUT IT GOT BETTER! Bettah.<br />
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Why? Because I was able to go! You know with three kids something is always on the cooker getting in the way of my good time. Not this time. Nuh- uh. I got to see Theresa herself stuffed like a sausage into a short red sleeveless dress trimmed with dyed red ostrich feathers work the room in 6" sparkly diamond Louboutin heels. <br />
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The theater is surprisingly small and intimate. Nice! My pal upgraded us to second row. Bananas! The people to our left were fanatics-they'd seen her like ninety times. Awesome. I LOVE fans. Any kinda fan. Just be passionate. Well, within reason. It must be positive, don't shave your head and be all supremacist or militant and sit by me and think I'll high five you. Okay, onward. Her daughter, Victoria, was in the audience. I love Victoria. And Larry Senior was hovering somewhere-we saw his tan greasy head for about a minute and then lost sight of him. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Holly and I illegally taking a selfie! </td></tr>
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Then Theresa came out. The crowd went wild. I already told you what she was wearing. So let's get to what you want to know, the big question. Is she a fake? Maybe.<br />
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I feel bad! I'm sure she has psychic ability, more so than the next guy. We all have psychic ability. If you have lost someone in the physical world, they are always with you. You can access that peace by remembering them. You will feel a sense of them. Sometimes you might even feel anger, joy, laughter-a specific energy that was between you and that person. That is them! A song may play on the radio and that's them. This post is dealing specifically with the Theresa Caputo Experience, so let me not get lost with the whole genre. Theresa channels spirits of people she's never met. That's wild. Few have that gift. Was she faking the strength of her gift in those two hours in order to give us a show? Was she accepting things people were saying when they weren't actually connecting? I'm pretty sure! I think she must have to or there'd be no show. I don't think she can pop on command. The capacity of the theater is somewhere around 3,000 people. She is pulling down at least $300,000. a show. That's a lotta pizza pie. A girls gotta deliver. Plus, I can see how she sleeps at night. Let me explain what I saw. <br />
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She comes out and it's awesome to see her. She's a total character. There's nothing middle of the road in her pulse. She's extremely; confident, loud, made-up, funny, done to the Long Island nines, accent, hair spray, all of it. She herself is pure entertainment. Throw in the ghosts and it's like putting marshmallows in your hot chocolate. Working off of that, she takes the better part of forty minutes explaining what it is she does, it's called "The Experience"- how Spirit comes through in an unusual way so that you know it's your loved one. She is not there to convince anyone that she is legitimate. Thou dost protest too much. I love Theresa, I still do but I hate getting held up. We were all there to see <b><i>her</i></b>. We know what she is and how she does. We weren't bagged and blindfolded and launched into the Westbury Theatre. We went because we believe her and know how she works-who spends that kind of money on tickets to check up on a girl? Not us! It didn't make any sense. It felt like stalling. And then as I played the tape backwards, I see why she does that.<br />
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Okay, so after she takes 45 minutes to tell us her name and where she's from and what she does and how tall she is and what color her hair is (eyes rolled to heaven), she looks up into the crowd directly in front of her -about 500 people and asks, "Who here has the male that passed?" Well, 400 hands go up. It's like shooting fish in a barrel. Then she narrows down. Is she telling us or are we telling her? Every one of those hands wants to be the one to communicate with <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">second row, another bootleg pic;D</td></tr>
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their loved one, so people start playing games with themselves as she asks more specific questions. Not out loud -but you can imagine what's going on in a persons head as they're standing there with a mic in their hand thinking and thinking about a simple question,"Did my dad have a tattoo? Well, he always said his freckles were tattoos from God." NO! That is not a tattoo. They stand there staring at her until she asks a question that they can answer in the affirmative. Sit down. But they don't sit down. They stand there and lie. So is she lying too? I don't know. She may be giving them time to think because in her experience people go deaf, blind and dumb when confronted with big emotion. Or they are working her thinking if they stand there long enough eventually their loved one will come through.<br />
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Does Theresa know they are doing this? Well, I did. She must. She does this for a living. Yet, you do get caught in the moment. Suddenly she's there standing in front of you and you wouldn't even remember if you had a father, nonetheless one with tatoos. Things dawn on you later, when you are at home, she explained. Still, there was a lot of fishing. That stole from the show. It definitely added to the doubt she planted when she started on the lengthy foot of "I have nothing to prove." Then there are other places where I thought, there's no way she could know that. There are so many people jumping up and interrupting I just don't think Medium-ship or whatever it's- called lends itself to huge crowds. She probably knows this but when you're pulling in over a mill a month, when you are selling out shows, you have a production company in contract, two kids in college and you are giving people a night out filled with hope! Who is going to say "Oh no, I'll just stick with the one-on-ones at a buck and a quarter? Right or wrong? I don't know. I don't know. I dunno!!<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"You can't make this shit up!"</td></tr>
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Near the beginning she asked, "Who here had a son pass in an accident on the driveway?" Only one hand went up- it was that specific. And then it turned out that lady didn't lose a son on a driveway, she just stood when she heard son. (It is so sad to see how many hands go up when she asks, "who here lost a son?"- to see that in itself is a master class in compassion. Enough to say to yourself, well, if they get solace out of Theresa, whether she can hear spirit or not she's okay by me- and that's how I know she can sleep at night. She gives hope worth the price of admission. Some people are living moment to moment. That moment of hope is all they have.) Later when she was by our section she came back to the same question, posed a little differently, "a male who passed on the driveway." This woman stands up and Theresa asked, "Was he on the driveway?" and she says, "No." She is blank staring Theresa as if she shouldn't even be talking to her. So Theresa says, "Well, Spirit is making me stay here so I'm going to continue. This young male is taking responsibility for his death, he's saying he shouldn't have been there but I'm going, wait you're too young to be responsible for anything, and he's saying no Theresa, it was my fault. And he keeps showing me a driveway, a long driveway," And the woman goes, "Well, my nephew was sledding on my driveway and got hit by a bus when he got to the end," So there's where you go, Ok, she asked you like 4 times about the driveway and you kept saying no?! Then Theresa goes, "Was he young? Cause I feel like he was very young," and the woman says, "he was four." And you just lose it. You're just like oh, no wonder you couldn't think straight cause it's too much. Your sister came over to go sledding with her baby and went home alone. So there was that moment. Then there were a ton of misses. A ton. <br />
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*She barks a lot when it's not working. It's intimidating. It may have been a rough night.<br />
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Still in our section, she started calling out, I have the number 13, spirit is saying the number 13. My dads birthday was April 13th. I know he comes in on 13. I felt like it was him. I wasn't ready to hop in though when someone who may have lost a baby needed to speak, like that other dingbat. So, then she says, "6 now, who lost a male with the numbers 13 and 6? 13 and 6. Come on now. Who is it, right here, 13 and 6. Spirit is telling me I'm RIGHT here." She's motioning her bare arms up and down to the right of me. I am lost on 6, there's no 6! "Shoeshine, he is telling me shoeshine, 13 and 6 and shoeshine," she says. My dad had a shoeshine! A wooden brown shoeshine box with all kinds of brushes and rags and I could practically smell the Kiwi stain. So I go "My dad had a shoeshine," in this barely there voice. Holly looked at me like, <i>oh boy.</i> Theresa looked at me but then a woman way up top stood and shouted "Shoeshine!" like it was Bingo at the town hall so instead Theresa took off to go see about her. She was a dud. Theresa came back around us, "13 and 6 and shoeshine, right here." I lost my nerve completely. There was no 6. Two out of three wasn't enough. She moved on. <br />
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This one girl stood up and said she <i>almost</i> died in a car accident. I swear. Theresa asked "Who died in a car accident where there is survivors guilt, that means you feel it should have been you?" and the girl stood up. Theresa asked said, "Okay, so you were in a car and you switched seats with the driver and because of that the driver died and you survived." The girl goes, "Oh, no, I was alone in the car, I<i> almost</i> got into an accident. I swerved and just missed it." She goes "If yaw standin' here, tawking to me, ya not dead!" Then she throws her hands in the air, and hollers, "HOLY MOLY YOU CANT' MAKE THIS SHIT UP!"<br />
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Theresa. I don't know if she was reading Spirits mind but she definitely read mine. Now had this woman been shy of a pulse? Then we would have all been on bended ear. Alive and talking? Hush. Come back when you're dead.<br />
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Then it ended. I told the fanatics next to us about 13 and shoeshine and she said, well anyone who'd be in his 70's now, had a shoeshine." I thought oh, that's true. So we left thinking it was mostly bullshit. I'll speak for myself, I thought it may have been mostly bullshit. Holly thought it was total bullshit.<br />
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When I got home, I remembered. My dad born on the 13th had 6 kids and a shoeshiner. Things dawn on you when you get home. I see why she does that. <br />
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<b>Tips- Join the Fanclub to get tickets, you will save a bundle. Holly spent three times as much on our tickets. I can't say how much in case it gets back to her husband. But "survivors guilt"? I had receivers guilt. </b><br />
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<b>Bring your loved ones momentos with you. Lots of people had bags of "cremains" a word I learned at the show - they had cremated people in ziplock bags. It seemed to help. </b><br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8551417930096707061.post-70545781821142060092013-12-20T09:54:00.000-05:002013-12-22T11:31:54.965-05:00Of Course That's A Hippo! Perception. <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
"Is this THE alphabet book?"<br />
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At last weeks Parent/Teacher conference my sons Kindergarten teacher told me that during every recess Julian goes to the writing table and tries to write books while the other kids play. Aw, chip off the ole block. His teacher told me he was particularly proud of his Alphabet Book. When he handed it to me I felt a warm feeling for him, he hadn't told me he liked to make books. It was a big deal for him to give it to me. We sat on the couch together, in a familiar posture of me holding and reading, him listening. But this time, I was reading <i>his</i> letters and guessing at <i>his</i> pictures. I hoped I wouldn't let him down by not understanding what he was trying to put across. Perception is so particular.<br />
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Apple. Nice!<br />
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Banana! Sweet. <br />
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Ah, a little less straight forward, but I got it. Caterpillar! Right on.<br />
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Dinosaur! This is easy!<br />
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Ummmm...Eagle? Yep. Phew! <br />
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I held my breath just a beat before I said "Frog!" Yes! Fist pump.<br />
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It got a little <a href="https://www.google.com/search?q=rorschach+test&client=safari&rls=en&tbm=isch&tbo=u&source=univ&sa=X&ei=H1K0UsffNuuhsASojIDoAg&ved=0CEUQsAQ&biw=1024&bih=579" target="_blank">Rorschach f</a>or me here. The "Go0"threw me off also. I did not know that the second "O" was a head. I admit I struggled with this one. He gave it to me..."Gorilla." OF COURSE! Forehead slap.<br />
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H...bit of a stumper...my confidence was low due to the fail on Gorilla. "Hog?" I asked hesitantly. His smile went into a slit as found on a slot machine. Dang. "Hippo," he said, like I was an imbecile. I was glad as long as he didn't blame himself. "Of course that's a hippo!" I said. "Oh my gosh, anyone with a set of eyes knows that." "You didn't," Julian said. Ah- hem. <br />
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Oh, man. This was beyond me. WTF. He looked at me, staring at my eyes waiting for the answer to appear there. Perception is so particular- and I'll add -a fickle master. I sucked my teeth and shook my head, focus Susan. WTF is brown and has 4 legs, a tail and a white face with a long beard? I needed to buy time. "I love what you did with the head, is that a mane?" I pointed to the white area. "NO! That's not the <b>head</b>!" he shouted. "This is the <b>head</b>!" He pointed to the opposite end, which then of course looked more like a head and not a kicked up leg. I couldn't figure out the white ass. I was familiar with a pink ass. Baboon? "I give up," I said. He looked disappointed. It was dawning on him that it may be the artist and not the observer. Curtains. "It's a jaguar, mom," he said, more quietly. "Oh! Yes, Julian, I am not smart enough to think of an animal that special, I only think of like, dogs, cats..." T'was a tad disheartening that the idea that I was a total dolt was so easily understood. But he straightened up his back and that was what mattered here. Right? Kinda. This next one was do or die.<br />
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"Kid!" I said. He rolled his eyes and put his neck into a reverse plank. "Oh my gosh, It's a Kansas City football player." But he was laughing because he knew that was not something I would know about. It was the grey areas that created all the tension. "Kansas City has a football team?! Just kidding." We laughed and hugged and turned the page. <br />
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FFFFFFF...More big blobs with four legs and white behinds...at least I knew which end was up this time..."I love the cute little head...L for Little Turtle?" He shrunk back, his eyes never leaving my face. "That's the tail mama," the jig was up and we both knew it. "this one is a <b>mane, </b>these are eyes, it's-" I cut him off! "A lion!" Wipe forehead with back of hand. That was close. He remained slumped but smiled.<br />
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Come on now...seriously? I can't remember what this one was. I know I squinted hard and held my breath- constipated in thought. Dear God, please give me the answer, Rottweiler? Rabbit? Roach? I never got it. In case you missed it we jumped from L to R...he didn't. They were all in the book and all looked almost exactly the same as these. M, N, O, P, Q...R.<br />
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Another blob. I wanted to cry. "You get 38 guesses," THIRTY EIGHT!! He smiled brightly, this was fun! Looking at me then the picture, me then the picture. I was cooked after sloth, but I championed. Squirrel. Nope. Snake? A snake doesn''t have legs!! Right. So much of this picture makes sense. Sheep. What?!<br />
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"A skunk," I said. "Yep!" I seriously think it was Divine Intervention. The pride on his face was worth every ounce of sweat. Pretty much.<br />
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Your guess...you have 38 guesses. </div>
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Hint: Most of the time People are not putting out what we are perceiving. A hippo is usually not a hog. It's a rare day where we take pause to sit and exchange and understand the different ways we see things- at any age. </div>
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Merry Christmas. </div>
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It was the best book I ever read. </div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8551417930096707061.post-3178016620897909162013-12-09T11:53:00.004-05:002013-12-22T20:57:50.906-05:00Pity Party-What comes before part B? Part A! <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Songs:<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hHUbLv4ThOo" target="_blank"> Ke$ha- Timber</a><br />
<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4vaN01VLYSQ" target="_blank">Shoop Salt-n-Pepa</a><br />
<br />
<br />
It was a crowd of three that swelled to seven and thinned from there. Karaoke, open bar and food. Christmas lights everywhere.<br />
<br />
Wednesday morning the huz told me to go get me hairs did.<br />
<br />
He had been hinting around about a karaoke surprise party for me that in the three weeks since my birthday had never materialized. Sounded to me like this day was the big day. <br />
"Really?" I asked. "Is tonight the night?"<br />
"Well, how long does it last?" he asked, meaning a salon blow-out.<br />
"I don't know, three days, four with baby powder?"<br />
"Yeah, I'd do it today," he smiled like a rascal.<br />
<br />
In my mind I began to prepare as if for a parade. Me the float. I would smile in a way that made all of my friends better for having seen it. I'd sing songs that would bring great galls of laughter but also make them wonder if I'd ever cut a demo. My thanks-for-coming speech would make the listeners nudge the person next them, with what's called the God nod. A nod of emotional recognition so deep they'd felt it was delivered by The Almighty Himself. They'd search their pockets for tissues. Wonder why they didn't get to see me more.<br />
<br />
As I've mentioned in the past, at present, I am not the most social butterfly in the net. I was super social growing up and through/post college. I'd say in the last ten years I'm more likened to being back in the cocoon. However, being at my friends wedding a few weeks back and dancing and laughing and well, socializing with all the old crew- had me experiencing something of a renaissance. I liked it. I have always loved people, that never waned. I am a true lover of people. The capacity of the human heart never fails me. The power of a word, a smile, a four letter word. Human connection makes me jolly.<br />
<br />
So Wednesday, 7 o'clock the huz calls and says, "So you know your party's tonight right?," he sounded excited.<br />
"I do!" I said. I'm no dummy, if he's asking me, he's telling me. <br />
"Well, listen I just wanted to let you know no ones coming, really, like some people are, awesome people, but none of the... like... your friends from growing up or the wedding or anything, or your sisters."<br />
I thought that he was trying to re-surprise me-get me all un-psyched so that the surprise would be that much bigger, or well, at this point- exist.<br />
"Oh, Okay," I said. <i>Pull this leg it plays Jingle Bells.</i><br />
"Okay," he said, relieved. "I just wanted you to know because I don't want you to be upset."<br />
I could tell from his voice that he was being sincere. Tears started running down my cheeks. <br />
"Okay?" he asked. "You good with that? We'll have a lot of fun. It's going to be a lot of fun. Get dressed. I'll be there in half an hour."<br />
"Yea, totally," I said. I did not let him know I had tears running down my face. I did not see how it was going to to be a lot of fun. I didn't know what to wear to a party where no one was coming. <br />
I texted some childhood friends who were in the area, "Danny told me about the party and that you're not coming. I'm so sad (insert sad emoji)." <br />
I dabbed my eyes and decided applying make-up would be futile because the tears wouldn't stop coming. I decided on clothes. All black, all tight, all covered. <br />
Amazing what done hair does for a person. Even in my dour attire, my flippy lid shouted -party! A friends mom said, "Hair is like the bed in the room, if the bed is made, the room looks clean. If it's not made, no matter how clean, the room looks dirty." No truer words. I felt better in my hot pants and shirt. I was ready for eyes. A swipe of mascara, some liner. Done that. Earrings. All set. I was ready to hit that karaoke machine and yell, "Timber!" Ke$ha-style.<br />
<br />
My three sons kept coming up and around me. "Where are you going mama?!" They were not having it. "You look gross," my oldest said. Thanks. "I think you look nice, mom," my middle one said, hiding his mouth behind his closed fist, shy. "Lookatchooo!" My little one said, (Hankie), that's his new exclamation, "Lookatchoooo!!!" haha. How could I be sad? I checked my texts, no replies. I should have held off on that mascara. <br />
<br />
We walked up to the bar. It was lit up like a Christmas tree, as festive as the parade I'd mentally prepared for. The bit of hope I had that Danny was lying about no one coming was alive and kicking. I made sure my hands were free to cover my ears so my hearing didn't suffer when they screamed "SURPRISE!". The door opened... <br />
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"Hey," my friend said. She was sitting with two others, a really nice friend of hers I'd met a couple of times and another super cutie. "Haaaaaaapppy Birthdaaaay!"<br />
<br />
"Hi!" I said. Kissing them on their cheeks hello. <br />
<br />
So it wasn't The Macy's Day parade. It was still great. Those who showed up on what I now know was <b><i>very little notice </i></b>are just the best. My sweet huz for (dis)organizing a celebration for me made me so happy. I am not a girl who draws crowds. I'm an intimate dinner. (At home, in my pajamas with two or more books by my side.) That damn wedding got me all confused, I had momentarily lapsed into thinking I was who I used to be a decade ago. We probably should have just walked across the street and sat down for dinner but I held them hostage there until I'd sung at least one Salt n Pepa. <br />
<br />
Then we all yelled timberrrrrr. <br />
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<a href="http://www.wikihow.com/Cope-With-Emotional-Pain" target="_blank">This link helped!! haha - it really did:O</a><br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8551417930096707061.post-9452007105581018592013-11-30T20:10:00.000-05:002013-12-01T13:52:57.749-05:00Your Not Lame!! Your Not Stupid!!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Song: <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sng_CdAAw8M&list=RDHO9KZQRZ0H8" target="_blank">Open- Rhye</a><br />
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So my birthday came and went. I didn't drop dead. Yawn. I was all amped up fa nuthin'. Fa nuffin'! A couple of friends left me some encouraging voicemails saying they knew I was bummed about turning forty but that forty was sexy (1) and the coolest women they knew were forty and over (2). Um...it kind of reminded me of the way I felt when I opened my seven year old nephews birthday card that said, "Your not LAME!!, Your not stupid!!" I was like, well, thanks James, I hadn't really considered either of those but thank you for letting me know I'm not. Lame. Or... Stupid. I think. Eyes shut. White mans overbite. That was my favorite card, obviously. And James, it's "You're", not "Your." I must correct you, just to prove I may not be totally <br />
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stupid but that I am actually pretty lame.<br />
<br />
As for the messages I just want to get clear as I gather they were a result of <a href="http://spunkerfly.blogspot.com/2013/11/nothing-changes-if-nothing-changes.html" target="_blank">my last post.</a> I was not lamenting on the age of forty but the space of forty years and how fast they went. Remember when forty years felt like a long time? That's no longer my reality. The reality is it's a short amount of time and that I will arrive at the next just as quickly, assuming any number of fatal fates don't meet me before then. It was about the quiet alacrity of time. About the wrinkles in time, not the wrinkles about my forehead. Of course forty's sexy!! I have a mirror. I knows I's looks gewd y'all. Come get it. Just kidding (JK). I see all of my fierce females and the more subtle seductresses. The looks of it was never my conflict. Of course older is cooler and wiser and deeper, but only if we ask and examine and challenge- then listen, accept and relax. "Don't worry I think 40 is hot and most women over 40 are like the coolest women I know." Seriously? Do you know me? Those two are in the bag ladies. You sound like you are too. JK. Again I jest. I do not mean to begrudge my well intended well wishing sisters. I do appreciate the reaching out. Weirdos. Lose my number. JK. You're not lame!! You're not stupid!! JK. No seriously, I was bummed that I missed the deadline to the book I'm trying to write, but I get that I have not past the deadline on living. I do hear life whistling past my ears some days- as I have a conversation with my oldest son and wonder how that happened, how can he talk? He was spitting up baby formula a minute ago, every waking moment needed my attention. He had no teeth and couldn't hold his head up just yesterday. Today he holds his head up high, or hangs it down. He has grown up teeth that help him articulate his own thoughts, thoughts that are different than mine, that sometimes bother me, that don't need my attending. Did my two year old baby Henry really crawl into bed with me on Saturday morning at 5:15 and whisper in a garbled voice that could have filled Carnegie Hall, "I love (lub) you, mom." The wave of warmth that flooded my heart in that moment, the wave of warmth I believe is love, is not something I want to end. It is all going so fast. That's all I meant. That's all... and that I was terrified of losing now and then having been so caught up in now that I didn't do anything to be prepared for then. Like writing a novel that that same ear that hears the whistling of time tells me might be the one people will actually want to pay money for.<br />
<br />
Am I the only one who has felt this way? I know it keeps a person popular to make fun of everything and be cynical and surface and it's trendy to name drop Louise Hay and pretend that's how we are on the daily even though our pinched faces and thoughtless actions tell a story so much louder than any of our holistic forwards. Those people have dropped away from my life. Pretending has not been my sense of fun. My fun is in being honest about the big questions, my effort is putting in practice the preaching but being okay with not being at the pulpit. My brother sent me a book (and a bouquet of flowers and two cards and a gift card- so thoughtful, so generous) titled <a href="http://www.amazon.com/s/?ie=UTF8&keywords=anne+lamott+stitches&tag=hydsma-20&index=stripbooks&hvadid=29020423496&hvpos=1t1&hvexid=&hvnetw=g&hvrand=16132020581791731356&hvpone=&hvptwo=&hvqmt=e&hvdev=c&ref=pd_sl_3nu415r695_e" target="_blank">Stitches by Anne Lamott. </a>She writes all about this in her book. It came by UPS in a brown envelope addressed to me. Inside the book was inscribed to someone else, regarding the loss of something living named Kyle, signed by a name I never heard of in handwriting I didn't recognize. I was terribly confused. Convinced daily that I have early Alzheimers, "Danny, will you take the ashtrays out of the windows? It's freezing!" "Ashtrays?" "Air Conditioners. Sorry." I texted my brother and told him what I received. It turned out the book was for a friend of his, a man he calls Pinoch. Pinoch and I ended up on the phone. I explained my end of the confusion. He said Pinoch was for Pinoccio, it was signed Jimminy like Crickets, they used to call each other that. My first thoughts were that he either had a big nose or was fond of fibbing. Luckily, my ADD behaved and I didn't express that. Instead I said, "Oh." 'I'm so sorry for the loss of Kyle.' 'Oh, yep, he was our oldest.' 'Oldest?' (Oldest dog was what I was thinking)? "We had three and he was the oldest." "Oldest, son?" "Yep." "I'm sorry. I am so sorry." "Nah, it's okay, I'll be by to switch the books later today." I didn't feel that the burden of the drive should land on Pinoch's shoulders but he seemed to want the drive and I could understand that. Sometimes a guy just needs a place to land, hour to hour. Just let me know I'll have a commitment for the next two hours so that I can get through the next two hours. I'm not sure but that's what I imagined he needed. Pinoch arrived with my package -clear eyed and upright. I decided that since part of the inscription Jiminy wrote included that it was good to be back in touch, that Pinoch had lost Kyle some time ago. I again apologized for his loss and asked after his son. He said he died two weeks ago- to the day. I looked into his eyes, they were not dilated, they weren't teary, or chipper, they were clear, hopeful and very blue, the color of robins eggs. "How are you standing?" I asked. "I don't know, maybe tomorrow I won't be, but today I am." I saw a woman in the passenger seat of his car, she was smoking and looking straight ahead, most of her profile was hidden by dark brown hair that looked like it needed a brush. Her appearance attached a more predictable sense of reality to the words he was saying. It was his wife. Kyles mother. "Well this makes the fight I had with my husband look pretty small." I said. "Yes, it does," he said. And he laughed a true laugh from his belly that later made me cry in the wake of his humility. I gave him a hug and thanked him. As he was walking toward his car he said, "Oh! Happy Birthday!" <br />
<br />
I was no longer thinking about my birthday. I thought about how I'm glad I learned early that you never know what someone is going through but that I am still amazed at what people are going through. Quickly after that thought, selfishly, I was no longer thinking about Pinoch's pain either. I stole from the future, I stole a worry from time I haven't earned - way out, fifteen years from now. What if Colbert was 23 and gone? I quickly backhanded my thought in the face. Not on my watch, crazy Sue. Pray for that man and his family and bless your own with appreciation. <br />
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So, the big day came and went and so did the sensation of it all coming to a close and the feeling of urgency I had to "accomplish." It's okay. It's still good to have those milestones, 40! It's time snapping you to attention, "It's been 40 years, didn't they go quick? They will again! Don't miss them!" I understand that there is no such thing as missing them. All we can ask is to try to do the best we can everyday. I try to be careful with my spending, not to spend my time unwisely, so often I find myself just pissing it away, as my dad would say. It's true. I have a wild propensity to day dream. I fault myself for that. After reading Stitches and meeting Pinoch and reflecting on so many of the many blessings and tragedies that have come to pass in my 40 years, (because no one gets to live 40 years without at least one blessing and one tragedy.) Really time just comes and goes and none of it matters. Can you name the most famous person in 1904? It wasn't that long ago. How about 1789? 1987? You can work your whole life becoming what you think you need to be and if it's not fulfilling, that becoming, is a life pissed away. No one will remember most, if any, of even the best of us in a hundred years time. So do whatever you want with the time you have. Serve, hold and let go. Ask the questions that need answers if you can find the strength to face them. Sometimes it's best to wait, because sometimes the pain of not knowing is hard but getting the answer is unbearable, for now. That same answer that may destroy you today may make you burst out laughing five years from now...because your perspective on the situation will change. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">good thing he's cute!</td></tr>
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Perspective, time, rambling... As I got to the last ten lines of this I smelt a strong coffee brewing in the kitchen. I looked up only to realize it had become dark out, so I decided to light a fire before going to the kitchen to see what was brewing. I did not find brewed coffee but coffee grinds- bucket loads- tossed all over the counters, the sink, in the nooks and crannies of the stove, brown finely ground grinds blanketed the floorboards. The culprit? Our little Hank, (we have started calling Henry, Hank because he is like a tank- charging through and demolishing everything in his path). I put him in the den with Danny, his dad and his brothers. I went to work on the clean up. Ten minutes into it and only half way done I hear Danny yell from the doorway of the living room, "Henry! Fire!" I ran into the living room. The fire was barely contained in the fireplace, the grate wide open, flames threatened to escape and engulf us. The planks of faux marble garnishing the sides had caught fire and were on their way to the mantle. Hank had made his way out of the den to the fireplace and threw in two large synthetic pillows and three starter logs. He stood in front of the blaze stunned still by the festival of flames. Danny quickly removed him and closed the gate. Colbert yelled for us to call the fire department but we got it under control, it was all behind the gate. I couldn't believe that here I was writing about time and forty years and blessings and tragedies when in forty seconds it could have been all gone. Hank could have been burned. Our whole house could have burned down with us in it, a half an hour ago. If Danny hadn't noticed that the world around him with Hank the Tank felt eerily quiet, he would have continued to play with our older two and that minute would have changed everything. That's what it's like. We can't turn our backs for a minute. I want so badly to be in the now and able to prepare for the then...but with Hank the Tank, even with Danny home and me writing a post- and just flukes, there is no preparing for the then. There might not even be a possibility of it.<br />
<br />
Is this stupid? Is this lame? Happy Holidays!! haha a.. Wish I had a nice wrap up but Hank is pulling the keyboard out from me asking me to take a baff wit him...<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mowing the bath water. Is there a prob with that?<br /></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Minutes before an appt he grabbed a couple jars of paint and threw them <br />
on the floor then got on his tractor and road off</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">He twists his hair and pulls it down the center, Dracula/Elvis</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">He likes to make the sign for I LOVE YOU <3</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hank brought his toy lawnmower into the tub<br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8551417930096707061.post-46678375425661498522013-11-15T12:15:00.001-05:002013-11-26T21:18:36.309-05:00Nothing Changes if Nothing Changes<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Me- 39 1/2 yrs ago- <br />
I keep my baby pic on my writing desk<br />
As a reminder not to judge this baby- it doesn't really work.</td></tr>
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Songs: <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qXO8hJJjXRk" target="_blank">Wake Me Up- Avicii</a><br />
<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=COiIC3A0ROM" target="_blank">Let's Stay Together- Al Green</a><br />
<br />
I was just looking through some "drafts"- posts I've written in the past that have either never felt good enough or impersonal enough to publish. It's probably the really good shit. Sometimes I just get on and chuck thoughts only to discover that what qualifies as a journal entry doesn't necessarily need to be published for public consumption. I don't have any secrets. Essentially because I like the motto "if there's a name for it, it's been done" or because the bi-product of a secret is shame or because, because. However, there are things that fall strictly into the category of "random" and "useless", so those become drafts. You may be thinking this particular post is amongst them- but wait! <br />
<br />
I had given myself until my birthday- one week from now- to have a first draft of my latest best seller (in my own mind) The Bitchy Beach Club. Some days I write and I think- YOU ARE A GD GENIUS- and I'm happy the whole day. Some days, like today, I actually read what I write and I think. Oh, shit. Go find a straight jacket and a helmet- YOU NUT- and I am sad the whole day. <br />
<br />
But it's a blogging day. I like the blogs. I get to procrastinate on the novel writing. Plus, there's so little invested! I feel like I've become all but a recluse so with the blog I get to pop out a little on the Facebooks and feel like I did my social thing. It's usually pretty easy, and I look forward to posting. Writing the novel is an entirely different beast. It is a beast. It's beyond me. Writing the blog is like getting dressed for the day, maybe a weekend. Writing a novel is like trying to get dressed for a whole year. In a hundred different climates. It's also not going well and I am going to miss my deadline. Never a good feeling, but is anyone but me going to feel let down? No. It's an arbitrary deadline - no one is paying me. No one even cares but me. I don't need to feel like a complete failure if I don't finish the book. Things like the botched move to California, feeding my kids chicken nuggets and threatening to leave my husband take care of that. I would normally feel embarrassed to admit those things, but we spent last weekend at a wedding with a group of couples we have known forever. As we swayed cheek to cheek to Al Green's optimistic, "Let's Stay Together," we laughed our humps off talking about how often we try to pack our bags. "Loving you forever, forever! Times are good or bad! Happy or sad!" Dip. Then mouthing to the upside down colored blonde head next to me, "I tried to leave four days ago." "Six!" My friend said back to me. "And I'm taking the kids!" Bahahaah! We were laughing so hard. That was really sweet seeing as how we were on the dance floor at a wedding?! <br />
<br />
Anyway! The difference with this deadline is that I'm turning forty. FORTY. I will be forty in a week. I'm probably forty now- right? If you add all the different days a birthday jumps around over the years. I feel cranky. I keep crying. Then I feel fine. I must be having seismic hormonal shifts. One second I'm happy, the next I can't believe I didn't climb Mt. Kilimanjaro...I don't even hike! Midlife crisis. It has to be. Actually, it could be more than half over. I mean we're all on borrowed time, right? I keep trying to stay in the moment and I do appreciate all that I have, a healthy family being the main thing. But...I wanted things. Not material things, I feel so blessed to be spared those feelings- because, because. But I did want to accomplish creative things- a published novel was amongst them. And as I read what I've been working so hard to create- which mind you if you can gleen from the title is not anything along the lines of a Pulitzer Prize winning epic but a freakin' 300 page chick lit rag- I saw that there is just no way I am going to tell the story of The Bitchy Beach Club the way I want to in time for the big 4-0.<br />
<br />
It made me sick. <br />
<br />
It made me not want to do a post. Again.<br />
<br />
So I went into my drafts thinking I could edit one up, put a little spit an' shine to one of the 59 entries I have in reserve (?!) and march one out. I found one, that matched my mood- it was untitled but started with "Some days are hard to get through. Today is one of them. It's 11am but for no particular reason, I just feel like it's going to be a slog. Experience tells me this too shall pass, but...ugh. Actually, I'm trying to fool myself. There is a particular reason..." and I go into the reason and a few more- about my family, about my life, about things I want and am not being honest about. I realize that I am a secret to myself. I look at the date and it was from September 2012. Over a year ago. I could have easily have written those words today. Nothing much has changed. I chose not to change those things. So, about an hour ago- after feeling done-in by my sad literal stylings- that the things that are bringing me to Confront Forty instead of Celebrate Forty, aren't going to be made okay by having a first draft of The Bitchy Beach Club. Being down about turning forty has nothing at all to do with whether or not I get 324 pages together. That will be an accomplishment and a sweet one at that-to all those who do manage it- but it's so beyond the point of why I feel numb. Beyond the point of why I haven't sent out an invitation to karaoke, or to do a small dinner or bought that ticket to Paris.<br />
<br />
A lump in my throat forms when I think about the challenges confronting my issues will bring. But if I'm still tortured by the same questions over a year later (and I know that these questions have been going on for well over ten), isn't it worth it? I don't know. After the weekend and spinning around the dance floor with all of us in the same boat, I concluded- this is just what it is- and having awesome friends for decades to laugh about life with is a pretty good deal. We are given days and what we do with them ends up being the sum of our life; that's not new news. The Forty milestone is just that, a checkpoint. There's still time. I will and the world will (although I don't know how) survive and (might even) go on to live very happy lives without a copy of The Bitchy Beach Club. The things I <i>have </i>accomplished, I could not live without. Those are the decisions I made one day that have brought me to this day, allowing me to be with the people I favor the most. That is lucky. So, I guess I will have to check my drafts next year. Maybe I'll have another realization, that these questions and posts were just ways to procrastinate writing that GD GENIUS BEST SELLER. For now, I want what I have. <br />
<br />
Things unmeasurable on a richter. Until my next seismic shift;D</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8551417930096707061.post-26041058908524760552013-10-19T18:40:00.003-04:002013-10-20T10:40:23.780-04:00A Delay Is Not A Denial & Other BS That Keeps Me Alive<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Last weekend I was curled up in a ball in my bed all but drooling and sucking my thumb. It seemed, my husband informed me, that California, and our move was off the table. I felt blindsided. I actually don't remember a big chunk of part of days following. How could this be? Everything was in place, the house was sold, we were a week from closing- I thought. I know I sold a bunch of stuff and packed more. I blogged about it! If it's in writing it must be happening.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This does not look as impressive as it felt. Trust.</td></tr>
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This mind you, was precipitated by a week of bodily terror. Tuesday, I sliced my left pointer finger in a handheld Cuisinart (pink for breast cancer awareness), resulting in eight stitches. Followed by two days of 102 degree fever and chills then waking up two days after that with shingles. Three days after that was my appointment at Winthrop Nuclear Medicine for a full-body Indium scan to figure out why I've been having daily low-grade fevers and night sweats for the past eight months. Sexy time.<br />
<br />
That was just my stuff. Add three kids and a husband and families and packing and press pulse, oh wait. Don't. Your finger may still be in the mix. I have nary an occasion to feel on top of my game but these last couple of weeks sure have been low scoring.<br />
<br />
Yep. I thought we were 5-0. We are 0-5. Not sure how I scored that but run with me;)<br />
<br />
I am not at liberty to say what went wrong because I believe it's in the hands of lawyers but from what I understand it was neither of our faults-"ours" being the buyers or the sellers. So, I can't point the finger but I can still give it -to the whole situation. The woman who was buying our house, who I incidentally fell in love with, who incidentally was also so sure of the move she had her kids at our bus stop since the first day of school, won't look at me. As if I had anything to do with it. But, okay. I can barely look at my husband. As if he had anything to do with it. But, okay. Both our families have kids who were collectively adjusting to the idea of a new state, new schools, leaving their friends and cousins- they don't seem to know where to look. Not, okay.<br />
<br />
I need to be reminded of all the cliches and believe they are true. "Replace fear with faith." "A delay is not a denial". "It's in God's hands". "Do the next right thing, the rest will take care of itself." "Kids are resilient." "No one died." "I can't point my finger, but I can still give it." :)<br />
<br />
It's about two weeks since I stuck my finger into the cuisinart to dislodge cookie dough that was stuck around the blade and pressed pulse at top speed. I may not forget seeing my blood splattering machine gun style around all of my white cabinets and walls or how scared I was- in shock realizing what I was doing. Amazingly, you don't really feel yourself being sliced at that speed, you SEE it, and then stop it. I may not forget my kids faces as they witnessed my own skin drain of color and me having to drop to the floor so as not to faint (I'm a bloodophobe.) But I know I will never forget that in this short amount of time the stitches are out, the finger is not fixed but mostly healed, I didn't cut bone and that it was not nearly as bad as it originally appeared. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh48NJJPtFvFMJKiUgqU_7V1zkqwhyphenhyphenUCrIcZZzLuw1GXn1R2lM6GG5QDlTRCc8eGBBAX-XA8hcEbeklmVV17cPig7gr9_sUB4daKJ8IbpkDc6ZGHsbTBbiBq5y3TMjhRUYLp5ZyURl-HQ/s1600/IMG_4009.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh48NJJPtFvFMJKiUgqU_7V1zkqwhyphenhyphenUCrIcZZzLuw1GXn1R2lM6GG5QDlTRCc8eGBBAX-XA8hcEbeklmVV17cPig7gr9_sUB4daKJ8IbpkDc6ZGHsbTBbiBq5y3TMjhRUYLp5ZyURl-HQ/s200/IMG_4009.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bringing sexy back.</td></tr>
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I decided I wasn't going to go to the dermatologist for the shingles- it's a virus. I'm a Google M.D. I know everything. I was so sick of doctors without answers plus, what could they do for a virus? Give me pain pills? Nah. However, it started on my wrist and had now wrapped around my torso. It was getting worse. Pain meds would be great! The dermatologist treated my shingles with Valtrex, an anti-viral medication. She said no to pain pills;(!? That very night I did not have night sweats or a fever for the first time in over eight months. I'm not talking getting a little damp behind the neck, shake your blankies off, night sweats...I'm<br />
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talking DRENCHED, hair wet, change clothes, put down a towel, can't change sheets because kids are in the bed with you and it's twice a night anyway night sweats. A night without that was great. <br />
<br />
One catch, I had my Indium scan that morning. I thought "Oh, soup! They're not going to be able to see what's wrong with me, of course the first time ever is the night before I'm lit up." *An Indium scan is where they take out your white blood cells and attach nuclear particles to them and put it back in to see where they go to fight infection- the nuclear particles light up under the scan. I'm actually radioactive. They gave me a card saying I was to be excused in case I was stopped near tunnels or the city. Wild. Anyway, I get the first part done and then the next night, no sweats again. Shingles still itch like a monster, but...hey, not waking up twice a night like I got doused while in the middle of a dream- fair trade. So, I look up Valtrex. It also treats, Epstein Barr Virus (EBV).<br />
<br />
Out of all of the major doctors I saw to rule out all of the horrible things that these symptoms could be-eccessive weight loss, night sweats, fatigue, swollen lymph nodes, (are you thinking what I was thinking? Cause I was thinking stage IV Non-Hodgkins)....only one nurse practitioner, Kathy Heatherington found evidence that I recently had EBV. That was late June. The trouble was none of my symptoms (except the weight loss) went away. And all of the doctors said EBV was not the answer. Well, she never treated me with <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Valaciclovir" target="_blank">Valtrex-</a> thinking it was convalescing and either did they- thinking it was b.s. I have not had a fever or a soggy sleep since. So, that was a good answer. A long painful way round. But an answer with an easily treatable solution. Herpes!! Shingles and EBV are both herpes!! I never knew I had herpes. I guess it's not the STD kind. Still, what a punchline. Unsurprisingly, the Indium scan came up negative. YAY!<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">With Henry at Park day after starting Valtrex</td></tr>
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I don't know. I haven't unpacked but we do get to go to an old friends wedding now that we'll be here- that's a silver lining. I am still bitterly heartbroken and praying things will work out the way I want, not the way they should. I guess what I'm trying to say is that I do have these little proofs that it somehow always does. Botched dreams never feel good while being botched. Technically I shouldn't even be in this house, I'm supposed to be polishing a Pulitzer next to my Oscar while standing on my star on the Walk of Fame. OR technically, I shouldn't even have a house or a husband and kids to worry about because it's a miracle I found someone crazy enough to marry me. Point is, I want what I want when I want it. I work to make my wants happen. I don't buy into the world of leaving life up to fate and signs and unicorns. I like the idea of making my own luck. But it never works out my way. But it always works out. After some time, it's never as bad as it looks.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our Miley impersonation</td></tr>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8551417930096707061.post-68348291756915417132013-10-11T15:04:00.002-04:002013-10-19T18:56:53.484-04:00What is a safe risk? <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Song: <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Jj4nJ1YEAp4" target="_blank">The Gambler- Kenny Rogers</a><br />
<br />
* As you can tell by my Woman of The Month pieces- no one should waste their time wondering who the man in this story is-I meet people everywhere and have deep/peculiar conversations with most. :) Onward. *<br />
<br />
<br />
After I told this man that my family and I were moving to California, he told me a story of his own. He had saved up $500,000-had it in the bank. He had paid off the mortgage on his home and he and his wife, both 50 at the time, who were always thinking themselves of moving from New York to California, were about to do just that. They set a date to move for a year later, when in the eleventh hour his wife was diagnosed with cancer. The medical bills depleted their savings to a zero balance (that trusty bank account, that wonderful health insurance)- they had to refinance the house and then-cherry on top- he lost his job! It was now five years later and he had a new job, is working his way toward a mortgage and best of all his wife is cancer free.<br />
<br />
"So, you see? You really need to save before a move like that," he said. "We were all set and still."<br />
<br />
His message was you can never be too careful.<br />
<br />
I had a much different take away from his story. What I heard was "No matter how much you save or how much you plan, God (or the universe or whatever new-age thing you believe in) has other plans, so go forth- carpe diem! I had not told this man what we had saved or lined up, I feel very comfortable with those things...but I can tell you it's not half a mill in the savings and owning the homestead outright. Seems at this rate- I'd live my whole life for that to happen and then poof! Work another lifetime to get it back again? No, thanks. It's not that I didn't feel for him, but the logic seems so off to me. But I am finding that my logic is off to most every relative I tell our plan too. "You're doing <i>what?</i> You're going <i>where?</i>"<br />
<br />
I have never been a risk averse person, not really. I have never been reckless either. Maybe for a night or two (;) but never in life choices. I pursued acting, but with a Masters Degree behind me so that I could teach one day... if I didn't say...win an oscar. Turns out I didn't win an Oscar and the degree on the whole is pretty useless. But I knew what I wanted and at the time these were my choices:<br />
<br />
1.) Being a waitress and foraging alone with a random combination of classes at HB Studios or the like. 2.) Going to a three year intensive program where I fostered relationships and earned my MFA.<br />
3.) Choosing to stay in a 9-5 job I knew I wasn't content with at 22 felt like a death sentance. <br />
<br />
I knew I wasn't going with 3.). 22 was just too young to settle down. At least it was for me. I'm sure there are plenty who are still pushing pretty much the same papers they did at 22 at 52 and it's worked out beautifully, that wasn't my path. <br />
<br />
I went with option 2.). That felt like the better choice for a while. While earning (buying:) my masters at The Actors Studio Drama School, a teacher turned me on to Williamstown Theater Festival- that was the best summer of my life. I'd say before I had my son to appease the responsible and moral but really Wiliamstown was the best. Sorry First born, I know it must sound cruel but hauling 80lbs of sunscreen, stroller and pack 'n play to the beach didn't trump hanging under the Main Stage talking to Ethan Hawke about Reality Bites. And really that was only a small part -it was months of everything theater. I got to talk to the art department about costumes. I wrote and had a staged reading of my first play. I'd walk to lunch and wave to Paul Newman and Joanne Woodward while they sat on a wall eating sandwiches. Williamstown was like a dream. Did I need three years of training for what I learned in one summer at Williamstown? Williamstown wasn't associated with The Actor's Studio Drama School and while I heard of it from my teacher there, I <i>prolly</i> would have found it eventually. Cost-wise that was a summer internship the equivalent of one interest payment on that "responsible" three year loan. So, what was the safer choice? Maybe the calculated risk was actually a bigger fail- although it may look better on the outside. I have a degree and I get to say I was in class with Bradley Cooper, (someone who <i>was </i>nominated for an Oscar). Net gain? Massive student loans, being a douche name-dropper a few times a year and memories of people I see only on Facebook. Other than that...not sure. Having had Williamstown, I can obviously still be a douche name-dropper without The Actors Studio, and I do so enjoy that! Ah snap, I can be a douche even without the name dropping. Well, I will say, on a positive note- of the three choices presented then - one never comes up. I never say, "I should have stuck with that 9-5 job. Ever. My feeling now is, if you're not ready to jump without a net, don't jump. I don't play in traffic but I live on a busy street. You feel me?<br />
<br />
And that brings me around to your major life choices. When do you stop taking major risks? I guess when you have school aged kids? But I have friends who don't have kids and are risk averse because of their jobs? So do you stop taking risks when you're employed for 3 years? When you have a safe job with the government? Oh wait, but they shut down. Foiled again! Okay, maybe it's age. When you're 32? 35? 45? 28? What is it? What does it mean to you? What should it mean to me? I'm not looking to mess up my life, but I don't think I'm ready to live always wondering either. </div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8551417930096707061.post-3245345681471213412013-09-26T22:05:00.000-04:002013-10-04T22:21:22.034-04:00SpunkerFLY Woman of The Month - September<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Song: <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zi6keFpm-BY" target="_blank">Star Witness Neko Chase</a><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2pz2AEd_55T15E5tpEpQGGeUu4X8u8fQCfG3UqWsUz-lmvE_3HZ75anUr4xXHKyQQcK0YHNiuL0g4FHZO_JrqowNEonxgySjp4ktjd2pqn05OoTvO2uy3BZL9nS6JPy8SfdRJObvCcA/s1600/Image.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="263" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2pz2AEd_55T15E5tpEpQGGeUu4X8u8fQCfG3UqWsUz-lmvE_3HZ75anUr4xXHKyQQcK0YHNiuL0g4FHZO_JrqowNEonxgySjp4ktjd2pqn05OoTvO2uy3BZL9nS6JPy8SfdRJObvCcA/s400/Image.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">With daughter Julia </td></tr>
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">How we met: Last July I was sitting on a return flight from San Francisco to New York and the woman next to me had that presence my whole being always seems hard wired to tune into. I so didn’t want to do it. I did not want to be the chatty Cathy in the next seat. It was a long flight. We could both end up cringing for hours. I started telling myself </span></span><i style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 18px; letter-spacing: 0px;">Don’t you dare. Mind your own business. Read the book you bought. Work on the book you’re supposed to be writing</i><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">. None of it worked. Myself couldn’t stop myself. “Hi, are you a star?” I asked. I think. If not those exact words, something very close. She shook her head sweetly, demured, no. “Do people ask you that?” I wondered. “Yes,” she nodded redeeming me. “Yes, they must! You have definite star energy. So, what is it? That you do?” I asked. I sound more obnoxious in writing. I hope. It was all a little more </span>tempered<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">. I'm a smooth </span>mo, yo. <span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"> I was so sure I was on to something. She was so sweet, elegant and soft - yet underneath very much in charge. A true pioneer. A lady. When she told me her story I was captivated. I hope you will be too. </span></span></b><br />
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">I invited Judith to be a guest on the blog right as we were taking our bags out of the overhead bins, "Your information will help so many woman who read my blog, so many moms who have daughters," I said. "I have three sons, so..." (it doesn't concern me was my </span>subtext). "Oh, no it effects boys as well," she said, sadly. "For sure." <span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"> </span></span></b><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">With daughter Senna </td></tr>
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Dear Judith,<br />
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Thank you so much for exchanging your information with me and agreeing to be our SpunkerFLY woman of the month. I am so honored to feature you. I've left the intro a real cliff-hanger so let's dive in. <br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><b>1. How did you start?</b></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">I was 28 years old, putting myself through grad school and, to help pay for school, I was working as an assistant to an older grad student in the psych department. We got to know each other well and ended up taking a share in a summer house in the Hamptons. One day we were sitting on the beach and complaining that we had eaten too much the night before and that we felt fat (who hasn't done that at some point?!). My friend Ellen confided in me that she had been throwing up as a way to get rid of the food (Ellen has spoken of this openly so i'm not divulging secrets here). I was stunned because <b><i>in those days (1980), no one had heard of eating and throwing up-- it was fascinating, disgusting, and riveting all at once. </i></b> Ellen had my attention!</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Ellen told me she was fighting for recovery and that she had found and worked with a psychologist from Cornell University who had discovered that many other girls were binging and throwing up. This psychologist-- Marlene Boskind White-- was the first person ever to notice this phenomenon and she termed it Bulimia-- the hunger of an ox. Ellen had met with Marlene and found her work helpful. Ellen proposed that we start something in New York City to address this new and potentially growing problem. We asked permission from Marlene to take her ideas into the city, she gave us the go ahead and through word of mouth, sure enough, we immediately found 5 women who were struggling with eating and vomiting. This was a startling beginning for us. Bulimia started as an extraordinary cultural secret, a grassroots disease that had just taken root at the end of the 1970's, seemingly out of no where, and we were finding that women actually were already struggling to make it go away.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">At the time, I was finishing my Ph.D. and working at St. Vincent's Hospital as the director of the group therapy program for alcoholics. With my experience with addictions and Ellen's experience with the disorder itself, we scrambled to come up with a weekend intensive group program to address the symptomatic behaviors. We started the group with the 5 women we met and sent out a press release to the media (no email in those days!) saying that two NYC psychologists were starting a program to treat a stunningly new disorder, binging and vomiting. A week later, a cable program picked us up, interviewed us and we were suddenly visible to a broad audience.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><b><i>The news media of course found it fascinating that pretty girls were binging and throwing up. </i></b>Once the cable show aired, there was a clamoring from other shows to pick up the story. The Today Show did a 7 minute clip of our group (with blurred pictures of the patients). Other news shows followed as did a myriad of newspaper and magazine articles. As a result, Ellen and I were <b><i>overwhelmed with a cascade of letters and phone calls from people all over the country, many of whom were famous and visible</i></b>, saying that they thought that no one else did what they did. They wanted to know how to get help.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Ellen and I rushed to set up a Center in Manhattan to broaden our treatment reach. We started the Bulimia Treatment Associates, hired a consortium of therapists to work with us-- and our careers took off with lightening speed.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><b>2. In case anyone missed it, you and Ellen started the first ever Eating Disorder clinic in NYC. Do you ever think what if I hadn't made that choice, what would life be like if I hadn't taken the risk?</b></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">I am so incredibly grateful that I met Ellen and took the risks that I did. I realize that had I not been financing my own way through school, I never would have been working as a research assistant and I wouldn't have met Ellen-- <b><i>so this is a word of encouragement for anyone who has to work on their own to pay for school. I can't imagine what my life would be like had it not taken the amazing turns that it did. </i></b> I feel very lucky. But interestingly it never felt like a risk. What we were doing was so much fun and inspiring and exciting. Even though I worked late into the night and through weekends for years on end, it never felt as though I was working. I think one of the most important goals with any job is to know that it's something you are passionate about doing.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgj5nkXWInfVGIz3WrAvYl98VJCIUkEaY2SAgScwMOfokVg9mKrnKpGzy5lKPhyny1roDVeyNjuGWmXbcMYc6OodllqRjYkUhJHxewFfpQcCQvwxjoqOIBY-dcUeTOxgbyiPwOREi_oVg/s1600/Image+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgj5nkXWInfVGIz3WrAvYl98VJCIUkEaY2SAgScwMOfokVg9mKrnKpGzy5lKPhyny1roDVeyNjuGWmXbcMYc6OodllqRjYkUhJHxewFfpQcCQvwxjoqOIBY-dcUeTOxgbyiPwOREi_oVg/s400/Image+1.jpg" width="331" /></a><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><b>3. If someone is struggling with an eating disorder--either parent or child-- what is the first step they can take to get help? How best to approach a child?</b></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">In our book </span><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px; text-decoration: underline;">Surviving an Eating Disorder: Strategies for Family and Friends</span><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"> (Siegel, Brisman and Weinshel, Harper Collins, 3rd edition), we spell out step by step what to do if someone you care about is in trouble with food.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">First, find a time that is calm to talk. Let the person know what you are concerned about-- be really specific (i.e., "I saw signs of vomit in the toilet" or " you've lost a lot of weight lately and you seem worried about how you look" or "you seem so sad lately"). Don't be blaming or angry!! Just be factual. Let the person know how it affects you-- maybe you are worried, maybe it is hard to talk together lately, maybe you feel you should help and you don't know what to do. And then have a step that you'd like the person to take. This may as gentle as just wanting to talk about it as a first step-- or you may be so worried that you want a professional to evaluate whether a problem exists. Be clear, unemotional and suggest a step that is possible to do (ie don't suggest seeing a professional if you are not prepared to set this up or go with the person the first time).</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">With younger kids, keep to this same format. If you are worried that someone is eating too much, you might want to focus on health or mood instead of weight. It's okay to tell kids that you worry that they are not eating healthfully or that they seem preoccupied with what they will eat or what they weigh. <b><i>Don't ever say that you think they have gained weight or are fat-- that's just too embarrassing and shame filled. </i></b>Your child will block you out and not hear what you have to say.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">In this kind of situation, be prepared to both be supportive but also set limits. So you might want to tell your daughter or son that it's okay to have one or two desserts/snacks a day and that they can choose when the snacks will be eaten-- but that will be the limit because otherwise it's not healthy. If you get into too deep of a tangle with your son or daughter over food, maybe it's time to get a third party in there (a therapist, nutritionist?) to broaden the discussion. This should not be a battle but a slow moving direction toward health in which the child chooses one step he or she is able to take .</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><b>4. Do eating disorders predominantly effect young girls?</b></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Eating disorders can effect ANYONE-- including young boys and men. What is important to know is that <b><i>the best chance for recovery is early intervention.</i></b> If you know someone who you suspect is in trouble with food-- or if you are worried about yourself-- make sure you don't turn the other way thinking it will get better or that you are making too big a deal of it. If you have any questions, speak with a professional about how to proceed.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><b>5. I noticed my middle guy, (who was always being teased that he was chubby by his older brother) at 2 years old pushing a biscuit away after I said to my husband, "these are nothing but fat" I didn't mean he or I shouldn't eat it, I was actually taking a bite, celebrating it, I guess! But I couldn't believe that he heard it and reacted by restricting himself at such an early age. I became conscious of my words around food at that moment (I'm not sure how long it lasted! But I try). How young do you see eating disorders start in children? How do parents views of their own bodies and attitudes toward food contribute? </b></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">We're unfortunately seeing kids as young as 8 or 9 in treatment with full blown eating disorders. This was unheard of years ago but there is such a focus on being thin in our culture-- and these young kids are so media-savvy-- the messages travel fast.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Kids pick up tones and messages about food and weight at home too. But <b><i>parents don't create eating disorders. The current thinking is that kids become eating disordered as a result of a complex combination of genetics, psychology and the culture.</i></b> We've seen kids with the most eating disordered parents who are fine around food. And we've seen a lot of eating disordered kids who come from families where their parents were healthy but not overly concerned about food and weight. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">That being said, given the epidemic of eating problems in our culture, as parents it is a good idea to notice "fat talk" in the house and to be aware of the messages one is giving kids about their self-worth. A parent's job is to set the stage for strong self worth and self-esteem so that the child can fight the messages of the culture. Notice at home how many comments are made about bodies versus intellect or creativity. Notice what compliments are given-- are they mostly directly at how one looks or how one acts? And what about feelings? <b><i>Kids who develop eating disorders have a hard time knowing or regulating their feelings. </i></b>What can you do as a parent to help your child learn to sooth one's self, to express complicated feelings, to have a voice in the family about one's own needs and desires? </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">We're in a food and fat obsessed culture. Every parent is going to make a comment about food, looks and weight somehow. Helping a child know one's internal world, not just the outside appearance and actions, and helping that child give voice to his or her own thoughts and feelings is one of the best things a parent can do to help set the stage for a healthy kid.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Judith, I cannot thank you enough for your thoughtful and thought provoking interview. Thank you for helping so many people and families and souls in your lifetime. And for flying Jetblue! You are a blessing. You are FLY! </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Love, Susan </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">If you or someone you know is struggling with an eating disorder and would like to contact Dr. Brisman or just send her fan mail, her information is below. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Judith Brisman, Ph.D.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Founding Director</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Eating Disorder Resource Center</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">330 W. 58th St. Suite 206</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">NY, NY 10019</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">212-582-2217</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px; text-decoration: underline;"><a href="http://www.edrcnyc.org/">www.edrcnyc.</a></span><span style="color: black; letter-spacing: 0.0px;">com</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px; text-decoration: underline;"><a href="http://www.drjudithbrisman.com/">www.drjudithbrisman.com<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></a></span></div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8551417930096707061.post-42073992143640975322013-09-20T12:31:00.001-04:002013-09-21T12:08:34.719-04:00Spot Clean Only<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Ok, so I bought these pillows at Home Goods for pennies a piece. You can't tell by the pictures because I must have used a flash or something but the white part got dirty. Actual dirt. Wouldn't spot clean. Actually I didn't try. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgG4K8WpYO_qzTk5yF576gtHWeRo7S_kfTcxeB_YfXCRv0qAOqQ0fUZRvoEyXfgcPKAI731-giOTwGa30rAaMdpWXV1O6zpKJGIWeexY7ew1qMIkt0eV1psKEpzUJ7i4mU-om5JdPna7A/s1600/IMG_3735.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgG4K8WpYO_qzTk5yF576gtHWeRo7S_kfTcxeB_YfXCRv0qAOqQ0fUZRvoEyXfgcPKAI731-giOTwGa30rAaMdpWXV1O6zpKJGIWeexY7ew1qMIkt0eV1psKEpzUJ7i4mU-om5JdPna7A/s320/IMG_3735.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5ctnCSdelTshQPBuVDOw0BLkK3E2Y-KaZYtD8ceyMGb2pVAh2Kayft0DhFCatGNFXe8JH8idJpYJfWrJzZEsw7Olz4Ea9sxP6QreZIwqaJAj4UdgfmDO2YacpGrsXPiBv2dHUh3EN3A/s1600/IMG_3736.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5ctnCSdelTshQPBuVDOw0BLkK3E2Y-KaZYtD8ceyMGb2pVAh2Kayft0DhFCatGNFXe8JH8idJpYJfWrJzZEsw7Olz4Ea9sxP6QreZIwqaJAj4UdgfmDO2YacpGrsXPiBv2dHUh3EN3A/s320/IMG_3736.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
And on this one...Can you see on the bird? The bit where you might imagine a wing? Looks like a shadow? That's poop. I didn't have it in me to take a damp sponge to it. I had reached my threshold of being grossed out for the day- my 7 year old wiped a booger on his arm and then my middle guy ate it. OFF OF HIS BROTHERS ARM. NOT HIS BOOGER. THEY WERE LAUGHING! I was gagging.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1en27LlApV6FQI1UXFJeWPpScAxOX1EXpeLTk8tEb-dBTLDgFGKr11Z-DQN4R4cJ5PYczqI3T0o1qqqRRcMYjaT1HnhxZdStfrU8tjYjU8EN5HLf8LijymchRZToEu0SIczEgfaCSrQ/s1600/IMG_3738.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1en27LlApV6FQI1UXFJeWPpScAxOX1EXpeLTk8tEb-dBTLDgFGKr11Z-DQN4R4cJ5PYczqI3T0o1qqqRRcMYjaT1HnhxZdStfrU8tjYjU8EN5HLf8LijymchRZToEu0SIczEgfaCSrQ/s320/IMG_3738.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
And plus this was happening....<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9Kg423NGhpT1a2a7QPJP45Ga-Y5sisZhhIfpoK7-DNyve-VW_85HNktN46VO5vWjQcqUxCamTAZa7LZiyWm4txqy_ZC_IjXNlpNAN5-ajUPglF0PoOdU9ogm6WD8Y5dcBYUik6WFohA/s1600/IMG_3741.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9Kg423NGhpT1a2a7QPJP45Ga-Y5sisZhhIfpoK7-DNyve-VW_85HNktN46VO5vWjQcqUxCamTAZa7LZiyWm4txqy_ZC_IjXNlpNAN5-ajUPglF0PoOdU9ogm6WD8Y5dcBYUik6WFohA/s320/IMG_3741.JPG" width="320" /></a>open, close. Open, close. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKRRll5GOEe89pbyDx6KIoxqWM7tUDNJCg9anzyCt_Ap5N4W9zDiMroG2_tBs5BQ3JasJVNZR8o_JXkzjHWCuudxSenpti_OUCKGqJh3bq1kd1g4UnFx4qp0QdAXnykO2lXm6kDCICAQ/s1600/IMG_3740.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKRRll5GOEe89pbyDx6KIoxqWM7tUDNJCg9anzyCt_Ap5N4W9zDiMroG2_tBs5BQ3JasJVNZR8o_JXkzjHWCuudxSenpti_OUCKGqJh3bq1kd1g4UnFx4qp0QdAXnykO2lXm6kDCICAQ/s320/IMG_3740.JPG" width="320" /></a>Open, close. </div>
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Open, open, open, open.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhh12EARkTQw8MtZONSv26WThuXmPeO9iuIbioWTts4p9IgBZUsAUMroI70e2fi8Pog4q9DCqOMQfGWta87yWDQBGp1MCUC9CQ35KQsb-SzC-pLiGtTP2gvDypyyYDWPpt8lH5mlVhkxw/s1600/IMG_3745.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhh12EARkTQw8MtZONSv26WThuXmPeO9iuIbioWTts4p9IgBZUsAUMroI70e2fi8Pog4q9DCqOMQfGWta87yWDQBGp1MCUC9CQ35KQsb-SzC-pLiGtTP2gvDypyyYDWPpt8lH5mlVhkxw/s320/IMG_3745.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The drawers look a lot messier on camera, so does the kitchen. </td></tr>
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Open, open, open, open. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">CHEESE! </td></tr>
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So I read the care label on the pillows. Like I said, they didn't set me back and probably should have been tossed...but I loved the looks of 'em. It was declared poop by my two year old- it may have been pudding. We had pudding in the house and like I said, I really liked the pillows. I couldn't go in for a sniff test. When I saw Spot Clean Only I had a little chuckle. You see, back in the day, I worked in production for a small woman's clothing company. I'm pretty sure now they are a big company and they do a whole lotta lines- no pun intended. Then, it was a small women's clothing company. Most of the volume was in pants, (they invented the boot-leg pant, imagine still living in a world without a boot-leg pant? Shudder.) Ordering the care labels was the production departments job. <br />
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Let's say we sold about a thousand pants a season, just say, I don't really know. Then say we sold about 20 skirts, 300 shirts, 30 leather jackets...the point is it was a low volume operation. Care labels are sold in the thousands. In order to write the care label that actually suited the proper care of each piece, (and each piece was basically custom when you're working in double digits), the production department would have had to test all of that fabric, put through so many washes, drying, steaming, or ironing- then ordered a thousand care labels for each puny style. Can you imagine that poor suffering production department? Doing their best? Working their hearts out on stitches and hems and the right buttons and fabrics- just so the design team could get their vision to market and the sales team could fulfill their orders?! Amazing department. AMAZING. So busy. The production department didn't have that kind of time. I know because my boss and I were the production department. My boss, I'll call her Wheels, the one half of our production team- had been in the business for years. This wasn't Wheels first spin around the track of care labels. She 'splained me how it was going to go down. Two care labels. Machine Wash Cold Hang Dry Cool Iron If Needed & Dry Clean Only. Any time we went to production we'd grab a handful of each and head up to the sweat shops. They weren't really sweat shops but we called them that. Wipe brow. Anyway, with master craftsman-like precision we'd assess the proper care of each and every garment. Silk, leather or shiny? Dry Clean Only. Everything else? Machine Wash Cold. You can't ruin anything with those two. Saved us a bundle in time and labels. We got no complaints. Voile. <br />
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I've never trusted a care label since.<br />
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Looking at my pillows -Spot Clean Only- that is an honest mans escape for a job undone. I put my assessing skills to work. There was a zipper and down feather insert-they were polyester. Whoever was in charge of production was taking the safe way out. There's no way anyone tested these. I tossed them in the wash- cold, I hung them dry.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEil42FVy3HXDSnVysX_Qwl5uMODA58nwKYoY2oq_sXdHcoDDLqA_Cvg19Pw1GOKs18w-UJTIWHvdte8W5U5P-lZmylGh_iSKVrS-c7X2LEndtwjCd86LuRKtKtpg2QJxNpPvoOU92IgmQ/s1600/IMG_3758.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEil42FVy3HXDSnVysX_Qwl5uMODA58nwKYoY2oq_sXdHcoDDLqA_Cvg19Pw1GOKs18w-UJTIWHvdte8W5U5P-lZmylGh_iSKVrS-c7X2LEndtwjCd86LuRKtKtpg2QJxNpPvoOU92IgmQ/s320/IMG_3758.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
Poop or pudding, they're clean now! Now, do kids come in polyester?<br />
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Have a great week! xo</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8551417930096707061.post-39922301974168454012013-09-13T14:55:00.001-04:002013-09-14T11:27:53.409-04:00I'll Tumblr 4 Ya! <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxv7j2jqYd8mKLfAbHOkl7s11y-8PAdgnyyMLXqUdI8A6XwxEEB21Ev2ean7Ov4kPLdw7Qngcp9GlXDSwmbcCFl341ff-Ln947UOts3WvvglnQmKfkPFIg5XNalFyUk2PFnTVUXzeldA/s1600/IMG_3069.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxv7j2jqYd8mKLfAbHOkl7s11y-8PAdgnyyMLXqUdI8A6XwxEEB21Ev2ean7Ov4kPLdw7Qngcp9GlXDSwmbcCFl341ff-Ln947UOts3WvvglnQmKfkPFIg5XNalFyUk2PFnTVUXzeldA/s320/IMG_3069.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Northern California</td></tr>
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When I was young I loved old. The older the better. Colonials. Tudors. Heavy. Old. Paint so layered you could see generations through a chipped piece on the side of a fireplace mantel. Moldings. MOLDings. Crown, floor, ceiling. That's all very nice. Still not knocking it. But ever since I gave birth to my first, I've been bedazzled by new. No, not by new- by modern. Clean lines. No need to spackle. Little need to paint. Unobstructed vistas. Cozy interiors surrounded by windows. Glass, glass and more glass. I'm into modern architecture right now. I've been saying for years that my next house will be modern. Now I'm wondering if I'll have a next house, but that's a different story. <br />
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Anyway, I found this cool theory on water and design, ThinkTank and The Life Aquatech, I think it's a theory maybe it's a school of thought- in theory- anyway, it's a project by students studying architecture in London. Maybe baby prince Georgie will be living in a swirl of pink fiberglass one day. Swoosh.<br />
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http://www.designboom.com/architecture/thinktank-and-the-life-aquatech-water-generative-design/<br />
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdDK6x_Bw9gg-FfQ6Wy7dcEsueFyxCUCfu7sn8BdFakUV7dQjwpD_XZ1uXWSKe5MO7EFtNrPHn8uPKuwNultCsxzYufdnk8ccGpR2k-SWC3aitkr74N2pZa3NnLLjNo8OYbW_cywjoxQ/s1600/IMG_3102.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdDK6x_Bw9gg-FfQ6Wy7dcEsueFyxCUCfu7sn8BdFakUV7dQjwpD_XZ1uXWSKe5MO7EFtNrPHn8uPKuwNultCsxzYufdnk8ccGpR2k-SWC3aitkr74N2pZa3NnLLjNo8OYbW_cywjoxQ/s200/IMG_3102.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Novato </td></tr>
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I found it on Tumblr, a friend introduced me to it last week and it's become my favorite spot. So far it feels like the perfect mix of Facebook, Pinterest and Twitter. I'm so over Fakebook- I miss 2008, the glory days! Remember when it was all new and wild? You'd get a friend request from someone you went to high school with - that you knew- and write long catch up letters, amazed (bedazzled) by the novelty. Then it became squinting at a thumbnail, trying to piece together a name with 192 shared friends...who I also don't really know-bit of a bummer. All I get is ads and I keep seeing the same people who hate each other in person loving each other on the books and it's like...um. No. I tried to use at as a way to practice compassion and patience but inevitably I'd end up irritated = no fun. Boring, actually. I do love it to pimp my blog :D I don't mind that a bit! Hehe. I tried Linked In, thinking I'd get a freelance job and that it was safe- at least it was professional, no bikini shots or cranky kids over there but no anonymity either. The next day when I got an email telling me who looked at my profile (names and times?!) I nearly had an anxiety attack. Plus I "Linked In" to a bunch of people who I did not mean to Link into! I just meant to peak from afar not shake hands. Horrible. Good thing about Fakebook is you can kick back with a cold tea and get all up under a person- nones the wiser. LinkedIn is blowing horns on you, announcing a stalker. UGH. So that was that for me. Tumblr is all blogs. You scroll through and find cool stuff and you can do your own as well. It seems fun for now. Although, now that I found it- it's probably over. Check it out!<br />
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjK17J1UlHLZaF0BgZ_X_OxYVVeBH3WFcAOa8s7__d4oTB8_0uEnpupzhAVOYwwRR8Jc0eOAOZToMuQbHXB0O-R-NsVUZKGzSNUHwzdc4gUf357AYs3LTAoNQo5E58EcOfnkhoY311BlA/s1600/IMG_3103.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjK17J1UlHLZaF0BgZ_X_OxYVVeBH3WFcAOa8s7__d4oTB8_0uEnpupzhAVOYwwRR8Jc0eOAOZToMuQbHXB0O-R-NsVUZKGzSNUHwzdc4gUf357AYs3LTAoNQo5E58EcOfnkhoY311BlA/s200/IMG_3103.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Parking lot in San Anselmo</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoLY2C-Uu7G0bE-oHHG8OltmSM6Sfl_Ijh8PbWir2GNR2DWtWjZcm_BVj9lcqL1xCzZLhAeHpSqugVJfz-fPg1OUUiDaoDNdLn3Q8bMVQEEZhHS3SfeHH_5hCi6bYKJ-UFcaX5Srdhxg/s1600/IMG_3105.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoLY2C-Uu7G0bE-oHHG8OltmSM6Sfl_Ijh8PbWir2GNR2DWtWjZcm_BVj9lcqL1xCzZLhAeHpSqugVJfz-fPg1OUUiDaoDNdLn3Q8bMVQEEZhHS3SfeHH_5hCi6bYKJ-UFcaX5Srdhxg/s200/IMG_3105.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Love the mountain views at market!! ^^^^^</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHudKLbmRQamYBW2Ci_vERFCXrQjMc6H6KA8-oYqONVTXrf0Y9k5EPGkSZe3Ey9TfGVl8o3oaq_np2LxNb5HXtILNC1pDcpbM_pUjh6JmNJVrA_T1ifARyIL9AxhDlLTZxu8U0mDPoxw/s1600/IMG_3112.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHudKLbmRQamYBW2Ci_vERFCXrQjMc6H6KA8-oYqONVTXrf0Y9k5EPGkSZe3Ey9TfGVl8o3oaq_np2LxNb5HXtILNC1pDcpbM_pUjh6JmNJVrA_T1ifARyIL9AxhDlLTZxu8U0mDPoxw/s320/IMG_3112.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Driving to the beach</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGIhYjky6qXc3Z1MO8i1ynQx2zZ6b1PfQnTxjubFTKjDE78MdxmElJNsHywhHHqpz7tYN_oDd7KcrqFlsPlbpECnLJhXJ93cQ7tfxhtcaFs0F23UEmrBdfRb5ufOTgjsrXBoF4y2OH5A/s1600/IMG_3110.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGIhYjky6qXc3Z1MO8i1ynQx2zZ6b1PfQnTxjubFTKjDE78MdxmElJNsHywhHHqpz7tYN_oDd7KcrqFlsPlbpECnLJhXJ93cQ7tfxhtcaFs0F23UEmrBdfRb5ufOTgjsrXBoF4y2OH5A/s320/IMG_3110.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Winding roads ahead! </td></tr>
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Back to our housing situation. We put our house on the market ForSaleByOwner.com thinking it would sit and take effort which we were fine with and it sold in 6 days! So, we are packing up and moving to California. It's been a dream to get out of the cold winter months, amongst other things. Finding a place in Northern California, San Anselmo is proving to be a challenge! Something is going out there. I'm not sure what, but it is like the California Gold Mine- here, our house sold a pencil width under asking and fast- wicked fast- as my bostonian friend would say- but out there they are selling two hundred over asking and multiple offers. The rentals are just as crazy and $$$$$. Like $4500. for a two bedroom practically no yard. I asked our realtor what the (&*^!) deal was and she said, "Since last year the sales prices have increased 24%." WHY? "It's because we're happy! It's awesome here. It's great weather, smart people, water and mountains, hiking, year round..." all stuff that hasn't changed since it opened and definitely not in the last <i>three</i> months, I pointed out. Then she paused. "Well, rates are going to jump up. And there's new tech in San Fran, lots of money people who want safe public schools." AH- HA! So people are buying up to get in front of the rates. I'm not sold on the 'money people'. .. don't they go private? I don't know the migrating habits of my own, less those of 'money people'. However, I can get down with rates. They are causing a feeding frenzy. Rates are national so, I'm still not sure why California is having such a bigger boom. Maybe because they fell so hard last cycle? Maybe it is the new tech companies? But I feel like tech in NoCal is nothing new. Is it fun to listen to me work this out on the blog-haha- probably not...if any of you do know, please chime in...whatever it is... it's starting to feel like we are getting behind the velvet rope to gain entry into one of those silly clubs in NYC, but it's not a club, it's our dream town. There is a lot of modern architecture! Oh well, maybe towns are just macrocosms of silly clubs. Glass is hard to clean anyway...who cuddles near a free standing glass fireplace?! Raise my hand. Generation after generation?! Raise other hand.<br />
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Have a great week 'people'! Join Tumblr!<br />
<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kwb9-OlQimc" target="_blank">Song: I'll Tumble 4 Ya- Culture Club </a><br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8551417930096707061.post-54963443736244498802013-09-06T10:59:00.001-04:002013-09-06T11:43:36.628-04:005-ish things for today<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Song: <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?annotation_id=annotation_87021&feature=iv&src_vid=Mil8F3qfLqk&v=LmXaaEvnnOQ" target="_blank">Bruises- Train w. Ashley Monroe</a>- cute song this week. Video is corny but cool shots of Redrocks, Co- if you've never been...awesome<br />
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1. "I love deadlines. I like the whooshing sound they make as they fly by." -Douglas Adams<br />
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2. I am determined to have a first draft of The Bitchy Beach Club by....Joone should be wrapped up by...<br />
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3. <a href="http://www.usatoday.com/story/news/nation/2013/09/04/ariel-castro-hung-prison/2761177/" target="_blank">Ariel Castro</a> found dead- hung himself- I heard about the story but didn't follow it- first thought was that his name was something else then realized I was thinking of Fidel. Come here for all your hard news and current events folks- no, not really. How things would have been different had he captured me at 21-"Where are my Marlborough Lights and um, (shaking the one in my hand) I could use another Amstel. Make it quick and frosty. Btw. Your hair is gross. Thanks." Woman found dead at 21.<br />
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4. "What other people think of me is none of my business." - great mantra. Who should dictate your life? You or the person gossiping about you? Chances are you are imagining things anyway. Don't let imaginings of what others thoughts are clog your brain. Act from a place of peace, based on your values and the facts of the matter. Nothing else. I wonder if this could apply on a global scale. What is going on in Syria...<br />
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5. Look in the mirror and say hello without wanting to fix anything. Greet yourself like a friendly stranger.<br />
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6. Call a friend and see if they need anything. Say yes. Don't call someone you know is on vacation, either. <br />
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7. Have an awesome day, thank God you are alive! I thank God you're alive :D</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0