tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-82415559265012095772024-03-05T14:58:05.830-06:00texas jewelsUnknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger67125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8241555926501209577.post-9223013594388155032018-07-23T13:57:00.001-05:002021-07-29T10:27:17.380-05:00He's got an elephant on his head<div align="left"><br /></div>
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now for something completely different.</div>
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<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">i'm</span> dating a great guy. he's funny, tons of personality, socially savvy, nice looking.<br />
good. good. it's all good.<br />
and except for a few minor idiosyncrasies, he has maybe the best potential for long term possibilities than any man <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">i've</span> dated in the last year.<br />
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there is the issue of his piece, though.<br />
yes.<br />
my new man has a piece. and i don't mean a handgun, <br />
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although he might pop a cap in my ass if he ever reads this. </div>
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he wears a wig. a hair hat. a toupee. and i have no idea how to approach the subject.<br />
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the first couple of times we were out together i wasn't all the way sure. it's a pretty good little rug. but now, after several dates... let's just say <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">i'm</span> sure. all doubt removed, if you know what i mean.<br />
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he <strong>has</strong> to know that i know. so we've moved past the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">poin</span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaaHroXKWsJ1SctZiJgUyuaJMik0QEiDChmL3s4c9W-hBbWlZ40kZvY7Zr4lWwXxL6Nv1meLsLTXMvxe6t2XI0qDL8kNy_-7-dkAqc-rBZI1LCxP-hsdMKSMJIt6LnEhVyzSt9KzACMPw/s1600-h/hairy+love.jpg"></a>t <br />
of my not mentioning it "just in case he thinks i don't notice." </div>
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<img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5219243765565361618" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5n6fKKHrKC-p2VWLhp4u2FxxNCi2fySvZu4_RQ-1qQfnxb1PBDXHzAAM9Di5rocROnuPQPYo4zctXqG97qW6tANhvu3u5lZpeHrGecwS7bLL_nhXMby1SGW7qUYYF_Z2dV2GQMx14rbc/s200/hairy+love.jpg" style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;" />it sits on his head; like an elephant that neither of us acknowledge. i catch him now and then kind of <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">fluffin</span> it around in the back when it gets a little... askew. but i always turn away before he notices me noticing. <br />
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watching television with him is an adventure in anxiety. still in our first month of dating, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">i'm</span> not sure how to react to a <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">GirlsGoneWild</span> commercial, let alone a Hair Club for Men infomercial. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">i'd</span> almost rather sit through a Viagra ad and watch him squirm. <span style="font-size: 85%;"><em>(he's 51, but i do think down there he is <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">au</span> natural). </em></span><br />
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we were at a baseball game last week and i found myself staring at the side of his head, trying to find the dividing line between the real stuff there around his ears and the fur. i can feel it when i pull my fingers through his ...um, hair. i know it's stitched in there somehow. i think the front of it might be <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">velcroed</span> on. which frankly, fascinates me. if i ever get the balls to ask him about it, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">i'm</span> gonna want to see it. like, "take that shit off and let me hold it," you know?<br />
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for those of you who know me <span style="font-size: 78%;">(both of you),</span> you know that i can be honest to a fault. let's face it: <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12">i'm</span> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJy5ivwf31Dgl812Z_3z-l3DLKU-Hvb8wPMSGCV47e75mR4v3qWwk0__aHVcR0xIyn0y7A1WjDFMEtW8f_XaGNNGETUHgCos_Gs7f-UWv0NO-kjKKqwhNswtCKPjUAHvuh1YORJrFJE6A/s1600-h/dog_toupe.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5219244184457867794" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJy5ivwf31Dgl812Z_3z-l3DLKU-Hvb8wPMSGCV47e75mR4v3qWwk0__aHVcR0xIyn0y7A1WjDFMEtW8f_XaGNNGETUHgCos_Gs7f-UWv0NO-kjKKqwhNswtCKPjUAHvuh1YORJrFJE6A/s200/dog_toupe.jpg" style="float: left; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px;" /></a>a lot of things and tactful is not one of them. i have bad breath from putting my foot in my mouth all the time. so, naturally <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_13">i've</span> been tempted to just give that little carpet a good hard yank; as if in a fit of wild passion i grabbed the first thing i could get hold of.<br />
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but i can't. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_14">i'm</span> afraid <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_15">i'll</span> embarrass him; or embarrass myself. i like him. i don't want to be cruel, hurt his feelings....but you know me... i can't just <strong>not</strong> say anything...me & my shoddy internal sensors... but once it's out there... then what? because if it comes right down to it--i want to talk about it. i don't like pretending i don't notice. but... like a lot of things, i want him to say it first. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-k9A9F6Rw97RodEQa0ldVXRWdk7uADKwR9i3NckEmjQGYzIN_2CUQ9UCMSC_47VO1rXIR1oWjC5452bsYfce2OYv46E6_963ArjMOsPgw_qIARYGcuDjFtfnz5XX-GYmlLEDnH2I1A-s/s1600-h/baby+toupee.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5219248390657120482" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-k9A9F6Rw97RodEQa0ldVXRWdk7uADKwR9i3NckEmjQGYzIN_2CUQ9UCMSC_47VO1rXIR1oWjC5452bsYfce2OYv46E6_963ArjMOsPgw_qIARYGcuDjFtfnz5XX-GYmlLEDnH2I1A-s/s320/baby+toupee.jpg" style="float: right; margin: 0px 0px 10px 10px;" /></a>i like bald. most women do. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_16">i'm</span> sure he doesn't wear it so women will dig him. he is attractive; hair is not going to make or break him. all i can figure is he wears it to make himself feel more confident. i can dig that. i guess. can i?<br />
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He's a successful businessman. he's a salesman to his bone marrow. he's got it in his blood. he's a big flirt, also <span style="font-size: 78%;">(see <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_17">idisyncrasies</span> as mentioned above). </span>so maybe his confidence is tied up in his hair...in this case stitched and probably held up there by some form of <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_18">velcro</span> tape as well.<br />
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i had a date last night. with a different guy <em><span style="font-size: 78%;">(yeah, get me, huh. i haven't had a real date in 8 months.. this month <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_19">i've</span> got a selection!)</span>.</em> this guy has his own hair. grey and kind of clinging on for dear life, but all original owner stuff. and we had a really good time. he's nice looking, super kind, considerate. but doesn't have the wild streak that my wig-man has. a fun rug trumps a ho-hum head of hair any day. it doesn't matter to me whether he wears the hair or not, it just bothers me that we don't talk about it. .. like he's ashamed of it... maybe he just needs some temporary confidence to push him over the edge. i hear viagra is a good boost. we could try that.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8241555926501209577.post-82846308974483674702018-05-17T13:52:00.002-05:002019-10-03T20:01:18.758-05:00Fifteen Years away from the Pain<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">On April 12, 2003 my seven year marriage fell apart. That night, i caught my then husband having an affair with a colleague. Confronted, he announced his love for her and his intention to move to Colorado to live with her, which he immediately did. I was 8 months pregnant with our second child; our oldest daughter had just turned five. The next five years were the roughest of my life and there were times i thought i'd never be able to look back on them without being overwhelmed with sadness. But i was wrong. This was written to my sister, her husband and my parents. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Back then, you would ask me: "What can I do? What would help you
right now?" I remember saying to you, (and to myself again and again, like a mantra): “I want to be years away from this moment. Please take me years away from this nightmare.” </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Nothing
could really help me except time.</span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I just
wanted to be years and years away from those angry, scary, sad minutes, hours,
days.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">And now I am. I woke up this morning in the same house, but
not in the same bed. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I woke up my baby,
just like I did fifteen years ago, but today she got herself dressed, blew out
some candles and headed off for high school. I sit here with my fresh coffee
listening to the fountain ripple in the background. I take a good look around --
the woman I was back then wouldn't recognize the woman I am today. She would
barely recognize the house. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">It’s funny that this time marks some of the worst days of my
life and some of the best. Allie is a hilarious gift, even though her first
years were so tough for me, and I’m sure for her too. Her first years were hard
for all of us.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Forever I'll remember
that first Good Friday- one year out. I remember sitting in a pew at Sugarcreek
Baptist, two kids in my lap in the dark, funereal service and as I sang,
through tears I told them, “we made it girls, we're one year later.” <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I deeply celebrated those 12 months between
me and the pain. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>With the little bit of
clear thinking I had at the time, I invested it all in believing that we three
could make it. Back then, I didn't know what “make it” meant and I surely didn't
know how, but I did believe. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">And you believed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Your help fortified me; your faith carried me –
at times when I was very, very heavy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For
the meals, and the favors, for your willingness to forgive me in my struggle and
still sometimes give me hell when I needed it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>For the talks, the laughs, the kid-watching, the everyday stuff and the
once in a lifetime stuff –<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>thank you.
Thank you.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Thank you. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I didn’t know how much time I would need to come between me
and those dark days before I could look back on them and not see them shrouded
in black.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But I do know it's been that
much time, more than enough time. So much healing, bright, brand new time in
fact, that those black shrouds are not only gossamer, but memories of those
times glow with aging gratitude for the love and the help that you gave me, and
for God’s incredible grace in helping me raise my littlest bundle of wonder
into a confident, funny and love – filled young lady. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Happy
fifteen years, I know you celebrate with me. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8241555926501209577.post-30617522444740366362018-02-08T12:16:00.003-06:002019-10-03T20:01:14.360-05:00You might be A Cruiser if ...<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">With impending birthday celebrations afoot and a weekend to kill, We and The Gang booked ourselves on a bonafide oceanic cruise out of Galveston. An affordable lark to get our feet wet and see what we're missing with the Cruising Lifestyle. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Now this wasn't the fancy-pants river boat where we luxxed together that summer. Blissful nights cutting through the gentle sway of the Danube and discovering new, old history spots every day. No. </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">This is a weekend getaway for the masses; a sprawling hallways, massive-scale, line up and keep moving, hotel on waves. We're not in Bavaria anymore, folks. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">After a fun and silly weekend on board, my takeaway is that if you love river cruising, you may not like ocean cruising. And based on feedback from my cruise review on ShipMate -- if you love ocean cruising, you probably won't love river cruising. </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">In that vein and with deference to Jeff Foxworthy, I've compiled a list that may help you decide if the Cruising Lifestyle is for you. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">You may be A Cruiser if :</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">-- you've ever worn sweatpants to a funeral because they were your good ones.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">-- you've ever celebrated a milestone at Golden Corral. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">-- you never look at yourself from the rear.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">-- you're obsessed with looking at yourself from the rear.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">-- you see a hot tub full of random people and think, "that looks fun." </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">-- If claustrophobia makes you horny. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">-- If QVC is your favorite way to shop</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">-- your fashion motto is, "if it zips, it fits." </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">-- Bingo sounds like a wild night out</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">-- If you've ever longed for less tranquility while lounging at the pool</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">-- if your spirit animal is Cattle ... </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> You May Be a Cruiser </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> ...Any leisure time spent with friends is time well spent and our cruise was a resounding success in that we had a fantastic weekend and put lots of currency in the memory banks. But i think our next excursion will be on land. Love to Cruisers everywhere <3 font="" nbsp=""></3></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8241555926501209577.post-30727451571447445522018-02-08T10:35:00.003-06:002019-10-03T20:01:14.456-05:00Let Them live their Best Life, Mom<div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I am a critic. I pick everything apart. I notice things. I can find the little bit of bad in all things, even the goodest of things. No one and nothing gets five stars in my life, because five stars is perfect and as i'm quick to point out : there is no perfect in this world. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">People watching (eye rolling, get-a-load-of=thatisms, etc.) is a long honored family past time of my formative years. it's not classy and sometimes unkind, but it's what we do. we point out quirks, but just to ourselves.This</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> family tradition stops with my fifteen year old daughter. Facial tattoos, purposely vague gender appearance, extravagant body hair or just plain weirdness is to be embraced. Anything and everything is acceptable, and she encourages me to go with the flow, let them live their best life, mom. in other words : stay out of it. </span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It's a simple point she brings up and stirs up questions about how I see my own life and am I living my best life, as these weridos and wackjobs seem to be. </span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">So what if they really are living their their own best life. What if the ultimate dream of this person is to hang out in a lawn chair on his driveway with his smoker in the front yard. And who am i to eye roll that ? </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It's true. how would I or do i know what someone else's Best Life looks like? Hell, i don't even know what my best life looks like -- and i spend a lot of time thinking about it. i certainly have no idea what someone else's best life looks like. Yet, i still pick at it. needlessly, automatically; and it picks at me . </span></div>
</div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It's frequent that I'm described as negative. Truth be told, when people meet me for the first time, response is typically not all together positive .Feedback from my first impression includes words like egotistical, selfish, judgmental and cold. however, there are also words peppered in there like powerful, intelligent, funny and strong. I also hear cynical a lot, which i consider a compliment. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Now that sounds pretty negative, right ? Even reading it, it has a negative connotation and uses a lot of negative words. But i see myself as a born critic, these comments just come into my head. I overthink it. It feels natural. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Food, movies and vacations are dissected and critiqued with the utmost sharpness. notice i didn't say "Judged," but critiqued. And there's the rub.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Is Criticism is by it's nature negative judgement? let's go to the tape: </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<div class="vk_ans" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: xx-large !important; font-weight: lighter !important; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0px;">
<span data-dobid="hdw">crit·i·cism</span></div>
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<div class="lr_dct_ent_ph" style="font-size: large;">
<span class="lr_dct_ph">ˈkridəˌsizəm/</span><span class="lr_dct_spkr lr_dct_spkr_off" data-ved="0ahUKEwiS9LHgz5bZAhUFSK0KHW3UBMMQlfQBCC4wAA" jsaction="dob.p" style="display: inline-block; height: 16px; margin: 0px 2px 4px 5px; opacity: 0.55; vertical-align: middle; width: 16px;" title="Listen"><input height="14" src="data:image/png;base64,iVBORw0KGgoAAAANSUhEUgAAAA4AAAAOCAQAAAC1QeVaAAAAi0lEQVQokWNgQAYyQFzGsIJBnwED8DNcBpK+DM8YfjMUokqxMRxg+A9m8TJsBLLSEFKMDCuBAv/hCncxfGWQhUn2gaVAktkMXkBSHmh0OwNU8D9csoHhO4MikN7BcAGb5H+GYiDdCTQYq2QubkkkY/E6CLtXdiJ7BTMQMnAHXxFm6IICvhwY8AYQLgCw2U9d90B8BAAAAABJRU5ErkJggg==" style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: small;" type="image" width="14" /></span></div>
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<i>noun</i></div>
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noun: <b>criticism</b>; plural noun: <b>criticisms</b></div>
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<strong>1</strong>.</div>
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<div data-dobid="dfn" style="display: inline;">
the expression of disapproval of someone or something based on perceived faults or mistakes.</div>
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"he received a lot of criticism"</div>
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<tr><td class="lr_dct_nyms_ttl" style="font-style: italic; padding: 0px 3px 0px 0px; vertical-align: top; white-space: nowrap;">synonyms:</td><td style="padding: 0px;"><span class="_Yht" data-term-for-update="censure" data-ved="0ahUKEwiS9LHgz5bZAhUFSK0KHW3UBMMQ_SoIMDAA" jsaction="dob.uwt" role="link" style="color: #1a0dab; cursor: pointer;" tabindex="0">censure</span>, <span class="_Yht" data-term-for-update="condemnation" data-ved="0ahUKEwiS9LHgz5bZAhUFSK0KHW3UBMMQ_SoIMTAA" jsaction="dob.uwt" role="link" style="color: #1a0dab; cursor: pointer;" tabindex="0">condemnation</span>, <span class="_Yht" data-term-for-update="denunciation" data-ved="0ahUKEwiS9LHgz5bZAhUFSK0KHW3UBMMQ_SoIMjAA" jsaction="dob.uwt" role="link" style="color: #1a0dab; cursor: pointer;" tabindex="0">denunciation</span>, <span class="_Yht" data-term-for-update="disapproval" data-ved="0ahUKEwiS9LHgz5bZAhUFSK0KHW3UBMMQ_SoIMzAA" jsaction="dob.uwt" role="link" style="color: #1a0dab; cursor: pointer;" tabindex="0">disapproval</span>, disparagement,<br /> <span class="_Yht" data-term-for-update="opprobrium" data-ved="0ahUKEwiS9LHgz5bZAhUFSK0KHW3UBMMQ_SoINDAA" jsaction="dob.uwt" role="link" style="color: #1a0dab; cursor: pointer;" tabindex="0">opprobrium</span>, <span class="_Yht" data-term-for-update="fault-finding" data-ved="0ahUKEwiS9LHgz5bZAhUFSK0KHW3UBMMQ_SoINTAA" jsaction="dob.uwt" role="link" style="color: #1a0dab; cursor: pointer;" tabindex="0">fault-finding</span>, <span class="_Yht" data-term-for-update="attack" data-ved="0ahUKEwiS9LHgz5bZAhUFSK0KHW3UBMMQ_SoINjAA" jsaction="dob.uwt" role="link" style="color: #1a0dab; cursor: pointer;" tabindex="0">attack</span>, <span class="_Yht" data-term-for-update="broadside" data-ved="0ahUKEwiS9LHgz5bZAhUFSK0KHW3UBMMQ_SoINzAA" jsaction="dob.uwt" role="link" style="color: #1a0dab; cursor: pointer;" tabindex="0">broadside</span>, <span class="_Yht" data-term-for-update="stricture" data-ved="0ahUKEwiS9LHgz5bZAhUFSK0KHW3UBMMQ_SoIODAA" jsaction="dob.uwt" role="link" style="color: #1a0dab; cursor: pointer;" tabindex="0">stricture</span>, <span class="_Yht" data-term-for-update="recrimination" data-ved="0ahUKEwiS9LHgz5bZAhUFSK0KHW3UBMMQ_SoIOTAA" jsaction="dob.uwt" role="link" style="color: #1a0dab; cursor: pointer;" tabindex="0">recrimination</span>; <span data-log-string="synonyms-more-click" jsaction="dob.m"><span class="lr_dct_more_btn" style="color: #1a0dab; cursor: pointer; margin-left: 4px;">More</span><div style="display: inline;">
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<strong>2</strong>.</div>
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the analysis and judgment of the merits and faults of a literary or artistic work.</div>
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"alternative methods of criticism supported by well-developed literary theories"</div>
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<tr><td class="lr_dct_nyms_ttl" style="font-style: italic; padding: 0px 3px 0px 0px; vertical-align: top; white-space: nowrap;">synonyms:</td><td style="padding: 0px;"><span class="_Yht" data-term-for-update="evaluation" data-ved="0ahUKEwiS9LHgz5bZAhUFSK0KHW3UBMMQ_SoIPzAA" jsaction="dob.uwt" role="link" style="color: #1a0dab; cursor: pointer;" tabindex="0">evaluation</span>, <span class="_Yht" data-term-for-update="assessment" data-ved="0ahUKEwiS9LHgz5bZAhUFSK0KHW3UBMMQ_SoIQDAA" jsaction="dob.uwt" role="link" style="color: #1a0dab; cursor: pointer;" tabindex="0">assessment</span>, <span class="_Yht" data-term-for-update="appraisal" data-ved="0ahUKEwiS9LHgz5bZAhUFSK0KHW3UBMMQ_SoIQTAA" jsaction="dob.uwt" role="link" style="color: #1a0dab; cursor: pointer;" tabindex="0">appraisal</span>, <span class="_Yht" data-term-for-update="analysis" data-ved="0ahUKEwiS9LHgz5bZAhUFSK0KHW3UBMMQ_SoIQjAA" jsaction="dob.uwt" role="link" style="color: #1a0dab; cursor: pointer;" tabindex="0">analysis</span>, <span class="_Yht" data-term-for-update="judgment" data-ved="0ahUKEwiS9LHgz5bZAhUFSK0KHW3UBMMQ_SoIQzAA" jsaction="dob.uwt" role="link" style="color: #1a0dab; cursor: pointer;" tabindex="0">judgment</span>; <span data-log-string="synonyms-more-click" jsaction="dob.m"><span class="lr_dct_more_btn" style="color: #1a0dab; cursor: pointer; margin-left: 4px;">More</span><div style="display: inline;">
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<span class="_Yht" data-term-for-update="commentary" data-ved="0ahUKEwiS9LHgz5bZAhUFSK0KHW3UBMMQ_SoIRTAA" jsaction="dob.uwt" role="link" style="color: #1a0dab; cursor: pointer;" tabindex="0"></span><span class="_Yht" data-term-for-update="interpretation" data-ved="0ahUKEwiS9LHgz5bZAhUFSK0KHW3UBMMQ_SoIRjAA" jsaction="dob.uwt" role="link" style="color: #1a0dab; cursor: pointer;" tabindex="0"></span><span class="_Yht" data-term-for-update="explanation" data-ved="0ahUKEwiS9LHgz5bZAhUFSK0KHW3UBMMQ_SoIRzAA" jsaction="dob.uwt" role="link" style="color: #1a0dab; cursor: pointer;" tabindex="0"></span><span class="_Yht" data-term-for-update="explication" data-ved="0ahUKEwiS9LHgz5bZAhUFSK0KHW3UBMMQ_SoISDAA" jsaction="dob.uwt" role="link" style="color: #1a0dab; cursor: pointer;" tabindex="0"></span><span class="_Yht" data-term-for-update="elucidation" data-ved="0ahUKEwiS9LHgz5bZAhUFSK0KHW3UBMMQ_SoISTAA" jsaction="dob.uwt" role="link" style="color: #1a0dab; cursor: pointer;" tabindex="0"></span></div>
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the scholarly investigation of literary or historical texts to determine their origin or intended form.</div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Okay, so obviously you can see the problem here. One definition of is clearly negative -- even synonymous with "attack," "broadside," and "disapproval." That's negative. That's pessimism, ugliness, pettiness. That's the critic i don't want to be. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">But definition 2 (also a noun) is more on along my track of thinking (i hope). This definition takes into account both sides, "the merits and faults," and is synonymous with analysis, evaluation, appraisal. That's the critic i want to be, or do I? "Judgement" is synonymous with both definitions of Criticism, so if there's any equal sign to be fairly assessed, it's between those two words. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Criticism = Judgement</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Is judgement negative ? My daughter would say mine is. </span></div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8241555926501209577.post-16232876965087237762016-10-20T15:20:00.000-05:002019-10-03T20:01:13.513-05:00The Lime Tree Story <p dir="ltr">I've lived in this house for 18 years, and just this summer did I first notice a lime tree growing in my neighbors back yard.  I guess it just got tall enough for me to see the tiny green balls sprouting above the fence line -- some of them even hanging OVER the fence, preciously perched on my side. </p>
<p dir="ltr">Now, I'm sucker for edible plants.  It started last year when I bought some spindly herbs in tiny plastic pots at HEB.  I'm one of those gardeners with great intentions, but poor execution so when I transferred the little plants into big clay pots on my patio, I had realistic low expectations. But with regular watering, all of my herbs flourished and soon I enjoyed fresh basil leaves & clumps of dill in salads and baked vegetables. Twigs of sweet mint leaves made nighttime hot tea an aromatic little treat. I was hooked. I sprouted ends of celery in tiny dishes of water around my sink.  I planted garlic pods and onion bulbs.  I researched foraging and looked for edible weeds and medicinal herbs in my yard grass. My big discovery was identifying a random Purslane that sprung up in a flooded, dirt-filled pot after a hard rain.  I proudly plucked off it's salty leaves for salad with dandelions. I was the suburban farmer, eating what I grew-- at least as garnish. </p>
<p dir="ltr">So when the limes on that backyard tree started getting larger, the conscientious grower in me got miffed : my neighbors weren't taking the bounty! The limes got larger and greener and still they weren't picking the fruit.  One night, I couldn't stand it anymore.  I grabbed my gardening shears and clipped a small branch that was heavy with four limes hanging over my side of the fence. I felt vindicated.  I brought the limes inside and imagined tart, sweet meringue pie made from their juice, or maybe I'd blend up a batch of tangy salty, fresh-from-the-vine margaritas.  That night, I cut into one, to squeeze some juice into my iced tea. But it was dry.  The flesh was tight and pale; the little juice I could get out of it was tasteless, bland.         I was deflated. </p>
<p dir="ltr">BUT, mystery solved, I thought.  No wonder they ignored the sagging fruit, the neighbors knew the secret: those limes suck.  For the next few days, I'd glance over at the tree and shake my head... what a shame, maybe they should just cut it down.</p>
<p dir="ltr">So days went by and I watched the limes continue to balloon, getting larger and larger, their deep green skin started to fade; but none seemed to fall. Doesn't ripe fruit just fall off the vine and rot on the ground if it's not picked?  (well does it  ?  because when push comes to shove, I actually don't know a darn thing about harvesting or plants or fruit trees or gardening at all. This will be come clearer as the story progresses.)</p>
<p dir="ltr">It was about this time that I realized it was a lemon tree.  I'd look over at the pale yellow fruit and chastise myself, I shoulda known. Lemons are even better, I thought.  And just like that, I was excited again, paying attention with anticipation.</p>
<p dir="ltr">I started to think about that tree a lot. I wondered what it says about me that I picked the fruit before it was ready .  before I even knew what it was . even when it wasn't really mine. and then I turned away from it, before it's real time had come.   </p>
<p dir="ltr">This whole thing with the fruit and the tree got me to thinking about expectations and patience ; and assumptions.  and hope.</p>
<p dir="ltr">I have a knack for researching things--addresses, previous owners, court documents, private investigating--I love to snoop out facts.  But I never questioned my own judgement on that tree. A quick google probably would have told me that those weren't limes, heck I could have asked my neighbor--at least if I could pick some.  But I made plans and even took action, without checking out any facts beyond what I saw, (behind a fence).  I wondered how many times had I done the same thing with jobs or relationships and how many of my life's decisions were tainted with false assumptions, or worse, how many of my regrets could have become precious moments with a little patience on my part ? Is God using this backyard tree to teach me about myself ?</p>
<p dir="ltr">My first job after graduating from college was a fun job.  I worked at a tiny record label, with business trips to blues festivals and breakfast meetings at noon.  I met semi-famous people and got into shows for free.  Like I said, it was fun.  About three years into it, the label folded and I was approached by one of the executives to start a new publicity company, with him as the Founder and President.  At the time, I didn't know much about the music business. In retrospect, I didn't even know the circumstances of why our label was folding, but from the little I saw, it looked like an unorganized mess, and I didn't know this guy very well. He'd come to label right before the shut-down so I had no background on him. I declined on the spot.  I wasn't going to take my chances, I went on to work in an office, answering phones and doing the 9-5 for the next 20 years. Not Fun Job. Turns out (you knew this was coming, right) that the guy who approached me turned out to be one of the founders of the South by Southwest Music Festival. Even if his company didn't get off the ground (which it did) the contacts and connections from that job may have set me on a different career course for life.  Or maybe I would have just become a secretary 5 years later than I did. There's no way of knowing. </p>
<p dir="ltr">I can think of other examples where a little research, patience and honest assessment could have carved out an opposite life for me, but analyzing what's already done is just a way of ignoring what is.</p>
<p dir="ltr">As a single mom ten years ago, with a newborn and a four year old, I didn't even fantasize about the life I live now. I'm married to a hilarious, generous, great-looking guy, who shows his love to me as much as he does my children and my parents.  My path has had some deep scary caves to explore along the way, but for now I'm flooded with bright, loving light and allowing myself to finally let go of the critical, broken girl that used to live in my body.  I'm learning to embrace this story of the lime tree as a new way to see my spectrum of possibilities, recognize a tendency to jump to judgement and remind myself to pay attention when things don't go as expected, life gives you limes but you may end up making lemonade.<br></p>
<p dir="ltr">............<br></p>
<p dir="ltr">The other night our neighbor's little girl peeked through the back fence pickets to talk to us while we had wine on the patio. She told us that her name is Amelia, she's almost three and she likes our dog's name: Lulu. She likes bubbles and oranges, especially the oranges from their tree--but they're not ready yet, she squealed, we have to wait for them. Yep. it's a dang orange tree.  Good one God.<br><br><br><br><br><br></p>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8241555926501209577.post-34387044989664549872016-05-22T00:35:00.000-05:002019-10-03T20:01:14.739-05:00Table for One : Field trip to Chinatowni had the afternoon to myself and i was in the mood for a bit of adventure. i'd spent the morning with mom and needed to indulge myself in a lovely time alone. somewhere interesting, if only to me. i was dressed for just about anything, which usually would inspire a stroll out of the zone, perhaps into memorial for pork belly at bramble or west U has that cuban place i've never tried. but being noon on friday, a city trip was immediately nixed. i mean, i want adventure, but i don't do friday commuter traffic. i'm a spoiled housewife. i don't do inconvenience.<br />
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i was thinking chinatown. a reliable go-to for me, so not exactly an adventure, but i was getting hungry and kept picturing myself at the white-clothed table at szechuan house, digging into a bowl of mapo tofu with a plastic chinese spoon. <br />
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A word about mapo tofu: i crave it. there are times i have to have it. i am ever on the quest for the most tingly, tasty, spicy-soft mapo tofu on the planet, specifically radared-in on places within 10-20 miles from my house. i'm lucky to live close to a real chinatown, but one of my favorite mapo places is nestled in suburbia, right in my neighborhood. like i said, i'm lucky. <br />
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the best thing about mapo is the tingly spiciness of the szechuan peppercorn. and nothing high-fives that peppercorn flavor in your mouth better than ice cold beer. it's like hot wings. i mean they're good, but the beer, that's what makes them great. chinatown is crammed with tons of dive-spot cafes, but most don't serve beer--or any alcohol. and herein lies a bit of adventure -- bring your own beer to lunch. it's kinda like free beer, at least it feels kinda like it.<br />
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I mentally gauged my adventure capacity and what kind of experience would satisfy the thirst for self-celebration that i hankered for, i knew it was going to involve szechuan in some capacity.<br />
Back to Mala? (the Houstonian's darling of the mapo, consistently nabbing their top slot for best szechuan, which i was level-8 excited to try. and was disappointed like a child when it wasn't even tasty, let alone tingly spicy) i want to give it another chance, but i hesitate. it's pricey and full of white people. A few other options skirted through my mind, all clustered in chinatown, somewhere. i tossed two cold beers and a koozie into my purse, headed for the beltway and figured i'd make up my mind when i turned onto Bellaire (aka: chinatown blvd).<br />
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I live in a super-diverse area. i have neighbors from bangladesh, hong kong, nigeria--everywhere. so i know about stereotypes. i know about PC.. i thought i'd drive around the shopping centers and if something interesting appealed to me, i'd park and go in.<br />
chinatown was a mass of traffic. no biggie. i'm on an adventure, i guess a teeny bit of inconvenience can be tolerated. but yall: chinese people can't drive. it's a stereotype, but sister let me tell you, it's rooted in real life. parking lots in chinatown are where road rage was born. cars parked in handicap ramps. not the space --the ramp next to the space. every backing out and pulling in was an act of intricate and slowly considered movement. i think the same person that teaches Tai Chi teaches the parking class. i sat behind an old buick with it's blinker on for over three minutes. three minutes. it was just sitting there. with it's blinker on. i don't think the guy ever saw me, even when i backed up to get the hell out of the isle, as he was sitting in right in the middle of it.<br />
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I ditched exploring and aligned all my energy into finding somewhere --anywhere-- to park . by now, hunger was overtaking my sense of adventure and the whole parking lot fiascos were killing my happy. just as i was considering other options, a spot opened near me and i snagged it. i looked around to what was close: szechuan house it is. white table cloths, here i come.<br />
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man the place was packed. i loved the energy. four waitresses orchestrated the room with eye gestures and quick words -- "you one?" she shouted to me from across the room, i smile and headshake yes, hold up one finger. "okay here!" another she shouts & points to a seat in the left corner of a 4-top, facing the kitchen. she sets down a menu and catches my eye with a smile. my happy is resurged. i've got a big table and a prime spot to watch food come out of the kitchen. i've been here a few times--the mapo is really good and they serve lunch portion, which is unusual, plus it's about six bucks with soup and rice, so it's a no-brainer. (remember, i brought my beer from home!)<br />
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i love the symphony of a busy chinese restaurant, the clanging of chop sticks on ceramic bowls and the low, chopped language broken up by laughter. Ladies, business men, families and couples reach across round tables to pick up noodles, or separate fish from their garlicky sauce. there's a communal element to chinese eating---i think it's the round tables. <br />
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I ordered, then got up to fill my ceramic bowl with steamy soup from the self-serve cauldron at the front of room. the slightly thickened hot and sour soup had strips of soft tofu and long twines of chinese mushroom. the broth was tangy and rich. i popped my beer and savored the moment. i love going to lunch alone.<br />
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8241555926501209577.post-76039579897782729952016-05-21T15:16:00.000-05:002019-10-03T20:01:18.136-05:00Table for One: Field Trip to the MuseumA facebook ad caught my attention last week -- the Museum of Fine Arts had an exhibition of art deco cars titled "Molded Steel." The photo in the ad looked chic and cool and i made a mental note to section off one thursday afternoon to go museum exploring. Thursday is free museum day in Houston. <br />
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Just such a thursday made itself known the other day, when the hubs and kids had plans that would keep them out until after 5. I'd had a busy morning, up early and out. i had a chiro appt at noon, but after that---nothing. Of course i could go back home, have an egg on toast, fold two loads of laundry, move dirty and clean dishes around. think about mopping. or i could go into Houston and see the museum. </div>
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These crossroad decisions for my day -- these moments where i make the choice, to zig or to jag or to clean. These moments of pure freedom when i am left to wholly and completely choose the path of my day, i get a glimpse of my unfettered self. (and let me interject, that i very often choose "to clean.") but this day, I left the yoga pants and put on a pair of jeans, checked the gas gauge and hit the freeway. The Zone be damned, we were going into Houston.</div>
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Once in the museum district, i found an easy parking spot at the church lot across from MFA. For like 25 seconds, i sat in my car and questioned this move. The museum by yourself in the middle of the day? will that look weird? also, i didn't tell husband i was going into houston. should i? these thoughts flashed through my consciousness like an imperceptible lighting flash. they were there, they were gone. i snapped a quick pic of the painted VW van in the parking lot and turned off my phone. </div>
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Walking into the lobby at MFA was like becoming a kid again,with that field-trip sense of excitement for what's to come, the anticipation of a slow, thoughtful day with nothing to do, but look and think.</div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8241555926501209577.post-38888438323667855622016-05-08T00:00:00.000-05:002019-10-03T20:01:15.117-05:00Mothers Day Past...<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKius1_reBe7dVh7T8YIapQ6XW4lAcaXBpZPXEJzsGrTNxNUw5BkabDJeSTr6H-pe709du8pBpcr8G5ySKYzsyH6rIqQLbpF_SEeZw9qqbMrjQmdbE4AmAt7CBfXsxx8Hu4poO0re_CYE/s1600/The+Girls+July+2009.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5469413506925801570" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKius1_reBe7dVh7T8YIapQ6XW4lAcaXBpZPXEJzsGrTNxNUw5BkabDJeSTr6H-pe709du8pBpcr8G5ySKYzsyH6rIqQLbpF_SEeZw9qqbMrjQmdbE4AmAt7CBfXsxx8Hu4poO0re_CYE/s200/The+Girls+July+2009.JPG" style="cursor: pointer; height: 150px; width: 200px;" /></a><br />
<span style="font-size: 85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">originally written May 13, 2007 ...</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 100%;"><span style="font-family: "century gothic";">On Mother's Day morning many years from now, if God grants me the time, I'll roll over and wake up to sunshine coming in through gauzy bedroom curtains. I'll wrap a downy soft robe around me, then shuffle into the clean and orderly kitchen to make a pot of strong coffee. I'll sort through a fat, dew-kissed Sunday paper, setting aside a stack of coupons and flyers to savor that evening. I'll leisurely dress for church. My daughters will call with good wishes for my day. Maybe they'll even invite me to brunch where I'll eat with sticky grandchildren on my lap and have a tall, glossy slice of chocolate cake before waving them goodbye in carseats and SUVs of their own. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 100%;"><span style="font-family: "century gothic";">For now, I languish in the tentative years. As Sunday approaches, a dull ache creeps up my spine into the base of my brain as I an anxiously try to imagine the plans my beautiful, well-meaning daughters have for me this mothers day. Probing questions give their schemes away: "how many scoops do you put into the pot to make coffee?" the 8yr old asked me on Wednesday. "do you think M&Ms would be good on a waffle?" She pondered out loud Friday night. And then, tucking them in last night my youngest asked: "four is not too wittle to cwack an egg, wight mommy?" Note to self: hide eggs in the vegetable crisper. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "century gothic";">But no eggs were harmed in the making of this Mother's Day morning. Fate had a different plan: this year, the girls would be sick. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "century gothic";">As is our usual Saturday night ritual, they slept in my bed... My second grader began nursing a cold yesterday; by last night her congestion and rhythmic coughing kept me on the couch past 11:00. Finally, i succombed and went in to scoot feet off my pillow and retrieve the top sheet from a crumpled mess at the foot of the bed. After what felt like about 10 minutes of sleep, the little one awakened me with the tell-tale sounds of a stomach virus. Casualties were heavy. Sheets, bathroom rugs, the couch, even the living room floor took a hit. Each of us was splattered in collateral damage. After deftly avoiding another missile, I wiped her little mouth and adjusted the chilled eye mask wrapped around her forehead. With flushed cheeks and red lips she looked up and said, "all bedder now mommy." Something about it made me laugh out loud. I looked around at the mounting pile of soiled stuff. This is what mother's day is all about. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "century gothic";">By four AM the house was quiet again. The three of us were toe-to-toe in my king-size bed, nestled in clean sheets and new pjs. The washer rocked with its load, the dryer hummed, foretelling my afternoon of folding. As I drifted off, with one ear open for a rumbling tummy, a chubby hand reached out for my face and rubbed my cheek. I heard the long, slow breath of a truly content child, secure that she was in the arms of a mom who was going to be there should sickness return. And as night creaked into dawn, my soul filled up with pride and Godly thanks in the assurance that I'm a good mom. Her sweet touch was, at that moment, the best mother's day present I'd ever had. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "century gothic";">On my fantasy mother's day many years from now, as I retrieve my half-eaten slab of chocolate cake from the fridge and sink into an evening of coupon clipping in a quiet house, I'll wax nostalgic for these early mother's days. I'll smile with memories of restless mornings hearing the bump and crash of little chefs exploring my kitchen. i'll remember the squish of over-glued homemade cards and tissue paper flowers on my serving tray, with a cup of coffee grounds floating in lukewarm water. i'll laugh at the challenge of cleaning the trail of syrup from the kitchen floor to my bedside. And I'll remember this mother's day with it's sour smells, pale-faced children and piles of laundry—and I'll hope my girls will one day have a mother's day as rich as this.</span></div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8241555926501209577.post-43640882872794888472015-09-01T09:50:00.000-05:002019-10-03T20:01:15.495-05:00Montgomery Wayne Seitz 1969-2015<br />
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Montgomery Wayne Seitz<o:p></o:p></div>
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July 28, 1969 – August 27, 2015<o:p></o:p></div>
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Our world will have a little less laughter without Montgomery Wayne in
it. Born to Shelia Kay Jenkinson Cooper
and Charles Leslie Seitz, Monty bounced through life with unbridled enthusiasm.
He grew up as a bright, ambitious boy with a wide circle of friends. He loved
sports and played basketball, baseball and football before graduating from Jersey
Village High School in 1988. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Monty loved with his whole heart and no one held his heart more
tightly than Stephanie Wiley. They met in 1992 and within a year, Monty
and Stephanie shared a name, a home and a son -- Fallon Wayne. Soon came
their wide-eyed beauty, Taylor Wiley and the Seitz family set out for
greatness, armed with little more than blind ambition and a few connections in
the mattress business. <o:p></o:p></div>
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They made a great team, and together opened four Capitol Mattress
stores throughout Austin. After a decision to make a small town life, they sold
the Austin stores and opened All Star Furniture on Hwy. 71 in Bastrop.
Together, Monty and Stephanie spent their days selling beds, telling
jokes, carting kids and clinging to their commitment to each other through married
life. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Stephanie held his heart, but it was his kids that fueled Monty’s
passion for life. Every customer that
walked through the door heard about Taylor and Fallon. He coached their childhood basketball teams
and as they excelled, he juggled business and family to drive countless hours
to watch them play. He carefully kept every
one of Taylor’s newspaper clips featuring her basketball prowess. Monty was overcome with pride when Fallon
recently graduated from UT with honors.
To Monty, Taylor and Fallon were the
best things he had ever done in his life – not the business, not the comedy, not even fighting for his wife's care. At times, the only thing that
made him truly happy was the joy of his wonderfully successful, beautiful and
strong children. They will forever be the cornerstone of his legacy. <o:p></o:p></div>
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A sharp mind and a quick wit, Monty thirsted to know about everything
that caught his attention. His brain never stopped and he generated ideas
like an engine generates heat. He
literally believed he could do anything.
Monty saw reality as a
minor hindrance to achieving his dream, no matter how
ridiculous or pointless that dream looked like to those around him. He
was a dreamer but mostly, Monty was a doer.
He had a grueling work ethic and applied every ounce of persistence to
whatever he did from selling bean bag chairs to honing his comedy craft, Monty
did everything full force, without apology and without hesitation. He was a true hustler. He did whatever
it took, even it meant doing it ass backward and at the last minute. Then
he quietly got up the next day, hugged the hell out of every bit of luck he had
and did it again. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Monty never had a lot, but he always had enough to share. He was 420-24/7-365. He loved
watching hours of B-movies, writing screenplays, investigating time travel and eventually, he loved to stand in the spotlight on a dark stage to lay bare everything he
feared and fought for just to get a laugh. <o:p></o:p><br />
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Monty turned to comedy for relief from dark years struggling to accept his wife's tragic injuries after a car accident. .On stage, Monty could be The Outlaw, The Cosmic Cowboy for whom reality didn't exist. A longtime volunteer for SXSW, the Moondance Festival, ACL and anything else he could talk his way into, Monty made his stage wherever he went. Austin Comedy embraced Monty and through that connection he found a new spring of energy. Comedy saved Monty when he really needed it and knowing that his hope was so far-reaching and impactful to so many, helps to lessen the hard blow of losing him. We're not the same without him, but he's still with us. You'll find him floating on a cloud of smoke through the festival crowd, calling Where My Outlaws At?<br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8241555926501209577.post-39455591780613430192015-09-01T09:43:00.000-05:002019-10-03T20:01:15.211-05:00first draft <span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The Outlaw Montgomery Wayne</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Our world will laugh a little less without Montgomery Wayne in it. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Monty bounced through life with unbridled, unreasonable joy and enthusiasm. Through his bloodshot eyes, he chose to see opportunity in despair, hope in heartbreak and ferociously believed that love--mixed with laughter--could cure every injury of the heart and heal a broken body. </span><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Monty was an idea man; he literally believed that he could do anything, and saw reality as a minor hindrance to achieving</span><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> his dream no matter how ridiculous or pointless that dream looked like to those around him. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">His dogged devotion to achievement was a happy partner to Monty's unyielding work ethic. He was a hustler and did what he had to do to get it done, even it meant doing it ass backward and at the last minute. T</span><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">hen he quietly got up the next day, hugged the hell out of every bit of luck he had and did it again. He scraped by, loving the ride, one day at a time. Monty never had a lot, but he always had enough to share if you wanted some.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">A sharp mind and a quick wit, Monty thirsted to know about everything that caught his attention. His brain never stopped looking for new experiences, whether it was moving out on his own at 17, marijuana marathons, studying college textbooks to get a degree by osmosis, watching hours of B-movies, writing screenplays, investigating time travel and eventually standing in the spotlight on a dark stage to lay bare everything he feared and fought for just to get a laugh.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Monty loved with his whole heart and no one held his heart more tightly than Stephanie Wiley. They met in 1992 and within a year, Monty and Stephanie shared a name, a home and a son -- Fallon Wayne. Soon came their big-eyed beauty, Taylor Wiley and the Seitz family set out for greatness, armed with little more than blind ambition and a few connections in the mattress business. They made a great team, and together opened four Capitol Mattress stores throughout Austin. A decision to make a small town life, got out of the big city and opened All Star Furniture on Hwy. 71 in Bastrop. Together, Monty and Stephanie spent their days selling beds, telling jokes, carting kids and clinging to their commitment to each other to stabilize their rocky ride through married life. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The Seitz world came crashing down in May 2008 when their car was broadsided and rolled across Hwy. 71 leaving Monty and Fallon with minor injuries, and leaving Stephanie in a profound state of suspension between awareness and emptiness. </span></div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8241555926501209577.post-47011044175799584442015-04-17T22:25:00.001-05:002019-10-03T20:01:15.873-05:00Gay is the New Black: how i explained homosexual rights to my mom<br />
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"is mark west GAY?" mom called on a friday morning while i waited in the drive line at CVS. she talks (and writes) in all caps. always.<br />
"good lord mom, no. why would you ask me that?" mark is the younger brother of my best friend from high school. i haven't seen him in thirty years, minimum, but through our facebook connection i know he has three kids and a thriving dating life. <br />
"well he posted a gay thing on facebook. how do you know he's not gay." Facebook. the greatest source of my mom's confusion and question since group texts.<br />
"Mom, he is not gay. after his divorce he asked me out about a dozen times. you've gotta stop reading so much into Facebook posts. What kind of gay thing did he post.." i really didn't care. the conversation was already drifting towards a wall. Trying to explain Facebook posts to my mother often twisted into a circular explanation that ended with no resolution and me gritting my teeth. add gay stuff into it and i knew i was doomed.<br />
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The ''gay thing" my friend posted was a story of a mechanic in Michigan who refused service to gay people because homosexuality was wrong and immoral and he was going to stand up for his religious beliefs in his business. Mark's comment on the link was, " i'm glad Jesus didn't think like this guy or i'd be screwed." obviously throwing open the closet on his sexuality.<br />
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Mom is a born again Christian with special gift for criticism and hard line opinions. When Last Temptation of Christ was released, she volunteered for one hour shifts with her Sunday School class to bombard the studio with calls of protest on the film. i was in college at the time and asked her what horrible ways did scorcese portray the messiah that would incite such protest -- "well i CERTAINLY DO NOT KNOW." mom refused to see it. Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8241555926501209577.post-41875822700705307982014-07-21T13:23:00.001-05:002019-10-03T20:01:15.400-05:00<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Musician Spotlight : Ashley Monical</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">My great friend, Ashley Monical just got out of the studio recording her latest record. With Beaumont's own John Evans in the producer's chair look for this new set of songs to set the foundation for Ashley's future. </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Never heard of her ? You should. Catch Ashley Monical in some of the best listening rooms and Americana venues across the south from Texas to Oklahoma. </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Before she ever stepped onto the stage at Saxon Pub or greeted a packed field of revelers at Larry Joe’s Music Fest, Ashley Monical had a music video go viral -- in Turkey. </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">An iPhone rolled March 2010 as she her then band mate, Ian Lee rehearsed, “Gelevera Deresi” for a Turkish Festival in Dallas. A favor for a friend, Monical and Lee nailed the accents and dialects of the foreign lyrics, drawing praise from the packed crowd, many of whom had fond memories of the famous folk song from their childhood in Turkey. The impromptu backstage video was posted on YouTube, then picked up by Turkey’s largest newspaper, which put it on their website’s front page. The video grabbed more than 200,000 hits and garnered legions of loyal Facebook friends and fans for Ashley (then Nicole) Monical. </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The awesome reverse-motion video of the song fortified her Turkish fanbase. Monical and Lee learned the entire song backwards so that the lip-motions would match the finished video. Amazing and beautiful -- check it out <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kfQWkcgmouU">HERE. </a></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">A baby of the 80’s oil boom raised by Texas expats in Jakarta, Ashley learned at an early age that the world was a big place, traveling the globe from Bali to Boerne before she was 10. She grew up singing Everly Brothers at her parent’s parties. Her father loved to tell stories of his college days in San Marcos where he saw rising stars like Stevie Ray Vaughn, George Strait, Joe Ely and Jerry Jeff Walker in Hill Country honky tonks, as a burgeoning Texas music scene unfolded. And the more she heard, the more she wanted to be a part of it. </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Ashley’s debut disc, ‘Map of the World,’ dropped late 2010 with support from three videos: “Holdin’ on to </span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">You,” “Map of the World,” and "“Gelevera Deresi,” each of which give a glimpse of Ashley’s acting ability, harkening back to her days at ACC where, as a young student, she starred in numerous productions (including a topless scene in Euripedes Bacchaes, no less.) </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Her career built momentum with solo shows in Austin and San Marcos, slowly gaining recognition as a voice that’s going place through song swaps and open mic nights. In 2011 Ashley ended up in Hollywood for the second round of American Idol. Dismissed after the second round, what appeared to some as failed attempt at supposed stardom was for Monical, a precious lesson of who she wanted to be as a singer/songwriter: </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">and it was not the American Idol. Following the AI episode, Ashley dropped her middle name for good and left behind childish things to pursue her spot on stage as a singer/songwriter, all grown up. </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Late night picking sessions in a South Austin backyard lead to Monical’s collaboration with San Marcos sweetheart, Halleyanna in their much touted project, The Wildflowers. Ashley’s smooth and soulful voice blended perfectly with the Texas rasp and romance of Halleyanna’s and the two hit the road as The Wildflowers. They toured throughout Oklahoma, Colorado and Texas roads all the way to Terlingua. The Wildflowers shared a stage with some of Americana’s finest: Shovels and Rope, Joe Ely, Slaid Cleaves, Bri Bagwell, and Uncle Lucius, among others. They were regulars at Houston’s best kept house concert secret, Wing Man Ranch, where they opened for Steve Polz. The bandwagon was rolling along, but the ladies realized that they both had big dreams all of their own. So they took a deep breath and gave each other a strong hug, but didn’t say “goodbye,” just “not now.” </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">In 2012 Ashley played Friday happy hours at world-famous Poodies Hilltop Café. On a lark she entered a couple of her songs in Larry Joe Taylor’s Texas Coastin’ & Cruisin’ Songwriters’ contest at the fabled Spicewood, TX dive bar. Three rounds later, she walked away with the Grand Prize and tickets for two to LTJ’s annual Songwriter’s cruise. Larry Joe liked what he heard and has numerous times invited Ashley to showcase her powerful voice on his stage. Recently she was the talk of the campgrounds after her stirring performance around the campfire song swap session one night. But her highlight was singing for a wild and whiskey’d up crowd of over 10,000 at the finale of LJT’s Music Fest that week at Melody Ranch. </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">With family roots that dig deep into Texas dirt, Ashley Monical carries on the laidback traditions and barbed-wire determination passed down from her parents. She is a love child of the new millennium: spiritual, soulful, bohemian but savvy, sophisticated and worldly. She’s making a mark on the Americana music scene as a ray of soulful sunshine and peace with a voice that commands attention; a Texas wildflower with a voice to set the stage on fire, but Turkey loved her first.</span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8241555926501209577.post-11464613696384300432014-07-20T15:01:00.003-05:002019-10-03T20:01:13.418-05:00<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">silent sunday</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Independence Pass</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">July 2014</span></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8241555926501209577.post-11091972352495620022014-07-16T23:00:00.000-05:002019-10-03T20:01:13.274-05:00This is my Site<script src="http://www.google.com/coop/cse/brand?form=cse-search-box&lang=en" type="text/javascript"></script><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">I've been thinking about writing for too long. Now i am writing. i like to hyphenate. a-lot. i like lower case letters and random. use. of. periods. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">this is my site and here's how i see it unfolding: </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Music Monday -- finding new music is my favorite. music monday will be my excuse to get to know musicians (better) and give some good, (virtually) unknown music some well deserved attention. if i happen to book a few cabin concerts along the way: so be it. I'm starting with musicians that either a) i know personally 2) i have met or iii) i know someone who knows them so i feel like i have a kevin-baconesque connection to them. From there, i will branch out to musicians who are perfect strangers, but whose music i like and who deserve attention. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Tell it Like it is Tuesday -- put my personality in a kettle for about an hour and it will boil down to nothing but my opinion. i have great insight into... well, all things really, and even though i give it freely, i feel the need to express myself. even . more . on tuesdays I'll review products, services, maybe even movies--basically whatever i want to tell you about, i will. Tuesdays will hopefully become a place where i shamelessly hawk great products that people will send me for free so i can plug them and make them soar off the shelves at Amazon, a'la Oprah book club. i'm not too proud to whore myself for free stuff -- but only free stuff that i actually LIKE. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">for What it's Worth Wednesday -- my opinion of products is second only to my opinion of other people's lives. for What it's Worth is my advice column. More erma bombeck than ann landers. think of it as group therapy. Anonymous request for help with a web of opinions to contribute for the betterment of all. sometimes a guest will sit in my chair. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Thinking Out Loud (thursday) -- This is my weekly essay blog. if i had a syndicated column--this is it. my words about me. personal, true and if it hits the mark i'm aiming for, funny, poignant and provocative. but no pressure and no promises. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Free for all Friday -- indulgences for my rants, raves, a guest writer here and there, throw light on great hidden interweb stuff and generally let it all hang out. i mean, it's friday. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Saturday -- i know myself. seven days a week is a tough regimen. Saturdays we'll go dormant. get out of the house. get some sun. turn off the monitor. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Silent Sunday -- Photo of the week. Maybe by me. maybe my kid or maybe a Facebook famous photog friend. few, if any restrictions, but the photo will do the talking on sundays. we all need a little quiet. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">so there's the plan. come back on Friday to see how it goes. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">txsjewels</span></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8241555926501209577.post-62525216234245380812014-07-15T07:00:00.000-05:002019-10-03T20:01:16.907-05:00permission slipi give myself permission not to change. for the next thirty days i will not dwell on anything that i want to be different. for the next thirty days i will steer my thoughts into the direction of loving and accepting all things exactly they way they are in the present. i break from guilt . for the next thirty days i will consciously rebuke guilt when it enters my mind.<br />
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i love my authenticity. i will not hide it anymore. for the next thirty days i will create loving thoughts about myself. i will steer my thoughts into the direction of loving and accepting all things about myself the way they are at. this. moment.<br />
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i embrace gratitude. i surrender to complete thanks. without tug of resentment at my back.<br />
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for this moment. i receive the love that surrounds me. i accept . it all.<br />
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2:29 am saturday, may 22 2010Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8241555926501209577.post-8357861025705435752010-07-29T15:43:00.000-05:002019-10-03T20:01:19.041-05:00<span style="font-style: italic;">originally written july 29, 2007... reposted in honor of Marvin Zindler. Eye. Witness. News. Thank you Marvin ... </span><br /><br /><br /><br />I pretty much gave up watching television news after 9/11. A couple of years ago, though, I realized that I liked to listen to Channel 13 six o'clock news while I cooked dinner. I have a tiny black and white sony TV on my kitchen counter, I think it's from 1978—looks like it was made to go on the first manned space flight, but I digress. I'd pop 13 news on while the skillet heated up, and listen as Dave Ward punched his mid-sentence delivery and Bob Brandon lilted out the weather. It felt familiar. It was comfort news.<br />I'm a native houstonian. Channel 13 has always felt like my hometown news—remember the millionaire movie every day at 3:00? Pre-oprah. And even though Dave Ward, Don Nelson, Bob Brandon, even cutie Bob Allen have gotten older and rounder, 13 News sounds (if not looks) as it did when I was a kid. And then there was the prime minister of the semi-circular table: Marvin Zindler.<br />**If you're not from Houston, or just never paid attention to the news, Marvin Zindler gained national attention for his major role in shutting down the Chicken Ranch, outside of La Grange--which was famous for being the favorite destination of college boys and local married men for a little female companionship. Best Little Whorehouse in Texas cast Dolly Parten and Burt Reynold's in a flagrantly romanticized story of the hick-madam and good ole boy sherrif. Dom DeLouise played the Zindler character: wig and all. **<br />While the news droned on and my work progressed from chopping and checking to setting the table and putting ice in glasses, I didn't pay attention to the screen, maybe I'd put eyes on the week's forecast, it's like your horoscope: you don't believe it, but you can't resist reading it anyway. But when it was time for Marvin, I'd stop and watch. Something about him. that he was still on the air… at his age! with that hair! those suits! those blue glasses. … after all these years, I had come to respect his adherence to the accouterment of it all. Moreover, I loved to see what he was up to. He was forever walking into dilapidated homes, holding the hand of toothless woman in a wheelchair and putting the IRS in their place—to say nothing of the roach droppings, improper temp-a-too-ur food and SLIME in the ice machine. And always with a reliable sign off. MARvin ZINDler EYE WITNESS NEWS.<br />Marvin died tonight. Over the years I've run into him at Pino's or Kingwood Country Club. Always cordial, he was sincerely everything he appeared to be. A flamboyant character dedicated to the little guy, in pursuit of help for those who couldn't find it, and on a quest for a clean kitchen. When Dave Ward announced his passing tonight, I teared up a bit.<br />Another little piece of my history is gone.<br />I don't miss day-glo watches or paper-sack top jeans. I don't miss Flock of Seagulls, Wham or Devo (okay, I do miss devo, a little..).<br />This Friday, I will miss getting my weekly sign-off fix from the man in the big white hair.<br />To you old man: good tennis, good golf and everything that makes you happy.<br />Dave said it best, "Thank you, Marvin."Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8241555926501209577.post-83113414830589840422010-05-23T12:00:00.003-05:002019-10-03T20:01:18.852-05:00Here's to love .. Whatever it is...and here's the second bit ...<br /><br />more about the wedding tonight <span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">(second marriage for both bride and groom)</span></span> .. for obvious reasons, it got me thinking about what i really wanted in a long term um, ... okay, wedding. ugh. there i said it.<br /><br />it's been a long time since i've been a wedding guest; not exactly my favorite occasion, a bitter divorcee' , some may say-- although i deny it <span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">(every time)</span></span>.<br /><br />i'm not down on marriage, especially for people are who married. as i've said before: if you're married, stay married: hunker down and be there for each other. laugh. cry. do the work. make it work. because it's worth it. seriously.<br />BUT.<br />if you are not married, or 'lucky' enough to have been through the marriage juggernaut and come out the other side relatively unscathed. well then, my friend, i say stay there. marriage is hard work. it's one of those things like italian creme cake: it looks better than it really is.<br />but i digresss....<br /><br />so i go to this wedding. i am a guest of the bride. we are casual friends, at best. our daughters are long-time schoolmates and we had comradery in that we were both single mothers with relatively young children in the middle of suburbia. as a minority, we stuck together. truth be told, i'm sure if not for my daughter's connection with bride's daughter: i would not have been invited, let alone attended.<br /><br />she's been dating this guy for about a year. that's all i really have to say about that. what i came here tonight to discuss is the wedding itself.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"> </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:85%;" >**as an aside i have to add: if there was every any question in my mind (which, there really wasn't), i now know with all certainty that i will never do the white dress and train with a veil thing ever again. she did. and that sealed the deal for me.**</span><br /><br />i sat there and listened to the preacher bind them together til death do they part. yada yada yada. unity candle. traditional vows. what can is say dear reader? it made me squirm in my satin-covered chair knowing as i do, that she's already done this song with another partner. death did they part? fairly ugly divorces on both sides from the way she tells <span style="font-style: italic;font-size:85%;" >(told?)</span> it. so.. death, not quite. but. this is her day. .. .. again.<br /><br />then the reception: grand entrance. first dance. daddy dance. toasts from the four groomsmen. i felt my eyes rolling..<br />what are we, 23 years old here?<br /><br />where is the realism? where is the part about : this is it fellas. no more dancing around the truth. we're here to take it to the next level, so both of you better be ready to cowboy up and ride this bull. because as you both know: it's a torn up road. so take a minute and think about it, because this is the last chance you have to take a step back without threat of serious repercussions from which you may-or may not-fully recover .. .. makes you wish sometimes it was as easy as holding onto bucking reigns for eight seconds.<br /><br />i don't begrudge her this pomp and circumstance, but it solidified an attitude in me that i will not go back and say the same words. the same way. with the same hollowness. my crystal-crusted wedding gown didn't make a damn bit of difference a year from that day. by the time i got on the plane for my honeymoon, i could barely put together the fragments of memories from my wedding. it was a swhirl of snapshot moments in my mind. what exactly did we promise? it wasn't a moment of commitment, it was a lot of fluff about ... nothing. but this is only my experience.<br /><br />i admit that i sometimes think what my 2nd wedding would be like. i can't see it, it's a vague idea.. but the images got clearer after tonight:<br />* it goes without saying that the dress code would be comfortable. the mood would be free and open. i'm not <span style="font-size:85%;">(necessarily)</span> talking bare feet or cut offs in a city park .. .. i just mean the event would be momentous, without formality.<br />*then, the vows. in the comedy version of my vows, i say things like: "i promise never to gripe about the toilet seat and try my best not to one day hate you." because that's how i roll.<br />if i had to think about a real promise, i wouldn't repeat rote words from some preacher. this time, i need a spell i can trust.<br />maybe .. : "i like you so much i want you to be my family. i choose you because you see me better than i see myself, even when you look at the real me."<br />Romance and intimacy, yes, but there would be a sense of business at hand. i see the vows as a pact: an agreement. maybe we'd even sign a contract: that we would try to stay together. we would admit to each other that whatever it is that draws us to this place, to make this spectacle of our relationship: whatever that is: we agree here and now to explore it, nurture it and respect it. We acknowledge that there is strong love when we work together, and at this moment we enter into a partnership to foster that love. "for as long as we can possibly stand it. "<br /><br />but that's just me. maybe i'd feel different if i'd walk a mile in her custom-dyed pump.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8241555926501209577.post-72542697885591352692010-05-22T00:05:00.001-05:002019-10-03T20:01:17.853-05:00there is only so long you can re-gift.i have an antique chest that i call the gift closet. you may have a gift closet: your backstock-- your re-gifting stash. my gift closet is where i collect birthday, christmas and miscellaneous gifts that either a) we don't want; 2) we can't use; or c) we just don't like and throughout the year, i pull out these never used, unopened items and wrap them up for someone else, usually another kid, just like mine. rarely, are these gifts for adults.<br />
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however: we were invited to a wedding tonight. i turned to the gift closet with a creative hopefulness. there in the back, i spotted a silver and glass "jam set", which by luck would make a lovely wedding gift, seeing as how i had received it as a gift for my own wedding. but. never opened it. <span style="font-size: 85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">(it's a jam set. what the hell am i supposed to do with a jam set? if i need jam, i'll dig it out of the jar then put it back in the fridge.)</span></span> i knew it was time for the jam set to find a home in a new gift closet: one with a happily married couple to care for it.<br />
so i plucked it out and dusted off the box.<br />
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somewhere between drying my hair and cutting the silver wrapping paper, i had the idea to check out this jam set. the cellophane that kept the box taped was sticky and felt old as i carefully pried it up. the box showed wear, no doubt. it should, considering it's been moved three times. as i noticed the delicate, white paper protecting the trivet-part was kind of yellowed, i started to do the math on this potential re-gift. let's see: i've been divorced for seven years... married nine... oh god, this thing has been in the back of that chest for sixteen years!<br />
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the numbers made me laugh, as i pulled the pieces out of the box.... ... only to find a tiny envelope atop the white-wrapped silver spoon. "on your wedding day" the card read. "To tony and julie, we wish you many happy years together." ... name with held to protect the innocent.<br />
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this clever lady had put the card INSIDE the gift so it wouldn't get separated in the moving of the gifts from the reception to the ... wherever. SIXTEEN YEARS AGO. thank god i checked it, i thought. how freakin embarrassing to give an obvious re-gift, but with the original card. wow, would my face be red.<br />
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but the worst part is: the silver was all tarnished. can't save that.<br />
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re-gift: fail. guess who's getting a gift card !Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8241555926501209577.post-56548318550224407992010-05-10T15:35:00.007-05:002019-10-03T20:01:16.532-05:00same song second verse... no, twelfth...<div align="left"><span style=";font-family:Century Gothic;font-size:78%;" ><span style=";font-family:Century Gothic;font-size:78%;" ><span style="font-family:Verdana,Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:100%;" ><span style="font-family:georgia;">h<span style="font-size:180%;">ere's another classic blog, originally written sept. 25, 2007....no, i'm not being lazy about posting... i'm just being... um, frugal -- using what i already have before getting new ... </span></span></span><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-size:180%;"><br /></span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:180%;">I get so irritated with my daughter at the dinner table. Every single night she sits sideways in her chair and every single night she ends up spilling food on her lap, or dropping her cup off the edge of the table or something. All just because she's not sitting up straight paying attention. I tell her the same thing… every night. It's like she doesn't learn. I can't imagine where she gets it. Irritates.</span></span><br /><br /></span></span></span></span></div> <div align="right"><span style=";font-family:Verdana,Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;font-size:85%;" >So reader, as you may recall<br />when last we left this weary life traveler, i was feeling a leap coming on… forward movement<br />in the game of life lessons. I was looking for it; ready…to grow. </span></div> <div align="right"><span style=";font-family:Verdana,Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;font-size:85%;" >the problem with setting out to learn something new about yourself is… well, you learn something<br />new about yourself. something that is not usually cool. besides, by now, I already know all the cool things about myself.<br />I've spent the greatest part of my waking life glorifying, magnifying and generally extolling all the cool things I thought about me.<br />so I guess<br />now it's time<br />to move on</span></div> <div><span style=";font-family:Verdana,Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;font-size:85%;" >I talk to God. </span></div> <div><span style=";font-family:Verdana,Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;font-size:85%;" >I think one of my first mistakes here, was asking God to teach me how to be more loving. <i>sounds good, doesn't it? I thought so.</i> I didn't think<br /></span><span style="font-family:Verdana,Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size:85%;">of it as such a challenge to master. in fact, I just dropped it into my prayers between wisdom and patience…<i><span style="font-size:78%;">'<span style="font-size:85%;">make me more loving'</span></span></i><br />... a sweet filling between the two biggies.<br /><i>Mmm..warm fuzzies to me…muah! Love. </i></span></span></div><span style="font-size:85%;"> </span><div align="right"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-family:Verdana,Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">God has the ultimate sense of humor. </span></span></div> <div align="right"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-family:Verdana,Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">My second big mistake is being a slow learner.<br /><span style="font-size:100%;">I</span> </span></span><span style="font-family:Verdana,Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size:78%;">should</span><span style="font-size:85%;"> <span style="font-size:100%;">know</span> </span><span style="font-size:78%;">by now</span></span><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-family:Verdana,Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">, that if I want more of something in my life,<br />like love.. or respect ..or acceptance.. I have to purposefully<br /><b>do/give</b> that thing <b>for/to other people</b>. </span></span></div> <div align="left"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-family:Verdana,Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">This is life 101: do unto others.<br />It's karma.<br />The great, goes-around-comes-around.<br />duh. </span></span></div> <div align="left"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-family:Verdana,Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-family:Verdana,Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Conversely, if you find yourself not getting<br />something you want from this life;<br />logically it follows<br /></span>that <span style="font-size:100%;">you are </span></span></span><span style="font-family:Verdana,Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">not giving enough</span><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-family:Verdana,Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> of that thing.<br />Want your boss to be nicer to you? then bring the maintenance man cookies.</span></span></div><span style="font-size:85%;"><i> <div align="right"><span style="font-family:Verdana,Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">it's the universe man, wake up. Its real </span></div></i> </span><div align="right"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-family:Verdana,Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">So I shoulda known<br />when I wanted more love in my life<br />that He was going to show me<br />all the ways I act like an ass.<br />Yea. Fun lesson.<br /><span style="font-size:78%;">so much for fuzzies...</span></span></span></div> <div><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-family:Verdana,Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">So I ask God to show me how to be a better person and he drops a dime to the universe and says, "</span><span style="font-family:Verdana,Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><i>hey man, go ahead and put it all in motion.<br />She wants to show more love and have more respect for people, so she's gotta learn lowliness.... This is going to be fun. I love this one."</i><br /></span></span><span style="font-size:78%;"><span style="font-family:Verdana,Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">(that's me paraphrasing God… I can still hear Him kind of giggling …)</span></span></div> <div><span style=";font-family:Verdana,Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;font-size:85%;" >I will not go into the myriad ways over the last few months that I have made a fool of myself and then had it served to me on silver the next morning at breakfast. I will not further shame myself regaling my public embarrassments; the times I was taken down to where I could see just how hurtful I can be to other people. I won't replay the times I've stumbled over someone's feelings or cut into someone's self esteem with clean-sharpened sarcasm. more times than not, I was made to answer for it. sometimes for the first time.</span></div> <div align="right"><span style=";font-family:Verdana,Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;font-size:85%;" >And in my misery; in the darkness of disappointment<br />and self-realization that I'm such a bitch …..<br />the universe whispered in my ear:<br />"You have to respect first,<br />before you are respected.<br />It doesn't matter if you think it's fair.<br />It's the game."</span></div> <div align="right"><span style=";font-family:Verdana,Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;font-size:85%;" >I'm learning to be more loving,<br />because I've see what a bitch I can be.<br />And that's not cool. </span></div> <div align="right"><span style=";font-family:Verdana,Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;font-size:85%;" >so…I've softened, I'm trying to be softer… girlie, if you will.<br />Holding back on those trademark sarcastic additions. snarkiness no more. Conversations with me will be dusted with colored sugar<br />punctuated by frosted muffin tops. No more piss and vinegar<br />from this little lady. Mindin' my Ps and Qs.<br />yes sir, mr. God sir… I done learned my lesson.<br /> No more schoolin… please…. </span></div> <div align="right"><span style=";font-family:Verdana,Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;font-size:85%;" >seriously<br /></span><span style=";font-family:Verdana,Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;font-size:85%;" ><br />I'm begging you. stop.<br /><br /></span></div> <div align="right"> </div> <div align="left"><span style=";font-family:Verdana,Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;font-size:85%;" ><i>This was a tough lesson, but i think i broke into bedrock; which is very cool. for now, I continue to offer apologies in my wake and walk the property nailing up boards I kicked out of the fencing around my bold, some might say strong, personality. and if out there in this anonymous web someone who knows me and maybe even loves me is reading this: thanks for loving me even when I'm a rude, conceited jerk. I hope you'll have to work less at loving me from now on… but I can't make any promises, </i><i>I still can't get my daughter to sit up straight at dinner. </i></span></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8241555926501209577.post-20201543195762671962009-11-05T12:50:00.007-06:002019-10-03T20:01:13.608-05:00embarrassing is not funny when it's you.<span style="font-family:arial;">in elementary school when they wanted you to write an essay, seems like it was always something so stupid, like "what did you do this summer?" or "talk about your happiest memory" or "what is your most embarrassing moment?" all of these were as pointless now as they were to me back then. i was in the 4<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">th</span> grade people. my happiest memory? i really liked the cocoa pebbles i had this morning? give me a break. embarrassing moment? this one is fraught with possible <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">disaster</span> to me, as <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">i'm</span> sure there had to be moments of pee-in-pants and throwing up in front of the class that had to go through little minds with this one. i never really had an embarrassing moment, so i usually made up something <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">asinine</span> like grabbing a strangers hand at the mall because i thought it was my mom. wow. was my face red. ugh. </span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">you have to get some life on you to understand what it's like to be truly embarrassed. to walk out of the bathroom with your dress tucked into your <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">panty</span> hose <span style="font-size:85%;">(BTW can i please hear it for bare legs coming into style? good lord how i hate <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">panty</span> hose...<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">anyhoo</span>).</span> but more often that not, embarrassing shit is hard, hurtful stuff. Calling your guy by the wrong name. twice. getting caught at a bar by your pastor. forgetting to pick up your kid and the teacher has to sit there with them in front of the school. it's embarrassing. and it's not cool to be embarrassed. </span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">this morning i was listening to a blurb from the interview <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">diane</span> sawyer did w/ <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">Rihanna</span> <span style="font-size:85%;">(which not matter how you spell, still reads in my mind like <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">diarrhea</span>, sorry <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">Ri</span>..)</span> anyway, she was talking about getting abused and even i can't make something funny out of that. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">i've</span> never been hit by a man. actually, i don't think <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12">i've</span> ever been hit by anyone ever. once in the 8<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_13">th</span> grade i was supposed to fight some <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_14">butchy</span> mean girl, but i was so terrified that i hid in the bathroom and let her think i was a total coward, which i am. although in hindsight, i doubt i would've gotten hit even then; i went to this tiny baptist school and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_15">i'm</span> sure there was a teacher or a coach or a preacher or someone who would've broken up the whole thing before anything happened. </span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">so what <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_16">i'm</span> saying is: i can't relate to R<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_17">ihanna</span> getting punched in the face. </span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">but she said something that i can relate to: she said she was embarrassed. i can't find the transcript of the interview, so please don't sue me <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_18">Ri</span> if i get this wrong, but she said something like, "i am embarrassed that i fell in love with a man who is like this. that i fell so far in love with someone like this, it's embarrassing." </span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;">i totally get that.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;">my ex never hit me with his fist. but having to tell people that he left me, moved out of state and was living with his then girlfriend while i laid in a hospital bed having his second child--was embarrassing. it still is. he hit me with his words. his abandonment bruised me. gave my girls a black eye. you just can't see it. i selected this guy. do you? i said yes, i do. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_19">i'm</span> not proud of it. </span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;">people tell me: it wasn't your fault. he's a jerk. i would say the same to <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_20">Rihanna</span>--he's a jerk, it's not about you. but the fact is: it is about her. she picked him. i picked mine. we CHOSE to be with these guys. you can't pick your parents, you're just stuck with them, but i loved this man. i had children by this loser. and as much as my incredible friends have stuck to their guns about hating him and his name is synonymous with asshole in every conversation, at the end of the day most of my regret about the whole thing is that i fell in love--so completely in love--with a man who was capable of leaving his family in the blink of an eye, for a piece of ass. it's embarrassing. but it is what it is. he's gone. life rocks along. lesson learned: you never really know someone. love as if they'll never leave. because it's all about you. one way or another. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;">so <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_21">rihanna</span>: hang in there. the great thing about life is that there's always tomorrow. another chance to get it right. least you don't have to worry about our bare ass hanging out of your <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_22">panty</span> hose anymore. and if i ever get stuck in an elementary school writing class: i totally have an embarrassing moment to write about. </span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;"></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8241555926501209577.post-36341763226984347772009-11-02T12:05:00.013-06:002019-10-03T20:01:14.928-05:00After the sugar comes this big crashIs everyone comfortably seated and safely strapped in? because <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">halloween</span> is over people. clear out the little plastic gravestones from your yard-- it's time for the wild ride toward YEAR END.<br /><br />yahoo. but <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">pooor</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">halloween</span>. every year it gets more crammed and shoved into one <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">stinkin</span> lousy day. this year <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">Wal</span>-Mart had their <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">halloween</span> stuff 50% off the day before <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">halloween</span>! they were literally stocking wreaths and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">santas</span> on the shelves as they were cleared of <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">obama</span> masks and fake blood. so in honor of <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">halloween</span>, here are some pics of <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">halloweens</span> past and present, in homage to my parents who were the most awesome costume-makers ever!<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgThkOJAZqo0vIad64GV_TZqRyswcDHbhMcZSjz9YaRA1puFQPpWNDoh28R3J1o1psaLv-KciUpu37uR36TbnvRcQiHlQHWlZ9Z_4KIG4S8v4OUJO4UI3nLxXnbU_QDyQ_o3oHlvGczNEI/s1600-h/Clown+1974.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5399575397645533666" style="WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 154px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgThkOJAZqo0vIad64GV_TZqRyswcDHbhMcZSjz9YaRA1puFQPpWNDoh28R3J1o1psaLv-KciUpu37uR36TbnvRcQiHlQHWlZ9Z_4KIG4S8v4OUJO4UI3nLxXnbU_QDyQ_o3oHlvGczNEI/s200/Clown+1974.jpg" border="0" /></a> What a cute little clown i was back in 1974. the picture-in-front-of-door motif would be picked up again many decades later when i would pose my own dressed up kids at the same place. well... not the SAME place. different house. different door. same location within a different house. jeez. do i need to explain this? hell no.<br /><br /><br /><p align="right"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgY1xIiU9dBoccplnOMOtScxEhMljm-ZMVhpCQAlo7GcUlw86KdG-WsM71XRQFpZp0Y2xtqsspzqjtnFL4dTzKoKJRivdNmuXIbgsUpIQ9TKtgQ50aSmXPv14t1oqkpmJ-psTV9GFVrMPc/s1600-h/Cherrios+1977.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5399575395226453842" style="WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 181px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgY1xIiU9dBoccplnOMOtScxEhMljm-ZMVhpCQAlo7GcUlw86KdG-WsM71XRQFpZp0Y2xtqsspzqjtnFL4dTzKoKJRivdNmuXIbgsUpIQ9TKtgQ50aSmXPv14t1oqkpmJ-psTV9GFVrMPc/s200/Cherrios+1977.jpg" border="0" /></a></p>Halloween 1977 - that's me as cheerios. mom and dad positively LOVED to make us wear boxes. strangely, i <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">don't</span> remember complaining about it. whereas my six year old daughter won't even wear a fairy skirt because "it's too itchy." i spent my first ten <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12">halloweens</span> with my arms hanging straight out all night. Here's my poor sister in her box that year: <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4katcObfJErTX_piB6I9U9DFnVysflEFPoV1Wo6i77ppttVPKWhj5zmaF8HBuAg0utVpjfmo5FLn1-1ScwCw04sAW6t_Cs9PaeDn_uDpnsea5sRB-lZhYzjnmfedOFZf-hVIr8dtXk2o/s1600-h/ladybowers.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5399576383911968002" style="WIDTH: 88px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 200px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4katcObfJErTX_piB6I9U9DFnVysflEFPoV1Wo6i77ppttVPKWhj5zmaF8HBuAg0utVpjfmo5FLn1-1ScwCw04sAW6t_Cs9PaeDn_uDpnsea5sRB-lZhYzjnmfedOFZf-hVIr8dtXk2o/s200/ladybowers.jpg" border="0" /></a>MILK. the parents were very into the whole go-together costume ideas. Cheerios and Milk. One year i was a mailbox and she was a package. me: cracker jacks (cracker "<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_13">julies</span>" actually) and she was popcorn. possibly the most tasteless costumes they came up with was during the <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_14">bicentennial</span> -- in which my sister and i were both <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_15">bicentennial</span> fire hydrants (did the whole country do this or just <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_16">texas</span>--where the fire hydrants were painted in patriotic colors to celebrate <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_17">the</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_18">bicentennial</span>?) anyway, we were <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_19">bicentennial</span> fire hydrants and my parents were: yep, you guess it: dogs. somehow, the photos, classic as they are, have been misplaced over the last 800 years but i did find this. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6WPtaiVi_BcuAdlMldyVKHftWoEx6_p_mCm1caphYJYsd5Hnc9K5NyTDWdybP2zZX33-ADTkCuz4KlxA3WP3NVI0gn3xfSSj5nhEFr6GiZC7SlcBmiQyWOxt8vBbHl4vSxF2B6f-wvKw/s1600-h/Dogs+1976.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5399578461399192978" style="WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 174px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6WPtaiVi_BcuAdlMldyVKHftWoEx6_p_mCm1caphYJYsd5Hnc9K5NyTDWdybP2zZX33-ADTkCuz4KlxA3WP3NVI0gn3xfSSj5nhEFr6GiZC7SlcBmiQyWOxt8vBbHl4vSxF2B6f-wvKw/s200/Dogs+1976.jpg" border="0" /></a> you can just sense the joy on my dad's face.<br /><br /><br />Now let's fast forward to my own little darlings, who i allow to wear good old, store-bought costumes that require little, if any, intervention or box-cutting on my part. this was my very first costume as a mommy for my little darling: a flower. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlv2nwzTIdpjmgVf_Wk0QGSn3GMJ6_fPhQkb1llztxH7VTcUaZu3nBr3BnjWR_Ty-mjFiwcPA8C9emfgwVw9nZm4-XuIsnxKW4m0JxL_9eSsteSzrWSRdkuDw59B3HqvxC0U9PvlaiObY/s1600-h/Allie+flower.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5399580028411084434" style="WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 191px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlv2nwzTIdpjmgVf_Wk0QGSn3GMJ6_fPhQkb1llztxH7VTcUaZu3nBr3BnjWR_Ty-mjFiwcPA8C9emfgwVw9nZm4-XuIsnxKW4m0JxL_9eSsteSzrWSRdkuDw59B3HqvxC0U9PvlaiObY/s200/Allie+flower.jpg" border="0" /></a>both my girls wore this to absolutely rave reviews. Dang, i wish they had a baby costume contest i <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_20">could've</span> entered them in. this was so incredibly easy, it was back when all that Anne <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_21">Geddys</span> crap was real popular and i looked at making a flower costume <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_22">a'la</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_23">anne</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_24">geddys</span> for my then 10mos old. but <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_25">sista</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_26">mary</span> and the baby it was complicated, i was like screw this. so i went the craft store and bought a bunch of silk flowers on long stems. took them all apart and hot glued the pieces in <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_27">the</span> right places on a footed sleeper i had. the hat is an <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_28">amish</span> bonnet someone gave me as a baby gift, covered with hot-glued blossoms. evidently the bonnet was handmade by some woman who rode around town in a black horse-drawn buggy. ah, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_29">backstory</span>.<br /><br /><br /><br />Circa 2002, this was (is) a custom-made raggedy <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_30">ann</span> costume with my daughter's actual name stitched onto the front apron. i made that yarn wig myself. you can't see it here, but she has<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9Bjm1ifDaY6_HyM9OoxQelqfCmErevAjr00TEDBz_ZDWlRxjLsudFYHlk-6WU0n4wt5NTg54ar07ySDPu8YUnJSFH4KaET_xUp2lqSumsy1vY61LqIOtSV7j01r8hiRLrNrBE9z0O8fY/s1600-h/Bailey&Pa.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5399575409103032722" style="WIDTH: 192px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 200px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9Bjm1ifDaY6_HyM9OoxQelqfCmErevAjr00TEDBz_ZDWlRxjLsudFYHlk-6WU0n4wt5NTg54ar07ySDPu8YUnJSFH4KaET_xUp2lqSumsy1vY61LqIOtSV7j01r8hiRLrNrBE9z0O8fY/s200/Bailey&Pa.jpg" border="0" /></a> red-ringed leggings on, also made by me, by wrapping pieces of red duct tape around her little white-<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_31">tighted</span> legs. she was three. and just LOVED it. actually, she hated it <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_32">and</span> couldn't wait to tear off this whole getup. but my dad is happy. no dog costume for him that year. by the way, if you happen to have a 2 yr old named bailey <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_33">elizabeth</span> *call me* have i got the costume for you in 2010.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgC0XjL4GsB4I9_0Cs-rSrtJA2IlDkMe2is-CRFQ_PG1sEPuU5BtlBA5Nnra4LEWvxoMlmyN-5yB-Rh4xsV2MC1JBlnpcBGG9At2TwuuBzeNQd0QB5BLHOxnpiEAAJJaYqYSLn3AHU8BzY/s1600-h/SnowWhite+Allie+06.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5399575405366982066" style="WIDTH: 169px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 200px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgC0XjL4GsB4I9_0Cs-rSrtJA2IlDkMe2is-CRFQ_PG1sEPuU5BtlBA5Nnra4LEWvxoMlmyN-5yB-Rh4xsV2MC1JBlnpcBGG9At2TwuuBzeNQd0QB5BLHOxnpiEAAJJaYqYSLn3AHU8BzY/s200/SnowWhite+Allie+06.jpg" border="0" /></a> obligatory snow white. notice the front door. it's because that's how MY mommy did it. i guess. now this year i was able to talk them into a little "couples" costuming with this: <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYEO8p4UUDB1OA9dGRZguFuUOEQxJXyB7hsMbXbqPuNlmJfH_7RCKAvzX1irxuniWs4_obuk6E6dwfR5d7d5uGHJyKbT8rG8VsjdBDm2EpJ1fZDa-dHN5geXnKr85tVsirWkdFMYerP1U/s1600-h/Witchy+Bailey+06.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5399575401100134978" style="WIDTH: 126px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 200px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYEO8p4UUDB1OA9dGRZguFuUOEQxJXyB7hsMbXbqPuNlmJfH_7RCKAvzX1irxuniWs4_obuk6E6dwfR5d7d5uGHJyKbT8rG8VsjdBDm2EpJ1fZDa-dHN5geXnKr85tVsirWkdFMYerP1U/s200/Witchy+Bailey+06.jpg" border="0" /></a> snow white and the witch! get it? but of course you do. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzHw0r8KJHiyCSV83X69aABEmombmSQcRimXM-YbhT2fYx5U8o7eG2r75kWSrMna6W5gjTKmw_8f38f_UIsLOVyOwDOmYzw9Z3tsykPinb9yGvMXr1vZm2TsyLoR_h0gU9-BDATZUY6Zg/s1600-h/jmb+misc+002.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5399582353924271586" style="WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 196px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzHw0r8KJHiyCSV83X69aABEmombmSQcRimXM-YbhT2fYx5U8o7eG2r75kWSrMna6W5gjTKmw_8f38f_UIsLOVyOwDOmYzw9Z3tsykPinb9yGvMXr1vZm2TsyLoR_h0gU9-BDATZUY6Zg/s200/jmb+misc+002.jpg" border="0" /></a> My attempt to set up a little <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_34">vignette</span>: notice the apple? jeez <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_35">louis</span> that is one cute snow white. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_36">lordy</span>. then there's this... <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2qrbsJbUeq9tHzqwF3McrdaAbEK2gdzxsgleitDVf-C2ONZrjk8sxtDsrHGuuCg7RfoIP-n0RXTMLibBbwqRdK2KAoT0qluCHfsjXtyNHjmj7OwgEafBmlOBNr9Z8_aZ-nIZoiOQkQl4/s1600-h/Halloween+2006.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5399582348465908946" style="WIDTH: 154px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 200px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2qrbsJbUeq9tHzqwF3McrdaAbEK2gdzxsgleitDVf-C2ONZrjk8sxtDsrHGuuCg7RfoIP-n0RXTMLibBbwqRdK2KAoT0qluCHfsjXtyNHjmj7OwgEafBmlOBNr9Z8_aZ-nIZoiOQkQl4/s200/Halloween+2006.jpg" border="0" /></a> not the most well thought-out pose, i grant you. again, in front of the damn door. why?<br /><br />Blogger seems to be <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_37">cloggered</span> right now.. probably with everyone trying to meet their <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_38">NaBloPoMo</span> quota... current pics to follow... looks like <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_39">i'm</span> gonna get another post outta this! take that daily posting rule! ah HAUnknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8241555926501209577.post-35042364860188135362009-11-01T00:01:00.000-05:002019-10-03T20:01:14.834-05:00hold that bandwagon, i want to jump onthe blogosphere is packed today with a bunch of posts from people that i follow who haven't posted in about as long as i haven't posted and i just figured out why--its' that dangnabbit <a href="http://www.wisegeek.com/what-is-nablopomo.htm">NaBloPoMo</a> time again. <br /><br />this time i want in on this action. for months i've been mercilessly beating myself up (on the inside, scars you can't see) for not writing more. ... as they say, i'm not writing any more, i'm just not writing any less. so, without further adieu, here we go.<br /><br />and yes, this counts as a post so bite. me.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8241555926501209577.post-26060439915813755312009-10-19T16:53:00.002-05:002019-10-03T20:01:13.797-05:00do you see a pattern here?i still haven't actually committed the time to write a full blog. but lemme tell ya, i've got a torn-out piece of spiral paper sitting in my purse with some ideas that'll make your little head spin.<br /><br />eh. not really. except the torn paper part. that's true. it's the head spinning part: not so much.<br /><br />but i have been sticking in a little here --too long for twitter and too ..um, much.. for facebook.<br /><br />here's another.<br /><br />so i'm reading my blog rolls today, and come upon this little gem: <a href="http://happyhomemaker88.wordpress.com/2009/10/18/how-to-make-base-wine-vinegar-by-paul-kovi-recipe-posted-by-louise/">Recipe for Wine Vinegar</a>.<br /><br />i scrolled back up a little shaggy doo-like "wha huH?" i actually feel kinda sorry for a woman that takes this much time to come up with vinegar. and also--an ear of corn? relax lady. have some of that wine before you let it spoil.<br /><br />i gotchur recipe for wine vinegar right here:<br /><br />1. open a bottle of wine<br />2. drink about two thirds of it.<br />3. go to bed<br />4. leave bottle on the kitchen counter for about a week.<br />5. voila! wine vinegar.<br /><br />enjoy.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8241555926501209577.post-65350356289544054292009-10-14T21:10:00.001-05:002019-10-03T20:01:17.191-05:00mom mathhow many moms does it take to change a lightbulb? <br />one.<br />but she's really got to be in the mood to do it.<br />so you may have to walk down a dim hallway.<br /><br />for a while. like a month.<br /><br />it is what it is.<br /><br />so...how many moms does it take to change a smoke detector battery? right.<br />now stop complaining about that beep. <br /><br />shit. there it goes again.<br /><br />goodnight kiddies. mom loves you.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8241555926501209577.post-46256352725208391532009-09-16T17:41:00.002-05:002019-10-03T20:01:15.778-05:00collecting my thoughts for the momentits not that i don't want a partner. i'm just not sure i can swing my heart out on a line again.<br />can you really love like you've never been hurt before? <br />it is possible to forgive AND forget?Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4