tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-58240817847957409272024-03-14T09:54:31.198-04:00indeedy edieediehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00017571145220788190noreply@blogger.comBlogger45125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5824081784795740927.post-73984257341051973612017-11-16T13:21:00.002-05:002017-11-16T18:10:23.353-05:00you are what you eat<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkCVYXX8O7vp9JkxLZcr7ax4x5PATwLqXHq9gXZeOF8Y1cId9fO6RzNpwHe8T4s8MU1CkTZvXvrBs2TU97ILmMfTvf3IkWuOiwB5aHbivphnJ9s46kE4CrYHjco-IW3JRWbu3JZwPXgwo/s1600/t1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="816" data-original-width="612" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkCVYXX8O7vp9JkxLZcr7ax4x5PATwLqXHq9gXZeOF8Y1cId9fO6RzNpwHe8T4s8MU1CkTZvXvrBs2TU97ILmMfTvf3IkWuOiwB5aHbivphnJ9s46kE4CrYHjco-IW3JRWbu3JZwPXgwo/s400/t1.jpg" width="300" /></a></div>
<br />ediehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00017571145220788190noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5824081784795740927.post-49962132272354249312014-08-21T00:46:00.002-04:002014-08-21T00:46:37.671-04:00killer cat<span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}">Dear Domestic Feline:<br /> <br />
I know it was you who left what could have been mistaken for an owl
pellet in the middle of the living room floor for me to discover as I
was battening down the hatches for the night. As I sifted through said
pellet, I realized it was actually a jumble of fur and bone too mangled
to fully recognize as the mouse it once was. I know it was also you who
just last week brought i<span class="text_exposed_show">n another dead, deflated, dehydrated mouse. Your antics of tossing it jubilantly in the air and pouncing on it gave you away.<br /> <br />
I realize that you alone possess sharp claws and hideous fangs and that
you are capable of death and destruction. Exhibit A: the back of the
couch. I realize that every night I sleep prone and vulnerable while you
roam with your concealed carry weapons in search of your next conquest.<br /> <br />
What you fail to realize is that I am much larger than you. Due to our
sheer size difference, the chances of you subduing and conquering me are
slim to none. What you also fail to realize is that I know how to open
up the magic closet that contains cans and bags of tasty tidbits you
call food. It is I who retrieves this food and stocks that closet for
your pleasure and nourishment.<br /> <br /> It is because of all of these
things that I ask you to refrain from leaving anything resembling a
mouse carcass in the living room. Simply put, please, stop bringing in
dead mice from the garage. Better yet, feel free to eat as many dead
mice as your little heart desires.<br /> <br /> I'm glad we've had this
little talk because if I see any more mice miscellany, I may forget how
to open the cans from the magic closet, and stray mice that happen into
the garage may be your only recompense. Good luck with those claws and
fangs.<br /> <br /> Sincerely,<br /> Your Owner</span></span>ediehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00017571145220788190noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5824081784795740927.post-35745574801025854502014-06-11T23:46:00.000-04:002014-06-12T17:56:08.383-04:00home sweet school<div class="gmail_default" style="color: black; font-family: verdana,sans-serif; font-size: small;">
There I was at the self-checkout of My Beloved Meijer when who should
sidle up beside but Mrs. Deason, my much revered and feared high school
math teacher. My heart stopped, then it pounded. I leapt with joy as I
sprung to thank her for all she put me through to teach me a thing or
two about formulas and complicated sums.<br />
<br />
She was a tough egg to crack, let me tell you. She was to be feared,
and most of us with a lick of sense truly did. Who know what she would
make us do if we didn't get our homework done or show all our work. She
was driven and tenacious, and she knew how to use that furrowed brow
when she needed it.</div>
<div class="gmail_default" style="color: black; font-family: verdana,sans-serif; font-size: small;">
<br />
Looking
back, she was my favorite teacher although at the time, I was too
petrified of her to realize it. She made you work, baby. Blood, sweat,
and tears.</div>
<div class="gmail_default" style="color: black; font-family: verdana,sans-serif; font-size: small;">
<br />
I
gushed unabashedly on her ability to get the most out of a kid. She was
touched, I could tell, almost brought to tears. It had been nearly
thirty years since I'd been in her classroom, and I don't know how long
since she retired.</div>
<div class="gmail_default" style="color: black; font-family: verdana,sans-serif; font-size: small;">
<br />
She couldn't have known how much I respected her because I didn't realize it myself until after I left much, much later.</div>
<div class="gmail_default" style="color: black; font-family: verdana,sans-serif; font-size: small;">
<br />
Then I thought to show her my children. I told her that we homeschool, and she shrunk back in visible discomfort.</div>
<div class="gmail_default" style="color: black; font-family: verdana,sans-serif; font-size: small;">
<br />
What
is it, Mrs. Deason? What troubles you so? Have a little faith in me. I
was a good student, remember? I was in National Honor Society two years
running. I got good grades. I <i>could</i> have done better. Yes, but
even though the lightbulb often didn't come on until after the test, I
showed great promise, did I not?</div>
<div class="gmail_default" style="color: black; font-family: verdana,sans-serif; font-size: small;">
<br />
What
then should be troubling you? Is it the fact that I was just feverishly
looking for the $5 coupon I knew I had floating around in my purse. Was
it the flurry of cards and papers and personal effects that had erupted
from my pocketbook? Honestly, my life isn't really this cloud of
confusion you see before you now. It gets better. <br />
<br />
Here, go ask my children. Ask the young one if he knows how to do
long division. See for yourself. Ask them what the capital of Florida
is. Don't worry now. Have faith in the system. I know what I'm doing.
I'm a degreed librarian. If I don't have the answer at my fingertips, I
sure as shootin' know how to find it.<br />
<br />
Don't
wince like that, Mrs. Deason. There's hope for the future. My own
children love math. Why, it is actually their favorite subject. And just
think, I'm sure somewhere right this very minute there is a calculus
class undergoing a grueling pop-quiz. Doesn't that make you feel better,
Mrs. Deason? Somewhere an entire classroom of highschoolers is cutting
their teeth on the quadratic formula. There, there, steady now. O lady, weep no more. It's all just a dream. Just a bad, bad
dream.<br />
<br />
link: <a href="http://www.stanleyschmidt.com/FredGauss/index2.html">life of fred</a>, <a href="http://www.shakespeare-online.com/plays/cymbel_1_1.html">weep no more</a> </div>
ediehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00017571145220788190noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5824081784795740927.post-33701454091539530632011-11-22T11:12:00.000-05:002011-11-22T11:13:47.743-05:00a lady always knows when to leave<p>Preamble<br />I wanted to write this post before my mama died, so I could share it with her. But the words never came. Apparently God wasn't finished with me yet. I don't really have a problem with that. By the time she died, she knew I was crazy about her.</p><p>__________</p><p>Early in November, my mama passed away much like my dad did six months prior. Let’s just say this year has been mighty eventful. Cancer got both of them, but it didn’t get <i>all</i> of them. Some things cancer can’t kill. It can’t kill love. Doesn’t even touch it. Magnifies it, in fact, in exponential proportion. Cancer can’t kill a soul either. That goes on forever. Thankfully, I can look forward to seeing my folks again because they were both believers. Yes, Virginia, this Thanksgiving I have <i>much</i> to be thankful for.<br /></p><p>I had the honor of serving my mama in her last days. She chose to spend them at home instead of going to a hospital. My two sisters and I helped her fulfill this, her last wish. I’ve never felt so close to her or adored her more fully.</p><p>When her pain subsided, she was beautiful, absolutely radiant. I couldn’t stop kissing her. To an onlooker, it would have seemed as though her beauty had wasted away long ago. Unable to eat for weeks, she was frail and thin, emaciated, but my mama still held her head high. She was humbled by the need to have help for every little thing in life, but she accepted help gracefully, kindly, with dignity.</p><p>She had an iron will and stamina to match, and she loved her Lord unequivocally. He’d seen her through her darkest days when classmates would make fun of her for having buck teeth and dresses made out of potato sacks. The Depression took poor to a whole new level. She actually danced down the sidewalk when she realized that God loved her, <i>as is</i>, and regarded her special. In return, my mama loved <i>every</i>body, as is. Especially those of us who weren’t exactly beautiful by the world’s standards. Especially the underdogs. The tired, the poor, the huddled masses. If you ever ate her food, you knew you were loved since cooking was her love language. Man, was she ever good at that.</p><p>My mama was also physically strong and had a high pain tolerance. Two things she’d need desperately until she drew her last breath. God gifted her with the skill set required to end it with grace. Go gracefully, she did. She waited until my sisters and I had removed ourselves a bit. We’d all watched my daddy pass away, and she knew how traumatic that scene could be. So she waited until she was calm, and we had drawn away to rest, and then she bowed out. Quietly, without fanfare, so we didn't have to watch. Her last labor of love.</p>A lady always knows when to leave.ediehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00017571145220788190noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5824081784795740927.post-54176145275249240122010-11-14T21:18:00.012-05:002010-11-15T08:37:22.310-05:00count your blessings<div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; border-collapse: collapse; ">When upon life’s billows you are tempest-tossed,</span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; ">When you are discouraged, thinking all is lost,<br />Count your many blessings, name them one by one,<br />And it will surprise you what the Lord hath done.</span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; "><br /><i>Refrain:<br /></i>Count your blessings, name them one by one,<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span><li class="first" style="list-style-type: none; margin-top: 0px; "><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"></span>Count your blessings, see what God hath done!<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span></li><li class="first" style="list-style-type: none; margin-top: 0px; "><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"></span>Count your blessings, name them one by one,<br />*Count your many blessings, see what God hath done.<span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: pre;"><br /></span>[*And it will surprise you what the Lord hath done.]</li><li style="list-style-type: none; margin-top: 1em; ">Are you ever burdened with a load of care?<br />Does the cross seem heavy you are called to bear?<br />Count your many blessings, every doubt will fly,<br />And you will keep singing as the days go by.</li><li style="list-style-type: none; margin-top: 1em; ">When you look at others with their lands and gold<br />Think that Christ has promised you His wealth untold;<br />Count your many blessings—wealth can never buy<br />Your reward in heaven, nor your home on high.</li><li style="list-style-type: none; margin-top: 1em; ">So, amid the conflict whether great or small,<br />Do not be discouraged, God is over all;<br />Count your many blessings, angels will attend,<br />Help and comfort give you to your journey’s end.</li></span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; "><span class="Apple-style-span">~ Count Your Blessings</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; "><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 24px;"><span class="Apple-style-span"> by Johnson Oatman, Jr., 1897</span></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; "><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 24px;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; "><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 24px;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: separate; line-height: normal; "><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; line-height: 24px; "><span class="Apple-style-span">This is my daddy's favorite song. It epitomizes who he is.</span></span></span></div></span></span></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; line-height: 24px;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; line-height: 24px;"><span class="Apple-style-span">It is hard for me to describe my dad, to give you an accurate picture. He is a gentle giant. He has a cunning wit and a ready smile. He is a good provider, a faithful husband, a dedicated father, a supportive grandfather. </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; line-height: 24px; ">He is stable and true. A man of integrity. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; line-height: 24px; ">He is one goofy dude as was his father before him, and, truth be told, his mother had her own spats of silliness as well. Some people are born silly; other people have silliness thrust upon them.</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; line-height: 24px;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; line-height: 24px;"><span class="Apple-style-span">My dad turned a full-length schoolbus into a camper complete with bunkbeds. He's a smart one with that whole, engineering-brain thing going on. He likes to challenge and nourish his mind with things like complicated puzzles of all sorts and books rich in history.</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; line-height: 24px;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; line-height: 24px;"><span class="Apple-style-span">He is oft quiet but holds his own in a conversation. He is frugal yet generous. He is nonconfrontational, so he may not talk the talk much, but he'll walk the walk <i>every </i>time. Well, almost. ;) He is steadfast with patience like you wouldn't believe. A man of integrity indeed.</span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; line-height: 24px;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; line-height: 24px;"><span class="Apple-style-span">What motivates him? Hmmm...lots of things, I suppose. The desire to do what's right. To please his God. To love his wife. To lead his children.</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; line-height: 24px;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></span></span></div><div>It is an awesome responsibility to be the patriarch of a family. It's not easy, and all eyes are on you. But I see what you've done, Daddy. I see the man you are. How you count your blessings no matter what. Your silent strength isn't lost on me. You are absolutely right. You <i>will</i> beat cancer one day...and heaven will be a richer place.</div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; line-height: 24px;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; line-height: 24px;"><span class="Apple-style-span">I love you, Dad.</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; line-height: 24px;"><span class="Apple-style-span">Your little girl...always</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; line-height: 24px;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; line-height: 24px;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQSYRHRatiHjI7FX8OYGNwcrv7nsTyXjrBlneIJR7e61ArSaY9ab4mKKQ4CoIei3UOmd0Ww3hrnGmfDHexgJyOYxAqGtHWF7hDe20tGlhARlrOtcLrFln_Xvh3Y5CZgbjj0cnW505h2_4/s400/daddysgirl.jpg" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5539620239276267202" /></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; line-height: 24px;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; line-height: 24px;"><span class="Apple-style-span">link: <a href="http://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=1%20Thessalonians%205:18&version=NIV">1 thessalonians 5:18</a>, <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=C3tUJey5scM">hovie lister and the sensational statesman</a></span></span></span></div></div>ediehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00017571145220788190noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5824081784795740927.post-60406361750575028532010-05-21T00:05:00.008-04:002010-05-21T00:53:56.607-04:00terror in the hearts of menIt would appear as though I am raising a terrorist or two. <div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqC0-OF_WbeWQcErC7EBHRC6CEaf0NF2iHyMHzTttee5dKAcczTxHv8q3j8tr03xsVwnPB-GMcQ6ufo6DrJ0G-Vu9osdAlItdW-LVrtPwNMXhsYz6kE8BwuUmyTb3RnEvZxdnWM3n1MT8/s1600/terror.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqC0-OF_WbeWQcErC7EBHRC6CEaf0NF2iHyMHzTttee5dKAcczTxHv8q3j8tr03xsVwnPB-GMcQ6ufo6DrJ0G-Vu9osdAlItdW-LVrtPwNMXhsYz6kE8BwuUmyTb3RnEvZxdnWM3n1MT8/s400/terror.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5471714335363646018" /></a></div><div>For those of you who have ever lived with a small boy, this picture needs no explanation. These things, they happen. When I saw what transpired in my living room, I laughed. I laughed long and loud. Although you can't tell it, there was a set of handcuffs involved. I'm not sure what the dog did to exact such punishment.</div><div><br /></div><div>Allow me to dance delicately around the whole racial profiling issue, but am I not the only one who sees shades of terrorism here? The checkered fabric is somewhat disturbing. That's all I'm saying.<div><br /></div><div>I inquired of my sons why they did this. I got sheepish grins and shrugs in response. I'm not sure they knew fully why they did it. They just did. They had to. It was in their blood. More accurately it was in their genes...or jeans. Uh, well, let's just say, "Testosterone made 'em do it," and leave it at that, shall we?</div><div><br /></div><div>I never had a brother. Now there are three guys in the house and me. The lone female in a sea of testosterone. There is a lot I just don't understand. I laugh because they're weird. I laugh because they're different. I laugh because they stink. I laugh lest I cry. What's a girl to do?</div><div><br /></div><div>I don't get it. Really I don't. Why are guys so weird? Why do they snort and sweat and huff and puff and swagger and sway? Why do they lift heavy stuff and tote that barge and hoist that bale? What is it they're trying to prove? Who is it they're trying to impress? Do they know? Do they care? Is there method behind their madness? Or do they do it because they gotta? Because it just feels right. Because it's there. </div><div><br /></div><div>And what if they don't? What if they don't pretend to be bad guys or borderline terrorists? Will they explode? Will they implode? Will they disintegrate? </div><div><br /></div><div><div>Frankly, I'm a little fearful. I know the minds of these young boys. I know what's coming. They'll tire of torturing each other and turn their attention to me. Then I'll be bound and gagged. Don't worry about me though. I mean, they wouldn't keep me that way forever, would they? Only until they got hungry, right? Then they'd have to let me go. Even terrorists gotta stop to eat once in a while, don't they? Don't they?!?</div><div><br /></div><div>Please send help.</div></div></div>ediehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00017571145220788190noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5824081784795740927.post-5613679141041920322009-12-16T00:38:00.005-05:002009-12-21T08:27:25.942-05:00see the blazing yule before us<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoj3MmlEkyYK7ZGqH3u8inEKIKx3A9V2JWOfHZKlTZlrWyWe3yN0DFuDcLJRm9bGOlXMpGmgVH0Y1eCsxt0MHyFtoXOKRu5lWRgVGIuDpuhgtCuuEqaApKmskuhTZJGzLw3nxj37AVTFw/s1600-h/suvwreathbk.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoj3MmlEkyYK7ZGqH3u8inEKIKx3A9V2JWOfHZKlTZlrWyWe3yN0DFuDcLJRm9bGOlXMpGmgVH0Y1eCsxt0MHyFtoXOKRu5lWRgVGIuDpuhgtCuuEqaApKmskuhTZJGzLw3nxj37AVTFw/s400/suvwreathbk.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5415688408634749906" border="0" /></a><br /><br />My favorite Christmas decoration is the lighted wreath on the back of my SUV.<br /><br />My Beloved - bless his geeky, little heart - MacGyvered a way to make the wreath light up anytime the vehicle's ignition is engaged. Now I can make merry without having to worry about switches and batteries and such. Isn't he wonderful? He enables my goofy, little whims.<br /><br />Yes, I realize I am odd. In all the years I have done this, I don't recall seeing another wreath like it. Could be because it is perhaps, shall we say, a little bit, um, illegal? Well, I don't know that it is illegal, but it could be. Maybe that's why I've never seen another one like it. Or maybe it <span style="font-style: italic;">is</span> legal, and I'm the only loon out there. No, that can't be it. Just the other day, I saw an older gentleman with antlers affixed to the sides of his car to make it look like a reindeer. The antlers were on backward. That's what I call loony. Festive but loony.<br /><br />I'm calling myself an entrepreneur. Living on the edge. Dig that paradigm. Everybody wants to be me.<br /><br />If I had half a brain, I'd probably try to sell these things. Yet it is that little issue of legality that stops me. But, c'mon, folks, what officer who is sound of mind would stop a merry citizen who is just trying to spread a little Christmas cheer even if it <span style="font-style: italic;">is</span> in the form of a small traffic diversion, eh? "Would you care for a Christmas cookie, officer, or maybe some figgy pudding, hmmm?"<br /><br />link: <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UEVmnFQ5fRE&feature=fvw">nat king cole</a>ediehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00017571145220788190noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5824081784795740927.post-70227992204091776142009-10-22T01:23:00.001-04:002009-10-22T01:27:52.457-04:00high and my teaIt was a good hair day in a whimsical, stick-my-finger-in-a-light-socket kind of way. Then I actually went to high tea in my Peanuts gang t-shirt and my pink, canvas shoes whose print smacks of a tattoo or maybe a Guns N' Roses concert tee. Needless to say, I'm my own kinda gal.<br /><br />Yes, I can see a couple of you wincing and smacking your foreheads at the thought of me at high tea in my Peanuts shirt. But this is me, y'all.<br /><br />High tea. Now there's something I never thought I'd find myself doing. I loooove tea; don't get me wrong. I'm just, well, not prim and proper. You read the above paragraphs, right? I'm comic relief, not high tea material.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj49SZJdYnhvT9B8HJ2SaVgXlCeED9HQWu1bd8UR_V2d33ZnU3NYvBV2QgHWfVK_atI7MvPLuJhHRntAdH7TCFTEzkJGSiCiTm4Dm2AvpNEGB5EKLA07ctuOMYGbSlWIGasUhhz70eEXaY/s1600-h/hightea.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj49SZJdYnhvT9B8HJ2SaVgXlCeED9HQWu1bd8UR_V2d33ZnU3NYvBV2QgHWfVK_atI7MvPLuJhHRntAdH7TCFTEzkJGSiCiTm4Dm2AvpNEGB5EKLA07ctuOMYGbSlWIGasUhhz70eEXaY/s400/hightea.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5395289440336233890" border="0" /></a><br />Even so, I was flattered beyond belief that I was invited to such an event. It was amazing. Little finger sandwiches, scones, chocolate-covered strawberries, and tea, of course. The tablecloth alone was gorgeous. (Why is it that I can't remember the last time I sat at a table that donned a tablecloth? Oh yeah, probably has something to do with my Peanuts t-shirt. Ahem.) The dishes were dainty. The company was fun, and there was a lot of laughter.<br /><br />Is it OK to laugh at high tea? There weren't any guffaws. Don't recall any chortles either. Maybe some snickers. Plenty o' mirth. Just the right mix of joviality for the occasion, methinks. But, hey, this is me here. Consider the source.<br /><br />A part of me has always wanted to be dignified in an Anne Shirley sort of way. Now, there's a gal I can relate to. Just enough mischief to make her interesting. Beautiful with a wild imagination. A fire in her heart and a gleam in her eye. Yet she knew how she was supposed to act in social situations. Whether or not she always carried it off with dignity, she knew.<br /><br />Me? I don't quite know. I'd like to know, but I don't. I haven't been properly trained.<br /><br />This is me, y'all. What you see is what you get. Hope you like it. Love me or leave me.ediehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00017571145220788190noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5824081784795740927.post-18898771937861860072009-09-30T01:52:00.002-04:002009-09-30T01:56:25.511-04:00a tale of two journeysIt was the best of times, it was the worst of times.<br /><br />Camping with the extended family is always a rollicking good time. So is camping. Period. For that matter.<br /><br />This time, it didn't go so well really, not for Dave. He suffered with the worst migraine of his four-year old, little life. Lots of pain and puking. Sorry. No nice way to put it.<br /><br />That's all behind him now. I think. I hope. I pray.<br /><br />He was a new man today. No more agony. Just lots of full-throttle silliness. That's my boy.<br /><br />The camping trip was an odd mix. Check that. I'm not speaking of my relatives in this instance, although "odd mix" would not be a stretch. Ahem.<br /><br />It rained often if not much. Enough to dampen the feet. Inwardly, I laughed at the rain. It was either laugh or cry. I'd much rather laugh.<br /><br />I had my husband's baseball hat to protect my curly locks. Dry bangs = happy woman.<br /><br />All told, dry ankles = happy woman too. Every morning I had clean, dry pants to don. No matter that within minutes I'd step out into sogginess that would eventually soak my ankles because, for the moment, my pants were clean and snug and unsaturated by rain slosh.<br /><br />These, I found, were the essentials: my baseball hat, clean pants, and a pain-free Dave. Unfortunately I got the latter far less than I would have liked. C'est la vie.<br /><br />Last year at this time, all was right with the world. I don't recall that it rained. Even more of the extended family was on hand to add to the aforementioned odd mix. I most certainly had a pain-free Dave then. Yet, he didn't quite make it through the canoe trip.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqwjxIgKjNfowj-aVSL46OT6nPM9HTwXgVckwBfsivYFKnM9s2Hxh6eHIVewTXUX4QMtn9x4jQ4POji4GOsYlAdvq9uXklKPHd2JDbUUCpJ8AfOHrjqCpy5H-zmhiysVkZXC0afWK5BXQ/s1600-h/davecanoe.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 264px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqwjxIgKjNfowj-aVSL46OT6nPM9HTwXgVckwBfsivYFKnM9s2Hxh6eHIVewTXUX4QMtn9x4jQ4POji4GOsYlAdvq9uXklKPHd2JDbUUCpJ8AfOHrjqCpy5H-zmhiysVkZXC0afWK5BXQ/s400/davecanoe.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5387133581241672450" border="0" /></a><br />It was the best of times.ediehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00017571145220788190noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5824081784795740927.post-80167060270729886202009-09-22T00:37:00.000-04:002009-09-22T00:38:43.959-04:00my perfect stormIt was an exhilarating downpour. I was outside under a big fir tree. I heard the rain start, but it was subtle and moments before completely dry, so I thought the noise was the wind kicking up. I looked up, and this beautiful, not-too-hard, not-too-dense rain was all encompassing. I stepped out into it taken aback. It stopped shortly thereafter. Everything was gorgeous and bright. Glistening. Stunning. There I was in the midst of one of God's everyday miracles.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaQl_QOX5J_F7A_0VNHk-Nu7-M5MfzHJi_QZ8vMVzS_IGdBvp7k8a-a9TaNdf1Gq4YFrsNutm0hBxXrI3J-nZYRSI4uCf6CBymDzhH1mulxYNX7gQ66orseoDXEo-wzkuD_PbZovUFoHw/s1600-h/rain.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaQl_QOX5J_F7A_0VNHk-Nu7-M5MfzHJi_QZ8vMVzS_IGdBvp7k8a-a9TaNdf1Gq4YFrsNutm0hBxXrI3J-nZYRSI4uCf6CBymDzhH1mulxYNX7gQ66orseoDXEo-wzkuD_PbZovUFoHw/s400/rain.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5384124999821797762" border="0" /></a>ediehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00017571145220788190noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5824081784795740927.post-47169945332258214112009-09-14T00:51:00.003-04:002009-11-23T10:31:40.729-05:00the way you sip your tea<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbTfKGDTG9EqF6RPsQzI5kku-VsGLeBXeZxs0JjI-qMVzks5R-F25jECGdVfBRO-ghtf6XhYPM1ik3tZeacThjKK7KqxwmoA6kLRa7a_yn9abTa2BjoqQj1hAHji5FVwnnmBgX9BLOfyQ/s1600-h/teacup.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbTfKGDTG9EqF6RPsQzI5kku-VsGLeBXeZxs0JjI-qMVzks5R-F25jECGdVfBRO-ghtf6XhYPM1ik3tZeacThjKK7KqxwmoA6kLRa7a_yn9abTa2BjoqQj1hAHji5FVwnnmBgX9BLOfyQ/s200/teacup.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5381315102896544098" border="0" /></a>I have a friend who shares the same personality type I do. It is quite amusing to see the male manifestation of myself. Apparently, I'm buff. I'm tough. I'm a big teddy bear. And I have a tattoo. Everybody wants to be me.<br /><br />Now this guy's wife has the polar opposite personality type of her husband and I. You'd think the two of us would really gang up on her and want to claw her eyes out. But we don't. We find her rather fascinating. She's quite amusing. Then again, so are we. She's ubercool. We are too. She's smart. Yeah, us too. I could go on, but I don't want to embarrass myself. I do have to continue writing, you know.<br /><br />My point, and I do have one, is this: Perhaps the reason her husband and I find her so riveting is that she's different. Well, she's different than he is for obvious reasons. Ahem. But she's also different than the both us for other reasons. And we find ourselves standing back, shaking our heads and smiling to ourselves in that knowing way. You know, "Oh, there she goes again."<br /><br />This is where it gets particularly compelling to me. The personality is the thing. Well, at least for me, that's the attraction. I mean, he, no doubt, has these uncontrollable urges to kiss her, and I just <span style="font-style: italic;">don't</span>. It'd be all wrong. For one thing, she's entirely too tall for me. (Oh, I amuse myself.)<br /><br />At any rate, discounting all else, if you zone in on the personality gig, you start to wonder what exactly it is that makes different personalities want to come together in the first place. This is what I want to understand. How does all this work? What makes us tick? How are we different, and how are we the same?<br /><br />Speaking of the same, my hubby and I have strikingly similar personalities 'cept he's more spontaneous than I. I guess that makes me the boring one. Shirley, you jest.<br /><br />Are you thinking what I'm thinking? Cuz I got a surprise for you. You may be able to figure out what it is about you that makes you do what you do. And grab your peeps because they may want to do this too.<br /><br />There's this thing called a Myers-Briggs Type Indicator. There is also this other thing called a Jung Typology Test. Fancy names for a personality test. Don't worry. It can be fun. Just take it and see what you get. Then armed with your personality type, see what it means.<br /><br />Now I won't be so bold as to tell you that what you read about yourself will be 100% accurate. It may feel like your personality profile fits you like yesterday's underwear. But it will raise your eyebrows a few times. I guarantee. And you'll probably laugh in spite of yourself if you know what's good for you.<br /><br />Step One: Take this free online test. <a href="http://www.humanmetrics.com/cgi-win/JTypes2.asp">HumanMetrics</a><br />Step Two: Given your personality type, see what it means. <a href="http://www.personalitypage.com/portraits.html">Personality Type Portraits</a><br /><br />Give it a whirl. Hopefully you'll be glad you did. Here, I'll show you mine, and you can show me yours if you like. I'm an ISTJ. See, that wasn't so hard, now was it?<br /><br />link: <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nOqa3EGi4uw">ella and louis</a>ediehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00017571145220788190noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5824081784795740927.post-55586278609874066382009-09-13T01:04:00.002-04:002009-09-13T01:04:39.477-04:00how firm a foundationThe day finally arrived. I went to my local IGA in my pajama pants, and my Janie was there. It is the little things in life that thrill me. The funniest little things.<br /><br />We hugged. We laughed. We talked about our pajama pants. It was classic.<br /><br />You have to know Janie. She's quite a lady. Lemme see if I can find you something. This says a lot.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJaXIKg4gfYsbhigJWM3dQ6ceHZm2ivsGGlXR48acfz_mTPf-JtkGox7Zqx4iIbPWVwlFSgKGair2WERNrJWC5qobDUKY2dHjU75b3Mrhek3XTWEA4rXPuELF9sxRbnQjVLM89RYOw0v8/s1600-h/janie.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 141px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJaXIKg4gfYsbhigJWM3dQ6ceHZm2ivsGGlXR48acfz_mTPf-JtkGox7Zqx4iIbPWVwlFSgKGair2WERNrJWC5qobDUKY2dHjU75b3Mrhek3XTWEA4rXPuELF9sxRbnQjVLM89RYOw0v8/s400/janie.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5380807805195902738" border="0" /></a>See what I mean? She's some kinda gal. This was a billboard spread. It is only one little piece of her story.<br /><br />She's amazing. Have I already said that? Well, she is. Talk about strength of character. Whew, doggie! She's a lot like her mama. Beautiful inside and out.<br /><blockquote>How firm a foundation, ye saints of the Lord,<br />Is laid for your faith in His excellent word!<br />What more can He say than to you He hath said—<br />To you who for refuge to Jesus have fled?<br /><br />Fear not, I am with thee, oh, be not dismayed,<br />For I am thy God, and will still give thee aid;<br />I’ll strengthen thee, help thee, and cause thee to stand,<br />Upheld by My gracious, omnipotent hand.<br /><br />When through the deep waters I call thee to go,<br />The rivers of sorrow shall not overflow;<br />For I will be with thee thy trouble to bless,<br />And sanctify to thee thy deepest distress.<br /><br />When through fiery trials thy pathway shall lie,<br />My grace, all-sufficient, shall be thy supply;<br />The flame shall not harm thee; I only design<br />Thy dross to consume and thy gold to refine.<br /><br />The soul that on Jesus doth lean for repose,<br />I will not, I will not, desert to his foes;<br />That soul, though all hell should endeavor to shake,<br />I’ll never, no never, no never forsake.<br /></blockquote>ediehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00017571145220788190noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5824081784795740927.post-41823233187835424622009-09-12T01:34:00.002-04:002009-09-14T16:44:08.880-04:00goodwill huntingThe other day, I found the most wonderful things at Goodwill. My visit started and ended with a bang. Just inside the door on one of the sought-after gray carts was a three-dollar bowling ball and bag. Any fool knows that's a great deal. Even if you do have to change your name to Josh.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_g3A6EvJHzFQAy5AFMt8YDsAXdwfyLORF7LzFqF3JwmpK6nHS4ztgfgrETl0c4mb4Hugv3jfhJymkOJOYRjc-y2aCWnWemRwL1OCyNKvPsz-BLj-kjdboNByf5Xo7MJw5jKnCAwSLA8g/s1600-h/josh.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 384px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_g3A6EvJHzFQAy5AFMt8YDsAXdwfyLORF7LzFqF3JwmpK6nHS4ztgfgrETl0c4mb4Hugv3jfhJymkOJOYRjc-y2aCWnWemRwL1OCyNKvPsz-BLj-kjdboNByf5Xo7MJw5jKnCAwSLA8g/s400/josh.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5380449395388955106" border="0" /></a><br />Nestled on another cart was this shapely corked bottle. Then as I was darting past the clothes racks, this billowy blouse practically jumped out at me and begged me to take it home. How could I resist?<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtFSKERy_6AB8IAlwYUPrLH1mg4mWK8nGj4igspJPWw7IDshU1pbiywP-wIHYYT2QS-7jFGqMq79POMVAil3ZenLTkd4nO6uptojG5TxLIekRKj7AB8rIZFmoO0MENuHoCW3y5uYw71m4/s1600-h/joshetc.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtFSKERy_6AB8IAlwYUPrLH1mg4mWK8nGj4igspJPWw7IDshU1pbiywP-wIHYYT2QS-7jFGqMq79POMVAil3ZenLTkd4nO6uptojG5TxLIekRKj7AB8rIZFmoO0MENuHoCW3y5uYw71m4/s400/joshetc.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5380448940720292914" border="0" /></a><br />But then, <span style="font-style: italic;">then </span>the most amazing thing happened. On my way to the furniture section, what to my wondering eyes did appear but my beloved of all Hannahs along with her best pal Esther. A two-fer-one. Talk about your major bargains. Remember when I told you I had a week that ended with a <a href="http://indeedyedie.blogspot.com/2009/08/speechless.html">fulfilling surprise</a>? <span style="font-style: italic;">This</span> was it.<br /><br />You gotta know Hannah. She moved out of state. Finding her here <span style="font-style: italic;">anywhere</span> is like finding a diamond in the rough. Then again, you gotta know Hannah. Of course, she'd be at the Goodwill. That's where all the great stuff is. Amen?<br /><br />What a great time we had. Hannah and Esther, they're beautiful dames with a ready wit. We had the place rocking with laughter. All abuzz with excitement. You'd have thought it was 50% Off Day or something. I laughed until I ached and almost cried.<br /><br />And do you know something else that is beguiling about those two little lovelies? Look closely, you won't want to miss this. They both have <a href="http://indeedyedie.blogspot.com/2009/08/eyes-have-it.html">those eyes</a>. Those breath-taking, promise-breaking eyes. And there they were. Two powerful sets of them. Both belonging to women I hold dear. I was powerless under their spell.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2XtegTWrE-jz6Io2Dq4pbUSvlzxI5lwLrYnPOOE6Z9IOOJtyGy3_NDvW8KkL3NfcNYSV-WmD3-HwR4AV8qr7cXrk1Zi_PqIfA9hftNvcRweEdP2pUQQBNzzq_uLhjWtrrMUiqMb8VoIw/s1600-h/thoseeyes.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 338px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2XtegTWrE-jz6Io2Dq4pbUSvlzxI5lwLrYnPOOE6Z9IOOJtyGy3_NDvW8KkL3NfcNYSV-WmD3-HwR4AV8qr7cXrk1Zi_PqIfA9hftNvcRweEdP2pUQQBNzzq_uLhjWtrrMUiqMb8VoIw/s400/thoseeyes.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5380448623517152482" border="0" /></a><br />It is a good thing I went there alone because upon that sight, all responsibility just flew out the window. But wait. No, I wasn't there alone. My children were there with me only I barely have recollection of that now. Yes, that's right. I remember it distinctly. My youngest was pumped because he had just secured a three-dollar bowling ball. There, there, Josh. You have fun with that. Mama's just a little dimwitted now. Can you blame her? Have you seen those eyes?<br /><br />link: <a href="http://indeedyedie.blogspot.com/2009/08/eyes-have-it.html">the eyes have it</a>ediehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00017571145220788190noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5824081784795740927.post-11493304913509794772009-09-11T14:58:00.005-04:002009-09-11T19:04:25.512-04:00my baby has migraines<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoYEFt0S8NgX4RAmQ3VOGw20Qs2m-7UIbcKnTxUzEHSm7eUe6E5cxwRt8ZQueFsSm0g7V3RU3k_TwWmX8DfyoFBiYc_QtBsi7_nGIX4RBktbnbo7cVZswTJ2B_LqHj7BV9erkMPR947Ng/s1600-h/davegoodwill.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoYEFt0S8NgX4RAmQ3VOGw20Qs2m-7UIbcKnTxUzEHSm7eUe6E5cxwRt8ZQueFsSm0g7V3RU3k_TwWmX8DfyoFBiYc_QtBsi7_nGIX4RBktbnbo7cVZswTJ2B_LqHj7BV9erkMPR947Ng/s400/davegoodwill.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5380282805284017922" border="0" /></a>It is a life sentence but not deadly. He gets it honest. He is just like his daddy. (sigh) In most ways, that's a good thing. Not this time.<br /><br />There'll be no MRI. And it's not a tumah. (Thank you, Ahnold.)<br /><br />The doc was good. Articulate, definitive, thorough, kind. He told us what we expected and wanted to hear. Still, it is good to hear it from an edjumicated medical professional.<br /><br />Glad that it is over, but it has only just begun. Sorry 'bout your life of hard knocks, kid. Something tells me you got the gumption it takes to carry it.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEil9trBX4UJB1CVzEkJ2_NrTNBCCWqQPRprcV6g1CRy5yEclP3DG2ZnRmWrNfRzuIEN2tziBOC2aL7BtTGtiWMe_OT2uFPuDOJivYmFFkfnY_cMkQUnoKApWDkMssnQLaAqjhweXCEKDDY/s1600-h/samapple.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEil9trBX4UJB1CVzEkJ2_NrTNBCCWqQPRprcV6g1CRy5yEclP3DG2ZnRmWrNfRzuIEN2tziBOC2aL7BtTGtiWMe_OT2uFPuDOJivYmFFkfnY_cMkQUnoKApWDkMssnQLaAqjhweXCEKDDY/s400/samapple.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5380282898801193458" border="0" /></a><br />Hey, if you can't use this as a forum for gratuitous pictures of your kids, then what's a blog for anyway?ediehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00017571145220788190noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5824081784795740927.post-12759034529682037942009-09-09T23:13:00.006-04:002009-09-10T19:00:36.794-04:00incorrigible angstWords are incredibly delicious, are they not? Here is a short list of words I find particularly appealing and why. Short because I'm sleepy. Appealing because I'm silly.<br /><br />angst: Best enjoyed when watching somebody else say it as it starts with a brief snarl. GRRR!<br />bombastic: If that's not fun to say, what is?<br />ilk: Not much great about this word since it makes you feel like you need to hawk a loogie.<br />incorrigible: Makes stubborn sound classy.<br />melancholy: It doesn't sound at all like what it means. The word itself conjures thoughts of warm breezes o'er a blooming meadow. Nothing of this dreadful sorry kind of thing.<br />pithy: It'd be better if it didn't thound tho thithy.<br />quaff: Snoopy gets almost all the credit on this one.<br />serendipity: The faster you say it, the sillier it gets. Actually for the full effect, you have to draw out the first two syllables and quickstep the last three.<br /><br />That's <span style="font-style: italic;">my</span> short list. Whatcha got in yours?ediehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00017571145220788190noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5824081784795740927.post-68884547257459026182009-09-04T01:04:00.003-04:002009-09-11T19:05:12.274-04:00this little light of mineThis was a week for the record books.<br /><br />This one told me he loved me. That doesn't happen very often. I know well enough to pay attention.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimmpsCiGHSSjW6z6RuqzDVS-wPTf4SqyUmpbXeL3B6qIkttkFhNRKlDeIXLsgmPtWn32dllTqoX8-4Inm0pE699UocFJ0HSvLzYFSPQhBSz5j6hHjfP79SllPZBeWz4R4FS_Tdqp5vQ_U/s1600-h/sam.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimmpsCiGHSSjW6z6RuqzDVS-wPTf4SqyUmpbXeL3B6qIkttkFhNRKlDeIXLsgmPtWn32dllTqoX8-4Inm0pE699UocFJ0HSvLzYFSPQhBSz5j6hHjfP79SllPZBeWz4R4FS_Tdqp5vQ_U/s400/sam.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5377464180798113058" border="0" /></a><br />This one told me he loved me. He does that every day. And he always gives a bear hug and a kiss as accompaniment.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWf0F2xcB1AWzkG96U1lsxw83WiNv5xFtLyLi67JdUc92yA6WtkU_UvuSVBv0bfLNFIoxHrxFusX7mjuKUoFIAkkDWOa0leRlwjKrcrRovRDFBGkvRZqytLQ9iDbtqCraN0zQZK9Yv0xA/s1600-h/dave.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWf0F2xcB1AWzkG96U1lsxw83WiNv5xFtLyLi67JdUc92yA6WtkU_UvuSVBv0bfLNFIoxHrxFusX7mjuKUoFIAkkDWOa0leRlwjKrcrRovRDFBGkvRZqytLQ9iDbtqCraN0zQZK9Yv0xA/s400/dave.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5377474772126602482" border="0" /></a><br />This one told me he loved me. And he always tells it like it is. As a matter of fact, he and his little brother ran up to me and hugged me simultaneously. I could have died happy on the spot.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyFGB54KsSHBxymklgLxoxCIC3lRfQG2ZFaqoaN0Gh4vMADDD7TGPVBtw1lMArwY65aWWjc0yZMeJs-DHP6Nc528ige4VgU-Af1Lk_mMbEWXvmCWvfFjyX7Ckh-uC5GBJ39pIYcdHtUak/s1600-h/chandler.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyFGB54KsSHBxymklgLxoxCIC3lRfQG2ZFaqoaN0Gh4vMADDD7TGPVBtw1lMArwY65aWWjc0yZMeJs-DHP6Nc528ige4VgU-Af1Lk_mMbEWXvmCWvfFjyX7Ckh-uC5GBJ39pIYcdHtUak/s400/chandler.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5377465241496899762" border="0" /></a><br />This one told me she loved me. And I melted. Like buttah.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhj6g4pS4zIZ5cqsKTqrFDRgRogdQpJZAhrD5Ecpn1-wn08XPAWAkqkJPzVYJmX9IMUX6XQXuOFVHeN966T9hbCizi8duH16QDHIVbhP6or_VBXOItCuIkMhiOVdAuo0Yjcroixj28Day8/s1600-h/nadia.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhj6g4pS4zIZ5cqsKTqrFDRgRogdQpJZAhrD5Ecpn1-wn08XPAWAkqkJPzVYJmX9IMUX6XQXuOFVHeN966T9hbCizi8duH16QDHIVbhP6or_VBXOItCuIkMhiOVdAuo0Yjcroixj28Day8/s400/nadia.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5377464956277305458" border="0" /></a><br />This one told me he loved me. And I hang on every word he says.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeJlJpBZ5JmS6lGXIFiXGVlaSRbvQcU6zxLdPv3cwKMlvu7xiSweFfj-EDp_YG-fbtbehlyKfpNhoqEIwaIe8c78SR_8D_T7gEE7qgX9JHqxjXzVjTGhyphenhyphenU0JOjH8MayxBrHkl9C7L0W8A/s1600-h/kellar.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeJlJpBZ5JmS6lGXIFiXGVlaSRbvQcU6zxLdPv3cwKMlvu7xiSweFfj-EDp_YG-fbtbehlyKfpNhoqEIwaIe8c78SR_8D_T7gEE7qgX9JHqxjXzVjTGhyphenhyphenU0JOjH8MayxBrHkl9C7L0W8A/s400/kellar.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5377464715578285778" border="0" /></a><br />This one ran up to me and hugged my leg. I know what he meant.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEM6jiU_FmPvFSu-RVRG7hWstgVjdmv3GU9Lbh0Em0QlW07ClgmqpfuPHRRL1heEToY9Uk7Ec485hKTlWvRTfJJjNPB1zhHu93YfRZ6trXtKR7Ck2tYdSX6mNmfM8XUeID_Fp6HjN2URg/s1600-h/dawson.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEM6jiU_FmPvFSu-RVRG7hWstgVjdmv3GU9Lbh0Em0QlW07ClgmqpfuPHRRL1heEToY9Uk7Ec485hKTlWvRTfJJjNPB1zhHu93YfRZ6trXtKR7Ck2tYdSX6mNmfM8XUeID_Fp6HjN2URg/s400/dawson.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5377472933707267986" border="0" /></a><br />It's good to be me.ediehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00017571145220788190noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5824081784795740927.post-9936213413756785182009-09-03T00:48:00.001-04:002009-09-03T01:08:09.142-04:00who needs a beauty spa?<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHtmB5bRYvoTiGvp4oWFftSnaUM2alFob25DU4N9WYY2UxUJPFERfHCRtPxHXDvhEb-gUxRwjHnFnLBN7TjZwN9lDu8FrAEGk9Uy7M8IlMLBwZ9Gb_2hWjpT_h5x34_xkSVwSAPJsN0S4/s1600-h/asleep2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHtmB5bRYvoTiGvp4oWFftSnaUM2alFob25DU4N9WYY2UxUJPFERfHCRtPxHXDvhEb-gUxRwjHnFnLBN7TjZwN9lDu8FrAEGk9Uy7M8IlMLBwZ9Gb_2hWjpT_h5x34_xkSVwSAPJsN0S4/s400/asleep2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5377103461563906050" border="0" /></a><br />I think I just got a free spa treatment. For two hours this morning, Dave under slight sedation wallered in my lap waiting to get sleepy enough to succumb to the MRI. I feel like I've just undergone a complete body dermabrasion. And I didn't have to pay a thing for it. Lucky me.<br /><br />It didn't happen. The MRI, that is. But you gotta understand Dave to know the gig. The guy has two modes: sleep and full throttle. There is no in between. So even though the doc attempted to sedate Dave with some liquid loopiness, the guy was just not going to be able to be perfectly still for a noisy, irritating, futuristic-looking medical test. He's four and fast. What's a guy to do?<br /><br />So the next thing we'll try at some yet to be determined date and time is an MRI with what will no doubt be a general anesthetic. Whoa, Nellie. Here we go. I don't think I signed on for that one. No, wait. I'm his mama. Yes, I did. Never mind.<br /><br />In light of this morning's events, in case you are wondering, Dave is very funny stoned. And you thought he was funny before. Add to that mix, random stumbling, slurred speech and even more goofy faces than he normally renders, and you have a recipe for comedic genius.<br /><br />Don't get me wrong, the morning wasn't without its stress. We did our best to keep our wit and wits about us, but it wasn't easy. There were times I laughed and other times when I wanted to alternately scream and cry, but I knew that would do no good so I forewent it. (Or is that foregoed?)<br /><br />At one point what looked like the entire hospital OB/GYN nursing staff came out of a conference room while Dave and I were in the hall. Dave was protesting madly, and I was holding him calmly and trying to ride out the storm.<br /><br />My smile toward the nurses was true but waning, and I figured that it was the least I owed them since they've seen more of me than anybody has a right to. Yet without their nimble skill, I may have not been able to bring my children into this world. Let alone cradle one of them as he screamed for relief from an unknown demon.<br /><br />Let me just say the prayers y'all sent were timely and well received. The morning wouldn't have gone so well without them. Just in case you need to know, even though I know the harrowing experience we'll have before us, the calm still remains.<br /><br />I am not looking forward to this firewalk however. Not by any stretch of the imagination. So I'll thank you kindly to pray again whenever we know the appointed time 'cause I think <span style="font-style: italic;">I</span> would like to be sedated for that one. Maybe I'll just down a brewski in the parking lot on the way in. That should do the trick.ediehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00017571145220788190noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5824081784795740927.post-34748410268657036122009-09-02T01:52:00.007-04:002009-09-02T15:57:55.475-04:00it is well"Your son needs an MRI stat." I can assure you this is not particularly something you want to hear. But hear it today I did.<br /><br />I was stunned but calm. I was perplexed but calm. I was thankful to the medical community for their quick action, but yet again calm.<br /><br />Whereas I have no assured certainty that what it is we are searching for is, in fact, not there, above all, remarkably enough, I have calm.<br /><br />Frankly, I can't give myself credit for this. I know every good and perfect thing comes from God. Here, right now, my good and perfect thing is calm. And it ain't comin' from me, baby. So I'm the last one to be taking credit for it.<br /><br />My apologies for being so vague. What we're dealing with here is my guy Dave and his recurring headaches. As it so happens, Dave had what I'm calling a migraine last Thursday. It was so bad he puked. He instantly felt better, crumpled in my arms and fell asleep for the night.<br /><br />I can count on one hand the number of times I think he's had a migraine. This, by far, was the worst. He in his ashen, o'erwrought state. Yet in his four years, he's been plagued with scads of other headaches I've attributed to allergies or sinus pressure. His daddy has the same vexing plague, so I find myself not too terribly alarmed.<br /><br />Although his daddy never pukes from the pain. Or maybe to relieve it. My baby. My four year-old baby did and has. Something about this doesn't seem right.<br /><br />This whole headache and puking thing, although it has only happened thrice, is assuredly what the doctors simply do not want to see. I feel their pain. So tomorrow, what the radiologists are looking for is a tumor. I pray they search feverishly for naught.<br /><br />Honestly though, I think they will. Find nothing, that is. There goes that calm again. Although I have some reason to believe I may be wrong, I'm chalking this up to heredity. Bad genes, you know. Happens to the best of us. Apparently.<br /><br />I could be wrong. I pray I am not. And there goes that calm again.<br /><br />Call it denial if you want. I really don't think that's it. And I don't presume to be some faithful giant. But I do know Whose I am. And Who sees me through. And Who despite my sobbing fear, brings me encompassing, controlling calm.<br /><br />Whatever my lot, Thou has taught me to say,<br />It is well, it is well, with my soul.<br /><div style="text-align: right;">- Horatio G. Spafford, 1873</div>link: <a href="http://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=james%201:17&version=NIV">james 1:17</a>, <a href="http://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=Philippians%204:%207&version=NIV">philippians 4:7</a>ediehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00017571145220788190noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5824081784795740927.post-50086857380704805142009-08-31T10:00:00.000-04:002009-08-31T10:01:53.836-04:00lions and tigers and bearsMy favorite animals to watch are the big cats. Thanks to Marlin Perkins, I've not always had to watch them in a zoo.<br /><br />As a rule, I feel there is something dreadfully wrong about putting an animal in a cage. Especially when the cage is much too small for the animal to have any semblance of freedom. Animals although subservient to man deserve better.<br /><br />My cats, my big cats, they exude power, confidence, intrigue, bravery. And yet somehow they look genteel and approachable. But they are conflicted, annoyed. This cage is not their home. They deserve to be free, unrestricted by the confines of man.<br /><br />I have a friend. He's a lot like those animals.<br /><br />Just to look at him, you'd be awed by his sheer strength. He is a man of strong moral character and great resolve. He's learned much and knows well enough to share the bounty. He is God-fearing to say the least. He's earned the respect and love of his family and friends and deservedly so.<br /><br />But this world. This cage is not his home. For all that is good and is true, heaven is his home. And he is bound by the restrictions put upon by himself and his surroundings.<br /><br />He and the rest of us fortunate enough to be called children of God, we are confined. Confined to serve on this sod until God sees fit to call us home. Until then, we pace. We toil. We sweat. We work to serve the One who gave us life.<br /><br />Someday we will join Him. We will forget all about our cages. Because we won't be able to see anything else besides His glory.<br /><br />Until that day, we do well to look outside the cage. To focus on our home. To see the One who put us here and Who brought us through.<br /><br />I love you, you gentle giant. But don't mourn your cage. Grow despite it, not to spite it. Christ is our Victor. No cage confines Him. Don't let yours confine you. In Him, with Him, and through Him, there is no cage.<br /><br />Matthew 16:18-19<br /><sup>18</sup> On this rock I will build my church, and the gates of Hades will not overcome it. <sup>19</sup> I will give you the keys of the kingdom of heaven; whatever you bind on earth will be bound in heaven, and whatever you loose on earth will be loosed in heaven.<br />_____<br /><br />If I have seen further, it is by standing on the shoulders of giants.<br /><div style="text-align: right;">- Isaac Newton<br /></div>ediehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00017571145220788190noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5824081784795740927.post-28314225145931738922009-08-29T00:53:00.004-04:002009-08-29T01:00:27.488-04:00they comfort meThe morning started with happy news. The kind of news you get when you half-expect something dreadful to happen, but it doesn't. News that makes you catch your breath and thank God that He brought you through. News that leaves you glad the day turned out as it did.<br /><br />It could have easily gone the other way. The days aren't always painless. And the news ain't always good.<br /><br />Yet the One who made us is steadfast and sovereign.<br /><br />Psalm 18:29-30<br /><sup>29</sup> With your help I can advance against a troop;<br /> with my God I can scale a wall. <p> <sup>30</sup> As for God, his way is perfect;<br /> the word of the LORD is flawless.<br /> He is a shield<br /> for all who take refuge in him. </p>link: <a href="http://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=Psalm+23&version=NIV">psalm 23</a>ediehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00017571145220788190noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5824081784795740927.post-82558446775667023592009-08-27T00:00:00.003-04:002020-02-09T15:30:09.465-05:00dear jonThis guy I know named Jon is on a quest to lose weight. And yesterday, Jon, in his blog, took a picture of his scales as he stood perched on them, camera-in-hand. Thankfully, the picture only showed Jon's bare ankles and feet, but Jon went on to say what I most feared—that he was also naked from the ankles up.<br />
<br />
Frankly, Jon, I really didn't need to know that.<br />
<br />
There aren't many people in this world I want to think about being naked. Not many people at all. The list is short. Very, very short. Did you hear that, Jon?<br />
<br />
As far as I'm concerned, everybody in the world pops out of bed like Kleenex fully clothed, refreshed, and ready for the day. There are no clothing changes. No potty breaks. No wardrobe malfunctions. No showering or disrobing of any kind. Nothing. Nada. Zippo.<br />
<br />
Everybody gets out of bed and just flies. And if they do anything else, I don't want to think about it. I.don't.want.to think about it. No way. No how.<br />
<br />
But now my Pollyanna image of the world is blown to bits, Jon. And I'm not sure I can withstand the images running through my head.<br />
<br />
Of course, you know my quest for thinness too, Jon. I'm working hard to beat the bulge. And like you, I stand on my scales every morning in baited anticipation wondering how I fared from the day before. Oh, but, Jon, I am not like you. No, I am not. When I stand on my scales, I am fully clothed. That's how I like for people to think about me, Jon, fully clothed.<br />
<br />
I appeal to the mathematician in you, Jon. Here's how I reconcile the weight of my night clothes during my morning weigh in. One day, after I weighed myself <span style="font-style: italic;">fully clothed</span>, I walked to my kitchen, still fully clothed, and assembled my night clothes atop my kitchen scales and weighed them. And just to clarify, in the comfort of my own kitchen, I was, in fact, <u>fully clothed</u>. What I found there in my kitchen is that a typical set of my evening attire weighs right at one pound. So each morning, I dutifully weigh myself and subtract one pound for the clothes I have on my person. Ingenious, huh, Jon? Don't you wish you were me?<br />
<br />
Cuz I'd much rather be somebody else right now, Jon. As I mentioned before, there aren't many people in this world I want to think about being naked. Dare I be so bold to say that unless you are a cute little kid or my husband, the thought of you being naked should never cross my mind.<br />
<br />
I think I'm going to need therapy, Jon. Please don't bare your ankles to me again, Jon. I'm not sure I could stand it. As far as I'm concerned, you've never been naked a single day in your life. This is my mind, and I don't want you running naked through it, thankyouverymuch. Get out of here, and put some clothes on before you catch cold.<br />
<br />
link: <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JfcxhCUu_84">ray stevens</a> (great one, donna)ediehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00017571145220788190noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5824081784795740927.post-83141869368143193592009-08-26T00:55:00.003-04:002009-08-26T08:13:31.900-04:00fire and ice<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeG8ZR0FBx7jd2MfRZR9Iemr0Y35uZUn0UwKZ3hbhrvsbBlmvsbHgALXalEIIud3zhnorHYPr21e5N0AGbBEUVpGSBfhsX2AbXgaUjVFYibjCaOJg9joKMgSnv8RiPCUFNWbr_3z92l1E/s1600-h/firesuit.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 205px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeG8ZR0FBx7jd2MfRZR9Iemr0Y35uZUn0UwKZ3hbhrvsbBlmvsbHgALXalEIIud3zhnorHYPr21e5N0AGbBEUVpGSBfhsX2AbXgaUjVFYibjCaOJg9joKMgSnv8RiPCUFNWbr_3z92l1E/s320/firesuit.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5374126533831140482" border="0" /></a>My youngest is staying with his grandparents. This means my oldest is smacking back to the days when he had his parents all to himself. He's digging every minute of it. He loves his little brother. Most of the time. But he misses the old days when he had our undivided attention.<br /><br />We took him out for ice cream. Then he and I stopped into our local volunteer fire station for an impromptu self-guided tour. Tomorrow I'm making pancakes for breakfast.<br /><br />At this rate, perhaps I'll join the ranks of the ubercool. A curse it is.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRBhaEsVzNCp5FJbDPXqzCGpoxS9qdeIptcYPSwKPwfyBHiXslysCnXBeDkXj8bZqLbue7_WGhjExELxAI3ctpxVxfRi986ebXXMcGG772H5JGvAJMPaqNSiSb3CPbrjA46T-zKyUwdlM/s1600-h/firegrill.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRBhaEsVzNCp5FJbDPXqzCGpoxS9qdeIptcYPSwKPwfyBHiXslysCnXBeDkXj8bZqLbue7_WGhjExELxAI3ctpxVxfRi986ebXXMcGG772H5JGvAJMPaqNSiSb3CPbrjA46T-zKyUwdlM/s320/firegrill.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5374127055379068722" border="0" /></a><br />link: <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Oj8m3Y_203Y">jefferson starship</a>, <a href="http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/fire-and-ice/">robert frost</a> (thanks, jane :)ediehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00017571145220788190noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5824081784795740927.post-87498881049173021362009-08-25T02:02:00.007-04:002009-10-17T02:28:41.581-04:00plain as dayWhile we're on the subject of my domestic deficiencies, let's move on to my decorating prowess or lack thereof. I am what you might call decorationally challenged. My walls are stark, my rooms utilitarian. It isn't that I don't appreciate beautiful things. Or that I don't know them when I see them. It is just that I don't know what beautiful things I need to bring into my home to make it look more aesthetically pleasing and welcoming.<br /><br />Under my orchestration, my house is plain-vanilla, dry-as-toast, stark-white nothingness. It isn't that I particularly prefer it this way. I just don't know exactly what to do to make it look any different.<br /><br />These are things that you must understand when I tell you my story.<br /><br />I frequent a variety store run by Old Order Amish folks. Delightful people these Amish. They suffer me gladly. I bring a little hedonistic laughter into their regimented lives. I try my best to consider their customs. There is no hiding the fact that I am not one of them, but I do my best to make it quite clear that I respect their way of life and try not to appear to be an uncaring, unobservant clod. Naturally they are set apart, but that doesn't mean they aren't approachable. They put their bloomers on one leg at a time, just like the rest of us.<br /><br />But I digress.<br /><br />Not long ago, I was preparing to leave the Amish store with my children when nature called. My four-year old had to tinkle. As we stepped into the bathroom. (Yes, they have a bathroom with modern indoor plumbing.) Anyway, we stepped into the bathroom, and Dave takes one look at the place, stops dead in his tracks, crinkles his nose, and says, "Girly!"<br /><br />The kid practically refused to do his business in there because the toilet was adorned with purple, frilly tank and toilet seat covers. He couldn't go there. Literally.<br /><br />Fortunately in good time, he was able to overcome the shock of the adornment and do his business.<br /><br />But the fact remained. There I was. Decorationally outdone by the Amish. The Plain People.<br /><br />Nonplussed as I was leaving, I had to share my story with my friend, the Amish store manager. She laughs easily especially at me. Ahem, <span style="font-style: italic;">with</span> me, that is. I related the fact that my house was stark and utilitarian with nary a decoration therein. I told her how my son balked when he saw their "girly" bathroom. I explained that where I come from if your house is plain and simple like that, people say you are "living like the Amish."<br /><br />She got a good laugh out of that.ediehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00017571145220788190noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5824081784795740927.post-13810066560242408882009-08-24T02:13:00.001-04:002009-08-24T08:46:43.648-04:00canned goodsI can't cook. I've tried. Oh yes, I have tried. But it just doesn't do anything for me. Rather I don't do anything for it.<br /><br />I suppose I can blame Weight Watchers. Whether they admit it or not, they don't encourage you to cook. Or eat. The Weight Watchers way of life essentially says, "Drink plenty of water and eat tree bark, and eventually you'll be skinny as a rail."<br /><br />If you start doing crazy things like adding butter or gravy or anything else to your tree bark, you'll find yourself getting to eat less tree bark because of the good stuff. And then you'll pass out from frailty and starve. Better to leave off the gravy and eat the tree bark whilst you can. And you can forget about eating anything so tantalizing as, oh, I don't know, <span style="font-style: italic;">chocolate cake</span>. No way, missy. Not gonna happen.<br /><br />"Let them eat cake," indeed. Which, by the way, roughly translated, is the French equivalent of, "I am a jelly donut." But that's not important now.<br /><br />What is important is that I can't cook. Not if my life depends on it. Try as I might, it just ain't happenin' for me.<br /><br />My eldest has made this quite clear to me. I gotta feel for the fella. For eight years now, he's had to put up with whatever I can assemble as a food offering and somehow subsist on a day-to-day basis. After a while, with meal after meal of hapless blue plate specials, a guy tends to become resolved to lifestyles of the bland and tasteless.<br /><br />Just to prove my point, let me explain to you exactly what it is that I can't cook. No wait. There is too much. Let me sum up. Here are two things--two of the many--that I've tried to make that have gone wrong. Terribly, terribly wrong.<br /><blockquote>1) Hamburgers. No, I'm not kidding. My hamburgers taste like cardboard with ketchup. 'Tis a pity to kill a cow for such a savorless offering as this. I'm pretty sure ol' Bessie deserved better.<br /><br />2) Rice Krispy Treats. Now stop laughing. It can be done. And I've done it. But only once because I learn from my mistakes. I screw up and move on. Leaving me dejected. Dejected and hungry.</blockquote>Though I pale in comparison to my friends and loved ones with their culinary proficiencies, through all this, I can rest assured that there is, in fact, the perfect food just down the next grocery aisle.<br /><br />Lo and behold, I give you ... Chocolate Chex.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjS7l_qnDNFqiI4CDjK6YvmFu1thRKQLfp7H6WQBolpFnlO0s9f5Q6oqeUob5mT79h-MpLIkt8fm_yf9HG7WtNqRlCdcpJOotvu406eKGkfWBkdyufp5WUqjyXC6PR846o6RXXZpl6ogoA/s1600-h/chocchex.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjS7l_qnDNFqiI4CDjK6YvmFu1thRKQLfp7H6WQBolpFnlO0s9f5Q6oqeUob5mT79h-MpLIkt8fm_yf9HG7WtNqRlCdcpJOotvu406eKGkfWBkdyufp5WUqjyXC6PR846o6RXXZpl6ogoA/s320/chocchex.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5373400087958780466" border="0" /></a>Take a moment if you need it. Drink it in. Know that fulfilling goodness is just within reach.<br /><br />Do you realize they don't put food preparation instructions on cereal boxes? Maybe they should. They don't know who they're dealing with here.<br /><br />link: <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_Pjn5E6yOKo">ich bin ein berliner</a><span>, the princess bride</span><span> (available on DVD everywhere)</span><span style="font-weight: bold;"><br /></span>ediehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00017571145220788190noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5824081784795740927.post-77105113824347570512009-08-21T02:53:00.005-04:002009-08-21T03:03:34.430-04:00cleanup in aisle threeLook what we picked up at the store. They were running a special on Daves. I found him in the produce section. Right by the bananas.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYm03Y7cZcPlOAG_MPdVbu8Wla2EoXOsQYEISqfE-pdmROACIVDXeUPm0RudHjbAY9SJ9_EFFJEkJx7Cb7xyBzyg80yZ082Tgj8iQVb3U-o5CdVa5ehiTb-fnur_uXW-qM7E6pnKYtWXs/s1600-h/groceries.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYm03Y7cZcPlOAG_MPdVbu8Wla2EoXOsQYEISqfE-pdmROACIVDXeUPm0RudHjbAY9SJ9_EFFJEkJx7Cb7xyBzyg80yZ082Tgj8iQVb3U-o5CdVa5ehiTb-fnur_uXW-qM7E6pnKYtWXs/s320/groceries.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5372309018177261538" border="0" /></a>Couldn't you just die? Is this not the most precious produce you've ever seen?<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjec8sQCw2RczUc4IJsaEbXVtUedii5qaMeOVZJqnI-gTX2U5GH89Er12Y0O7Gqbx6bZLZTecfEDkBYOqehPWM18j7cAu3IDaIxjaFHfH6NqGAG23JU2Y2lYX1N7cKw2kD5_NAnR74Yz0s/s1600-h/asleep.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjec8sQCw2RczUc4IJsaEbXVtUedii5qaMeOVZJqnI-gTX2U5GH89Er12Y0O7Gqbx6bZLZTecfEDkBYOqehPWM18j7cAu3IDaIxjaFHfH6NqGAG23JU2Y2lYX1N7cKw2kD5_NAnR74Yz0s/s320/asleep.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5372308828455939026" border="0" /></a>We didn't have to pick up a Sam. We already had one of those.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_EocYh3ZyVN_Qchd2xVsvQDxHWbp4SrQbbwp-O09PVctypibS__iFPmASk6ErGOS3L61zreKm7gZbGiBDr9alCPsJuJFI07pIflG0paZRnGlvO0wC8X9f7loqbkHViVx6chYGPRPupsc/s1600-h/samsclub.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_EocYh3ZyVN_Qchd2xVsvQDxHWbp4SrQbbwp-O09PVctypibS__iFPmASk6ErGOS3L61zreKm7gZbGiBDr9alCPsJuJFI07pIflG0paZRnGlvO0wC8X9f7loqbkHViVx6chYGPRPupsc/s320/samsclub.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5372308618574096258" border="0" /></a>ediehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00017571145220788190noreply@blogger.com