tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-237014772024-03-13T14:22:53.078-04:00Do You Have Issues?Do you have issues? Resolutions for Everyday Problems of extraordinary people! Do you have issues? Write in and tell us about them. Need a laugh? Visit Do you have issues. Having issues with HTML, tell Do you have issues about it. Do you have issues with a neighbor? Do you have issues with a spouse? Do you have issues with having issues?Unknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger676125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23701477.post-54617775739918776352014-06-15T11:05:00.001-04:002014-06-15T11:14:56.982-04:00Will I Ever get a Rainbow?<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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So here I sit on a Sunday morning while the family is off to church. Funny, I grew up with a father who NEVER went to church and remember how much it hurt me; yet here I am doing the exact same thing. He never said why he never went other than his church is not in a building. It's when he's out fishing or out in the woods hunting when he feels closer to God. <br />
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I don't buy that excuse now. See, I'm still upset with God. I do still have faith in Him, believe in Him and appreciate what He has done for me. I'm just waiting for the Almighty to apologize. I guess He doesn't do that. <br />
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The last time I sat in church was about two years ago. I was VERY happy, excited for I had so much going for me and plans for my future. I also was unexpectedly pregnant. A shock at first but soon a pure joy as I felt every hormone rush, morning sickness and love in my heart for a new little buddy to come along. Overjoyed maybe. <br />
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Yet just before my third month - something didn't feel right. I prayed. I prayed hard. I sat in church and cried through the whole service. I miscarried that very afternoon. <br />
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I haven't been back since. <br />
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Something does not sit well with me when a person could be elated to levels so high then slammed down to the pits of despair and left there. No reason given. No apology. <br />
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I could go with the family and be pretentious. Sit there week after week begrudgingly, with a huge fake smile upon my face. But for some reason I don't believe that God would like that very much. These are behaviors and actions that He despises. That I despise. <br />
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He doesn't apologize. Or does He? Will I ever get a rainbow?<br /><br />Probably not and you know what? It hurts. I won't allow myself to ever be elated like that again. I feel like I'm not worthy of it and that God felt that way too. Which if is the case, then I feel really shitty. It sucks. <br /><br />So there it is. <br />
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<div class="blogger-post-footer">Everyday solutions for everyday problems of extraordinary people.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23701477.post-62647281348962815832014-04-15T11:21:00.001-04:002014-04-15T11:21:22.728-04:00<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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I haven't blogged since forever and decided to at least start free-writing thoughts as they come to me. It's an an effort to regain a part of my mind that seems to have gotten itself lost over the past few years. Maybe this will be my one and only post for another few years; maybe this is a new beginning.<br />
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Who the fuck knows?<br />
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So anyhow, there was a lunar eclipse last night; the type that make our pesky little orbiter turn red. It's often referred to as a Blood Moon and supposedly has all sorts of tales, omens and mythical meanings to it. I've been reading about this impending event on Facebook during this last week. Some friends posting just the scientific facts, some posting doom and gloom and other's just bragging about their ability to stay awake or awaken at 3 in the morning in hopes to snap the perfect picture of the beastly thing. Not me, I had a very difficult day and was so soundly asleep that I wasn't going to wake up for nothing, nobody and nohow.<br />
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I noticed a gorgeous full moon while driving home from my 13 hour workday from hell and was reminded that in a few hours the thing would turn red. My mind was in a state of having no more fucks left to give, so I just glanced over the impeding omens, myths and bologna that are tagged to this sort of event. Instead my heavily issued mind focused on the beauty of the whole event. Just how incredible the physics of this world, our being, our intelligence and our moments.<br />
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I recall thinking that if all of this awesome wasn't by the hand of God, then we must be nothing more than a big, freaky mistake. The thought of that seemed awful and it made me feel angry inside. It's one thing to be an intelligent being, another to share our intelligence by filling everyone's traffic commute with data. From speed limit signs, traffic lights, directional signs and passing zones. Someone engineered, studied and devised a foul-proof directional plan so we can efficiently travel to and from work with the highest degree of safety.<br />
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Well, unless you live in Savannah, GA where there seems to be blind traffic engineers. <br />
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So like why would anyone bother to do that? Is it because they care? Is it because they love? Is it because the lack of roadway insignia caused the death of a loved one and made them angry and determined? What if nobody gave a fuck? <br />
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What if there wasn't a God? That would seem so cruel for nature to give us all of these emotional feelings and intellect. As much as the anarchist in me despises rules, regulations and authority - are they in place because someone cared?<br />
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So my focus returned to gorgeous moon and it's impending eclipse that will occur in just a few short hours. If I'm recalling correctly <i>(considering my mind is shot the hell out)</i> these blood moons are some sort of omen of impending apocalyptic times. No surprise there as I believe we are living those times, and war is already in effect and seemingly escalating into other areas.<br />
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A notion that I'm not in fear of because it precedes the "Great and Awesome day of our Lord." That despite our intelligence, brains, emotions and efforts to give a fuck; war, tragedy and hard times still befall us. They say evil exists in the absence of God. Makes some sense, almost like driving down an unmarked highway without any regulations or caution signs.<br />
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Then the thought returned, "What if there wasn't a God?" You know, I'd be angry about that. However, angry at who? My shot out mind then thought I would be angry with God. For what? Mad at God for not creating a God? That sounds absurd but a part of me immediately questions why our existence in all of it's beauty, our feelings, our smarts and our compassion would even be allowed in simple nature to occur if there wasn't a God and a life hereafter.<br />
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So yes, I would be mad at God if there wasn't a God. I guess Descartes would say, "I think therefore there is an "I Am." </div>
<div class="blogger-post-footer">Everyday solutions for everyday problems of extraordinary people.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23701477.post-77625659750317345662011-12-20T20:23:00.001-05:002011-12-20T20:26:39.295-05:00Punk Pink ChristmasMerry Christmas Everyone! Squirt and I had a merry, jolly time this afternoon putting together this little Christmas Punk Rock video for y'all. <br /><br />Enjoy!<br /><br /><iframe width="425" height="344" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/d7GnxcJ-dcs?fs=1" frameborder="0" allowFullScreen=""></iframe><div class="blogger-post-footer">Everyday solutions for everyday problems of extraordinary people.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23701477.post-4137679409802364192011-10-24T15:30:00.001-04:002011-10-24T15:32:47.044-04:00Forget Occupy Wallstreet, Occupy your Mind!!!<iframe width="420" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/F1vp2on0y3A" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen=""></iframe><br /><br />I just finished watching the weekly update from yesterday from this Pastor, I've been following him for quite some time but even before that - been following Biblical Prophesy for well over 20 years. It's sort of a hobby of mine and we surely live in exciting times. I don't share it much with others because as this pastor says here, many people mock Biblical prophesy these days. It's no wonder either, as we have nut-job pastors like that Harold Camping guy setting rapture dates. It makes me so mad sometimes. <br /><br />For some reason you came to mind often as I was watching this today. I don't know why but I feel I'm to share it with you. This Pastor came here from Lebonon but his parents were Egyptian and Palestinian. He is an Arab in nationality and understands the middle east and brings insights that we mere American's cannot fathom or see. <br /><br />I know it seems that we may be on opposite sides politically but I assure you that I desire the same things and actually share many of the ideologies. I'm not the Christian right nor left. I don't hate Obama or think he's the Antichrist, he actually has some very worthy and good intentions. There's nothing wrong with that. I'm not one to hate anyone for anything. Gay, right, left, black, white, Muslim or even Alabama football fans. (hehehehe) Sure, there are those who I dislike, but that would be due to something they have personally done to harm me and my family usually by dishonest means. Even then, I pray them up. It's all that I can do really. <br /><br />There are a couple definitions of a Libertarian prospective. Right, left, moderate, etc. My stand is being against the gov't and institutions penalizing people for being poor and in poverty. For example our riding lawn mower broke down in July and needed a $250 part and repair. We didn't have that money right away, but did scrape it up and had our lawnmower back from the shop in two weeks. Only it was the middle of summer, we had a lot of rain that week and the city decided to fine us $125 for not maintaining our lawn. Only it's not our lawn, it's a company property and our landlord, well he gets mad, sends a landscaper out and gives us a $175 bill on top of the city's fine. <br /><br />There are many other instances as well as intrusions that penalize us for being poor. Thus our less gov't stand in things. Everything goes by the book and there is no sympathy or personal attention for real hardship situations. We could own a decent, running car sitting in our driveway but can't drive it because we can't afford insurance and tags... or a rich person can not pay his insurance and tags and have a car in his garage. (A garage that we don't have to hide a car in.) We both get fined the same and that isn't fair because rich person can afford the fine and not have his vehicle stolen from him. We're given a fine that we can't afford and 30 days to remove our vehicle from our own rented home. <br /><br />I understand the "Occupy" thing going on, mainly because I have a rich business owner who has taken advantage of us at every turn. Not just us, but he's so arrogant that he told a welfare-to-work employee that she was stealing food off of his kids plates by coming in late everyday and she only makes minimum wage. There are so many like that out there. <br /><br />However, although I understand it - I can't believe that we're going to be able to achieve "heaven on earth" for everybody. As I read my Bible on prophesy and see each event unfold just as it was written - I find us closer and closer to the troubling days foretold. There is a spirit of deception behind all of this and it's not someone we can point a finger at. It's not Obama, it's not Bush, Glen Beck, George Soros or Ron Paul. I see the stage being set for the Revelation prophesies where "no man can buy or sell without the mark" and a crying earth of natural disasters and pestilences - that no mortal man can stop. There will be a man who arises who will be praised, worshiped and adored for making it appear that "heaven is on earth" but we know that he has been penned the Great Liar many, many generations ago. <br /><br />So as I see this go on, although wonderful and full of good intentions - I have no faith in it. I can only control my immediate surroundings and the fullness of life that I can give to my family and friends. Sure I care about people loosing their jobs, poverty, hunger, disease, and all of the present woes - I live them most of the time. But it has not been appointed to me to be able to "buy" comfort for the world. Only to take care of what I can in the ways that I can and with talents that I had been given. To love my neighbor. <br /><br />There is truth to the "every man for himself" notion and we can't enforce every man to be his brother's keeper. Heck we can't even make a man pay child support for his own flesh and blood around here. <br /><br />Making someone do something and going by the impersonal book of law won't work out fairly either. <br /><br />There's only one way to a true "heaven on earth" and I keep my eyes and hopes on that. He said He'll come again and will do just that and we will know it's forever to be in His presence and glory. <br /><br />That's my take. Don't hate me or call me foolish. I love you.<div class="blogger-post-footer">Everyday solutions for everyday problems of extraordinary people.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23701477.post-37169686604512076802011-04-23T17:57:00.006-04:002011-04-23T18:37:21.385-04:00The Squirt Life: Lessons From a Daughter<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjq0H4QRi-AoRlHKszDtS5orm-3iS8-OYIPQplJk0C92-UALVX9L3N26BiltiN7gwoiJoXDaXp6vNTUVlmp2IrGj3gHThSAW0MUwtxmH_oqldaXUs6-1jQaHzEPZl9HS0ac3myqWg/s1600/piratesbeard.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjq0H4QRi-AoRlHKszDtS5orm-3iS8-OYIPQplJk0C92-UALVX9L3N26BiltiN7gwoiJoXDaXp6vNTUVlmp2IrGj3gHThSAW0MUwtxmH_oqldaXUs6-1jQaHzEPZl9HS0ac3myqWg/s200/piratesbeard.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5598910479118273026" /></a>BANG! CRASH! BOOM! The thunder rolled as the rain plummeted the aluminum awnings that shaded each of our windows in our humble first home. The dogs ran for cover into their each respective canine caves. The cat fumbled with the door to the under the sink cabinet for his hidey hole. I even jumped out of my seat with as much grace as I could muster so I wouldn't pass on my fear of thunder and lighting to a vulnerable 3yr old Squirt. <div><br /></div><div>She realized at that moment that everyone feared the big noise coming from outside and determined that maybe; perhaps she should be a scaredy cat too. She ran into my arms in search of safety, comfort and explanation. </div><div><br /></div><div>"Remember the Pirate's Beards you've noticed on our trees outside?" I asked. "Well once in awhile those silly pirates like to carry on and play games with their pirate ships in the sky. They have water cannons that go BOOM! They jump off planks that go BANG! And sometimes they go CRASH! into a tree and get their beards all tangled up in the branches."</div><div><br /></div><div>"Well this my dear," I embellished, "is what is happening right now outside. Those Arrrrr-ornery pirates are out there making a big mess but we're very safe inside." </div><div><br /></div><div>She never feared thunderstorms since, yet now that she is 8 she knows that these ornery pirates do not exist. Only I don't know whether it is to not disappoint me or because she likes to play - whenever a storm rumbles on the horizon she wants me to go to weather.com to bring up the map to see what direction the Pirates are sailing. </div><div><br /></div><div>Much like she still wants me to go to NORAD's website to track Santa each year. </div><div><br /></div><div>Just last week on our way to school we drove by a home decorated to the hilt for Easter. In the front yard stood a giant pink inflatable Easter Bunny on top of a hay pile nest of giant colored eggs. </div><div><br /></div><div>She looked at me and asked, "Mom? Why do people believe in fake stuff like a big scary Easter Bunny who craps jelly beans and lays eggs?" </div><div><br /></div><div>I was speechless, half wondering if the time has come where my little girl has figured out the whole Easter Bunny, Tooth Fairy and Santa conspiracy. Then she said, "Why don't they believe in the real stuff like Jesus?" </div><div><br /></div><div>Nevertheless, here it is the night before Easter morning and I have yet to make a run to pick up Easter basket goodies. Only I don't know whether I'm doing this to not disappoint her or because I like to play. What I do know is whenever a storm rumbles on the horizon of her little life she'll want to go to Holy Bible to see what direction she should be sailing. </div><div><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer">Everyday solutions for everyday problems of extraordinary people.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23701477.post-92161062238837476202011-02-13T14:30:00.007-05:002011-02-25T11:32:12.215-05:00Just Breathe - Fuck You<iframe width="425" height="344" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/d5hae6PlPYA?fs=1" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen=""></iframe>There comes a point in many a life when a person just says “Fuck it.” I’ve seen this quite frequently working with the elderly in their golden years. Take actress Betty White for example who once was a sweet epitome of a blushing Grandma on the set of The Golden Girls. She now drops the F’bombs like a Mofo pro. Above is a video of William Shatner, once famous as the level headed captain of the Starship Enterprise now feeling perfectly comfortable telling everyone in the entire universe to go fuck off.<br /><br />So why should I feel or behave any different today after feeling like a fire hydrant planted in the middle of a dog park this past week? There are natural stages of emotion that a person goes through when they are forced to face their mortality. Sadness, fear, joy, hope and anger; lots of anger. We seemed trained to point fingers and blame at others when there are so many questions without answers. You soon realize that there isn’t just one entity, person or fault to cast blame but it’s perfectly okay to dish out a few fuck offs as you try to summarize the meaning of your pitiful life.<br /><br />No so much are these flaming words of poo directed towards any particular individual. You’re past that. Forgiveness has been offered and no matter if accepted or not, the individual situation is no longer a pressing issue and you’ve got way bigger fish to fry. You look towards bigger explanations and villains to cast blame upon. Like our entire health care system here in America.<br /><br />Yes, Health Care. I'm going there and absolutely no – I do not think making our health into any sort of law is a good thing. Sure it may look good on the surface but consider the future ramifications it could bring. Imagine parents being arrested on child endangerment charges for letting their fair little girl go outside and play on a sunny afternoon. Imagine couples being arrested for exchanging bodily fluids without proof of insurance, license or state approval. Sure it sounds preposterous now but many of our laws in place today would seem just as preposterous to American’s 100 years ago.<br /><br />See I have found out the hard way that we can’t just cook a dinner for a Doctor and have him come out for a house call. You can’t even make an appointment now without stating your insurance and a referral from your General Physician. Forcing me to pay for health insurance over rent is counter-productive. Living outside under the bridge in the elements exposes not only me but my entire family to potential health hazards. Cutting my grocery allowance in half to pay for an insurance plan will only put rice and .49 cents a pound chicken skin and ass flaps on my supper table. Why can’t everyone see from the left and the right side of the issue, that government in our health insurance is not a good thing?<br /><br />They are right in one aspect, basic healthcare should be a right but where they twist things up is in all of the preceding laws that government has already in place to regulate health care. Flip back to the giant stack of papers in the 1990’s that relate to the HIPPA rules and regulations and The Health Care Act of 1973. There are plenty of laws that have been snuck into the books over the years that not only remove basic health care as a simple right, but limit our access to it. Don’t believe me? Call a dermatologist and try to make an appointment. Tell them you don’t have healthcare insurance but want to pay cash. Just like I have over the past three years trying to get in to see a local dermatologist for this deadly black, melanoma tarantula sitting on my left upper arm.<br /><br />Funny, sitting before me is a Jury Summons for next month. I can be exempted by either being over 70, no longer a resident of the county, a convicted felon or not a US Citizen. Oh, there is also a physician form that can be filled out. <i>(Providing that you have insurance and a physician to say that you’re fucking dying by the way!!)</i> I wonder what they would do if I check of “Not a US Citizen” and declare my total denouncement of this fucked up system?<br /><br />I wonder what my beloved grandfathers would say if I denounced the very system they fought, worked and died for? I wonder what they’d think if they saw that very system in place today and what it has become? To see that not only do people continue to die for it, many also die because of it.<br /><br />Now ain’t that some shit?<div class="blogger-post-footer">Everyday solutions for everyday problems of extraordinary people.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23701477.post-74306779309923705292011-02-07T12:15:00.006-05:002011-02-25T11:32:03.523-05:00Just Breathe - Live Like You Are Dying<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCJm37WkddSYe24BWX1d8OeT2JMU2QoRmw73iMCyk-WI6mTRSozFnuzmgJj0KoKLS_EdtS3Nay5dpkVo1h3v45MEgskwzf4xD4oYyo70z2ckmGop8xyhv35js8wto3JT05qaUuEA/s1600/meporch.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCJm37WkddSYe24BWX1d8OeT2JMU2QoRmw73iMCyk-WI6mTRSozFnuzmgJj0KoKLS_EdtS3Nay5dpkVo1h3v45MEgskwzf4xD4oYyo70z2ckmGop8xyhv35js8wto3JT05qaUuEA/s200/meporch.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5570998107829085282" /></a>There is that little bugger! Over this weekend I’ve searched through all of my photo albums through the past 8 years and there it was. The beauty mark from hell painted on my left upper arm. I’ve always been loaded down with freckles although many have faded over the years. Some new ones have appeared that seem normal and I never thought much about them, until now.<br /><br />Now I’m worried about each and every one of my freckles, examining each with a scrutiny unlike ever before. Has it changed? Has it always been there? I feel more aware of every ache and pain that normally I would just brush off with a dose of aspirin chased down with my morning coffee. Why is it that I seem to wake up with pounding headaches and a back ache? Who in the world has charley horses in their abdomen? What is this bump on the back of my head? It amazes me how in just a few day’s that a person can become obsessively aware of self.<br /><br />I mentioned in my previous post that this is the third time that I’ve had to face my terrific mortality. Eight and a half years ago I was 20 weeks pregnant and on Hwy 16 slowing down for an accident was just ahead. I looked in my rear view mirror and saw a speeding tour bus barreling down on me. It’s was amazing! There had to be 5 seconds at most before impact, but do you know how many years of thought can go through your mind in that short of time? I always thought the phrase of having your life flash before your eyes was cliché’. Au contraire! It is a real and precisely defined experience.<br /><br />Take that “Holy Shit! I almost died!” stomach flip feeling you get after realizing you’ve leaned back too far in your chair. Magnify that rush a hundredfold until you find yourself in the midst of an extreme thought orgasm full of memories and future hopes. There is no time to form a prayer and give God an argument on why you don’t want to die right now. There is no time to finally tell a person that “Thank you” or “I’m sorry” that you’ve been putting off. No time for a “Goodbye, I love you” before the impending crash and possible doom.<br /><br />That is, unless one has the mortality of an optimist. Then you just know that no matter what, everything is going to work out okay because God has His hand on it. You are given time for one short prayer and plea that covers every single thought or care. “Thy will be done.”<br /><br />I survived that crash. Some say it was a miracle; some chalk it up to coincidental luck. I say it wasn’t in God’s will for me to die that day and it wasn’t my time.<br /><br />That gives me hope to plow through this melanoma mountain that is ahead of me. If it’s my time then it’s my time, if not I can’t stop living just to wait on the unknown. We all should live each day as if we were dying for the day will come soon enough when it will be all we can do to just breathe.<br /><br /><br /><iframe title="YouTube video player" width="425" height="344" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/7mHaFMqde6A" frameborder="0"></iframe><div class="blogger-post-footer">Everyday solutions for everyday problems of extraordinary people.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23701477.post-61655719428615400092011-02-05T16:25:00.008-05:002011-02-25T11:31:50.719-05:00Just Breathe<iframe width="425" height="344" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/kuq7RYQ8Wa0?fs=1" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen=""></iframe><br /><br /><br />I'm beginning this note on this rainy Saturday afternoon because I just know. I know what I'm up against and I'm afraid. It seems that often life brings us challenges at its own time, not ours. We're trained to believe that we can plan or make our own goals in life, choosing our paths, the time and manner which we will walk them. There are so many opportunities along our chosen paths that we shall come across. Along the way there are many hidden Easter eggs of surprises that encourage us to keep moving forward, blessing us with hope and strength to reach our goals.<br /><br />There are also traps of quicksand and confusing forks to come across in our paths. Some manage to hold us down for a time, while others take us away from our sighted goal on a detour. I thank the Lord for placing Easter egg surprises even when we're on the wrong path or within a struggle. Many times it was in these places where I found a smile from a new compassionate friend or the welcome home wiggles of a poor lost puppy dumped off at our doorstep. These are the unexpected surprises in life that I've come to love and embrace.<br /><br />At this time, my goals and path are still in tune but the mountain of Melanoma has been placed before me. It’s a giant mountain that blocks my view of my future and shadows me in sheer hopelessness. At this point in time there is no definite state of my health, but I just know. I know this ugly mole has been on me for 8 long years. I know it took my doctors almost 2 years to get me a referral to a dermatologist. I know the punch biopsy came back abnormal as I received a certified letter in the mail Thursday. I know my arm hurts and the only explanation for my underarm hurting is that the lymph nodes are affected. I know I've been suffering exhaustion for this past year. I know my left hand is crimped up as if it’s paralyzed for an hour after I awake each morning. No matter how I look at it, I just know that the mountain before me is insurmountable.<br /><br />As I sit here waiting for Monday to talk to the dermatologist on what we'll do next I'm tortured. I told my husband last night that it felt like I was in grade school and challenged to an after school fight. Only I don't want to fight after school, I want to kick ass right now! The mountain before me may be insurmountable but this chick is determined to plow right through it and not waste any time getting to the joy that is before me on the other side.<br /><br />What many of my friends and loved ones may not know is that I have faced death twice already. Someday, maybe in a later entry I will write about these times. This time is quite different than those and I'm determined to go ahead. I’m determined to live. The age old question pops up in my mind right now of "What would you do if told you only had a year to live?"<br /><br />At age 43 I'm faced with making my third bucket list. If I had any advice to leave behind it would be that everyone live as if they had a bucket list. Make as many yearly bucket lists that you can. Screw New Year's Resolutions, you don't keep or stick to them damn things anyway. Instead, with each new day given when you wake up on the good side of the dirt; just breathe.<br /><br />Start with that and realize you're alive! Be alive and don't miss a thing!<div class="blogger-post-footer">Everyday solutions for everyday problems of extraordinary people.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23701477.post-83589696735273917712010-11-09T18:02:00.007-05:002010-11-09T18:41:55.727-05:00NaNoWriMo - "I Know a Place Where the Dancing's Free" (Chapter 2)<div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large; "><b>Chapter Two</b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><b></b></span><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Down in the Street Making all That Noise</span><br /></b></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><b><br /></b></span></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></b></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmfk7ZA0yFm_OfSS27nzhW_qLbVEVxgLIzd8NH9RNcyf8QcgOOjBYpR4o_3VybnmWRYmQfUAfvoKxaH0W7VkHmKMZr86RMSeLKJsVuGOvxdYnlHewm67B0-rCogcl9uXOWsHAfCA/s1600/carlot.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 254px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmfk7ZA0yFm_OfSS27nzhW_qLbVEVxgLIzd8NH9RNcyf8QcgOOjBYpR4o_3VybnmWRYmQfUAfvoKxaH0W7VkHmKMZr86RMSeLKJsVuGOvxdYnlHewm67B0-rCogcl9uXOWsHAfCA/s320/carlot.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5537694016925283458" /></a><br />The exhaust of an old Pontiac rumbled by as the girls hurried down to the corner Soda Shop while their mother’s continued shopping the strip. Flushed and frustrated Rosalie rummaged through her purse and pulled out a matchbook. “Stand right there, Ginny.” she exhausted commanded, “Make sure nobody is watching and block the breeze.”<br /><br />With the moves of a ninja Rosalie reached up into her shirt and pulled out a crushed pack of Kents, much to Virginia’s surprise. She placed a bent, crocked cigarette in her mouth and lit the wrong end. “Crap!” she protested, “That was the only one not broken. Ginny. Lend me thirty cents?”<br /><br />The girls walked into the soda shop to the cigarette vending machine that stood by the doorway. “Since when did you take up smoking?” asked Virginia as Rosalie dropped in the change and pulled on a spring-loaded knob. A fresh, unmolested pack of Kents and a little white matchbook dropped down as Rosalie quickly scooped them up and stuffed them in her purse.<br /><br />“Don’t look at me so funny. You mean you never tried smoking before?” scoffed Rosalie as they made their way up to the counter to order their usual cherry cokes.<br /><br />“Of course not. They make me cough. My eyes water and they smell stinky.” replied Virginia.<br /><br />“Oh so you have tried them!” mocked Rosalie.<br /><br />“No. Dad smokes, silly. It’s all I can do sometimes to get the dishes washed and myself out of the kitchen after supper.” explained Virginia. “He just lights them up one right after another.”<br /><br />Sliding into a booth Virginia asked, “So tell me, what happened back at the dress shop? Did she have to measure you?”<br /><br />“Oh my god! It was awful. She wouldn’t look away while I undressed and I had that pack of smokes tucked in between.” gasped Rosalie.<br /><br />“In between what?” asked Virgina.<br /><br />“My tits silly! It’s the perfect place to hide them. Sometimes Dad suspects or smells cigarette smoke on me and he just tears my room apart looking for evidence. I just stand there and roll my eyes, he’s never going to find them here.” Rosalie said proudly while thumping her chest like a gorilla.<br /><br />“Oh no! Did the shop lady see them? She’d tell your Mom for sure,” asked Virginia.<br /><br />“No, but the dumb bitch sat on them.” explained Rosalie. “I managed to get undressed and hide them under my shirt on the dressing room bench. I had it made until that old batty hen had to go hatch the shit out of them.”<br /><br />“Uh oh, don’t look now but here comes Robert and the gang,” giggled Virginia.<br /><br />Robert Trommello was tall, handsome and quite an amazing high school athlete. Currently his lettered jacket and class ring was being worn by Jennifer, the head Senior cheerleader. Many girls in their Senior class often joked if Jennifer would wear his jacket over her prom dress two weeks ago, since she absolutely refused to take it off. They were none surprised when she didn’t. Not even to receive the Prom Queen crown for she chillingly retorted that the gym was always chilly and she’d catch herself a cold.<br /><br />Secretly, Virgina often daydreamed that she was the one wearing Robert’s jacket. The fact that she could be the one was even more fascinating as she had been Robert’s school girl crush since they were in 1st grade. He had come by the house to call on her a number of times over the years, but her father refused to let them date. He was Italian and Catholic thus against Dad’s ideologies as the son of a Protestant Circuit Preacher back in the hills of Kentucky. Virginia also assumed that her father’s bigotry stemmed back from World War II. Many Italian Americans experienced wartime restrictions on their culture just because the powers to be could not discern between their heritage, culture and traditions as opposed to support of an enemy of state.<br /><br />Robert signaled to the guys that he’d be right with them as he scooted in the booth beside Virginia. “How’s my girl doing today?” he smiled while gently patting her arm. “Did you hear the good news? I’ve been accepted into Penn State on a full scholarship.”<br /><br />“Congratulations!” exclaimed Virginia, “Penn State was your first choice wasn’t it?”<br /><br />“It sure was, it was Dad’s Alma Mater,” he sat tall and proudly sang, “Hail to the Lion, Loyal and True. Hail Alma Mater, with your White and Blue.”<br /><br />“Ha!” laughed Rosalie, “A Jersey boy going to Penn State? What a joke. That’s a nigger college. Penn State has more black students than Pleasantville High. What you weren’t white enough to attend a big, white school like Princeton?”<br /><br />“Oh quit it, Rosalie,” chided Virginia, “That fellow on that TV show with Robert Culp, <i>I Spy</i> is a black guy from Philadelphia. Alexander Scott. Oh what’s his name. Cosby. Yes, that’s it. Bill Cosby. He’s a graduate from Penn State isn’t he?” she looked at and asked Robert.<br /><br />“Temple University I believe,” answered Robert, “But good call. Hey, I’ll catch you later. Gotta go hang with the boys. Take care of yourself now Sweetheart.” he winked as he danced over to his friends.<br /><br />“He,” pointing to Robert, “is definitely not your type Ginny. He’s an asshole.”<br /><br />“No, he’s not,” Virginia defended. “He’s not my type but he’s not one of those either.”<br /><br />While Rosalie filled the air with her bad mouth rhetoric, Virginia’s mind drifted off for she was intrigued by Robert’s type. He was so self-confident and spontaneous in a Sean Connery type of way. Virginia daydreamed of Robert being James Bond and herself Tatiana with him whisking her off to safety his romantic arms and gentleman-like manners.<br /><br />Robert was sly and sneaky too; so much fun to be around as Virginia recalled their senior class trip to Washington DC a few weeks back. The girls were strolling back to their hotel after going out to watch “Thunderball” at that fancy sit down theatre down on Connecticut Avenue. A group of rowdy, possibly drunk classmates were up on the 3rd floor balcony carrying on and laughing when suddenly a water balloon from above whacked Rosalie right in the head. She cussed, fussed, ranted and accused Robert of doing it. Then she marched her way inside the hotel to notify a chaperon. Virginia tried desperately not to let Rosalie catch her laughing, but she did and fussed at her for days afterward.<br /><br />“Well?” asked Rosalie, “What do you think? You wanna?”<br /><br />“Do I want to what?” asked Virginia.<br /><br />“Don’t tell me I’ve been talking to myself this whole time, you stooge,” chimed Rosalie as she tossed a fresh cigarette across the table to Virginia. “Well, do you want to go to the Hammonton Carnival with me and Jimmy next week or not?”<br /><br />“Oh no,” answered Virginia tossing the cigarette as Rosalie put on a frown. “No, I mean no thank you for the cigarette but yeah, I’ll tag along with you and Jimmy. Sounds like fun.”<br /><br /><div><br /><div style="text-align: center;">********</div><br /><br />Flippers were flunking and lights danced across the back box as Marty raked in another 100 points on the Gottlieb Buckaroo. “Woo Hoo! Kick that Cowboy!” cheered a familiar voice as the score reel spun a horse’s kick to the old Buckaroo.<br /><br />“Hey Jim-boy. How’ve ‘ya been?” greeted Marty extending his right hand to Jimmy while the silver ball pinged between the left and right flippers, not quite making up it’s mind on where it wanted to go.<br /><br />“Great man,” replied Jimmy. “Just got done my first three duel-barrel carb job on Mr. Grant’s Eldorado. She won’t be choking anymore, she’s roaring like a gentle lion now. How many games you turn there, Mr. Wizard?”<br /><br />“Just got started really,” answered Marty while his crazy flipper fingers let another ball slip by. He pulled the spring-tensioned knob to bring down the next silver ball when the head board flashed in red ‘Game Over.’ “Aw heck it. Just ain’t my day today. Let’s go sit down and talk carburetors. I’ve had my eye on a Fairlane 500. What do you ‘spose it has? A two or four in it?” asked Marty as he picked up his mug of birch beer and headed towards a table.<br /><br />Jimmy motioned to Caroline the bartender to bring him his usual Genesee as he sat down next to Marty. “Ah, you got your eye on that one that’s for sale out on Ancora Road don’t you? Does that sign still say $400?”<br /><br />“Oh yes, and I hope nobody can buy it before I can,” said Marty excitedly. “We’ve been paintin’ the house across the street there all week and it’s all I can do to stop from dreaming about it. I got $185 saved up now and after Dad over there gets to payin’ me for this week I should have another $100.”<br /><br />“That car ain’t worth the paper the price is wrote on, Wizard. I’m telling ‘ya. I stopped by to take a look at it a few Fridays back with Rosalie and that piece of shit ain’t worth but fifty bucks.” said Jimmy. “The retractable won’t go down evenly, radio’s been ripped out and the fucking dashboard is all ripped out.”<br /><br />“I saw it needed some attention, but didn’t look inside very well. Hows the engine? Did she start up?” asked Marty.<br /><br />“Looked clean for a 272 but the owner had some sap story about the battery cables. Couldn’t get her to turn over once so I could hear it run. Didn’t seem like he was about to come down much on the price now either, but he’s gotta give somewhere here.” replied Jimmy.<br /><br />A flash of green slapped on the table as Marty looked over his shoulder, “There you go young man. Ninety dollars pay. Ain’t bad for a boy your age now is it?” said Marty’s father above him. “I’d a gave you a hundred but I docked you for your dilly dallying.”<br /><br />“Hi Mr. Berg,” greeted Jimmy standing up to shake Marty’s father by the hand.<br /><br />“Hey, it’s the grease monkey,” replied Mr. Berg as he ignored Jimmy’s hand and addressed Marty again, “So you gonna catch a ride home with Jimmy here or do I have to roll you home before I order me another beer?”<br /><br />“I’ll take him home, Mr. Berg,” answered Jimmy. “No problem.”<br /><br />“Well, you two boys keep yourselves out of trouble now. And you Marty, get right home. Your Momma may need you to sit with your sisters tonight.”<br /><br />“Yes sir,” replied Marty as he slurped down the rest of his birch beer. Jimmy did the same with his Genesee and they both stood up together. “Let’s roll.”<br /><br />There were eight motorcycles lined up in a row by the time the boys exited Roscoe’s. As usual, Jimmy had to stop and adore each one of them. There were four Enfields and three Bantams but the one Jimmy loved the most was a brand new gold 1965 Harley Electra Glide that belonged to Roscoe’s brother Mario. “One of these days,” said Jimmy as he shook his head, “One of these days I’m going to sit on top of one of these bad boys and call it my own. Just you wait and see. Hey, let’s go stop and take a look at your Fairlane on the way back. Whatcha think?”<br /><br />“Sounds like a plan to me,” said Marty as he hopped in Jimmy’s pick-up truck. “So are you seeing Rosalie this weekend?”<br /><br />“Yup. Dinner and a movie tomorrow night. She may come out earlier for the afternoon if she’d get her chores done before noon.” Jimmy answered, “Speaking of dates, did you give anymore thought on meeting her friend Ginny?”<br /><br />“Yeah, and she’s just too old for me. What is she 18 now?” asked Marty. “She’s not going to want to date a 16 year old. You know how them fresh out of high school girls are. Always falling for the older guys and their wads of cash.”<br /><br />“Get out of town, Mart.” chimed Jimmy, “They’re not all like that. Ginny is such a sweet, quiet little girl. Just your type man. Just your type. Come on out to the Hammonton Carnival with me next week and just meet her,” Jimmy prodded.<br /><br />“Well okay,” said Marty. “I guess just meeting her won’t hurt none. There it is,” he said pointing to the turn on Ancora Road. It’s right down there a few blocks on the left.”<br /><br />The boys pulled up to the curb only to find that the Fairlane had been moved into the driveway. As they stepped out of Jimmy’s pick-up they heard what sounded like a shot gun blast only to realize the Fairlane was running and had just backfired. Out of the garage stepped a battle scarred, middle-aged man with a missing right arm extending his left hand for an awkward handshake as he tossed an oily hand towel over his right shoulder. “Howdy boys. What can I do you for?” he asked.<br /><br />“I’d like to take a look at your Fairlane here Mister,” stuttered Marty. “I’ve been looking at it all....”<br /><br />“What he means Sir,” interrupted Jimmy, “Is that he’s interested in taking this old clunker off your hands. I see ‘ya finally got her running this afternoon.”<br /><br />“Oh I remember you boy. You’re the one who tried to Jew me down to $50 bucks a few weeks back. Did you come to your senses yet?” asked the man as Marty cringed at the Jew remark.<br /><br />“Oh come on man, she’s falling apart here. Top ain’t going down quite right, her dash is torn all up. Ain’t even got a workin’ radio.” argued Jimmy as he opened the heavy, creaking driver’s side door.<br /><br />The man shook his head and stated, “Watch your respects young man. Do you know how much I paid for this beauty when I first laid eyes on her? One thousand bucks boy. You probably ain’t seen that kind of money in all your life, have ya?”<br /><br />“Excuse me Sir,” squeaked Marty, “May I drive her around the block to see how she rides?”<br /><br />“Now that’s proper respect," said the man nodding towards Marty. "Sure boy. Go on, be careful she’s a wide turner there. Leave her some room,” the man replied as he waived young Marty off.<br /><br />Jimmy leaned back on oak tree, pulled out a half pack of Kent from his shirt pocket and offered the man a smoke. As they both lit up and filled their lungs Jimmy remarked, “Listen man, I mean no disrespect. I’m sorry about that. Mart here, he’s my buddy and he’s just out and getting started. You know as much as I know that that beast is going to take a shit-load of cash to get road ready again. How long has she been sitting out here rottin’ away anyway. A year? Two?”<br /><br />“I suppose you’re right about that son,” said the man as he took a drag off his cigarette holding it between his left thumb and forefinger. Flicking the ash off with his middle finger he continued, “Mac's junkyard has a bunch of part cars back in the lot. Most of what she needs can be carried out of there. You good with cars boy?”<br /><br />Jimmy dragged his smoke and thoughtfully replied, “I’m Junior Mechanic down at Ray’s Garage. Picked up a lot of know how from working there this year.”<br /><br />“No shit,” said the old man, “Ray and I go way back. Served in the Korean War supporting the infantry together back... oh 15 years back or so. Best damn mechanic on the field. You’re learnin’ from the best.”<br /><br />Jimmy flicked his cigarette down the drive and replied, “Yeah, Ray’s a damn good boss. Fair and square. Doesn’t take too kindly to the way I style my hair much.”<br /><br />“Yeah,” the man chuckled, “He’ll buzz ‘ya good if you ain’t careful. So can you do exhausts and brake jobs on your own?” he asked as he patted the trunk of his cherry red ‘63 Thunderbird. “This girl needs some work done and I’m not about to pay Ray’s prices for repairs. Let’s say we make a deal. Your friend can have the Fairlane for $100. I’ll pick up the parts needed for this baby here and you install them for me Sunday afternoon?” the man offered, flicking his cigarette and extending his left hand again to shake on this awkward deal.<br /><br />“$90 and we have a deal,” countered Jimmy as they saw Marty turning the corner down the road. “His Dad jewed $10 bucks out of his pay this afternoon and that’s all he has on him.”<br /><br />“That’ll do,” agreed the man as they shook hands in the driveway. “Lemme go get the title and the bill of sale,” he said as he walked back into the garage.<br /><br />“Hey Wizard!” shouted Jimmy over the racing 272 engine, “Get your $90 bucks out. You done bought yourself a car!”</div><div class="blogger-post-footer">Everyday solutions for everyday problems of extraordinary people.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23701477.post-26381565880002580352010-11-09T17:54:00.004-05:002010-11-09T18:40:58.726-05:00NaNoWriMo - "I Know a Place Where the Dancing's Free"<object height="344" width="425"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/-ZCwiNJ4wgo?fs=1&hl=en_US"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/-ZCwiNJ4wgo?fs=1&hl=en_US" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" height="344" width="425"></embed></object><br /><br />Just a little inspiration for writing this afternoon. I never knew the most popular pinball machine game of 1965 was the Gottlieb Buckaroo! The same one a young, limp wristed Elton John flipped off to on The Who's <span style="font-style:italic;">Tommy</span> production. <div><br /></div><div>Ahhh, so sweet the song...</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">.<i><b>...He stands like a statue</b></i></div><i><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal; "><i><b>Becomes part of the machine</b></i></span></div><b><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; "><i><b>Feeling all the bumpers</b></i></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; "><i><b>Always playing clean</b></i></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; "><i><b>Plays by intuition</b></i></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; "><i><b>The digit counters fall</b></i></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; "><i><b>That deaf, dumb and blind kid</b></i></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; "><i><b>Sure plays a mean pinball...</b></i></span></div></b></i><div class="blogger-post-footer">Everyday solutions for everyday problems of extraordinary people.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23701477.post-66759375605826767702010-11-07T14:52:00.002-05:002010-11-07T14:59:57.958-05:00NaNoWriMo - "I Know a Place Where the Dancing's Free" (Chapter 1)<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><b>Chapter One</b></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><b></b></span><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">I Got no Time for the Corner Boys</span><br /></b><br /><div style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; background-color: transparent; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; "><img src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/88_kQ9-y8U-j4HCP9dwhTR06zZVHCpcBrqbC5q_Hjf9ieVn6ec1j7YP-v8xMsPqqKedyO7gIy741qX1IJdm8IqOw9oTlfuX4KMeQCezk46wRypbYfQ" width="321px;" height="358px;" id="internal-source-marker_0.5413262615911663" /></div><br /><br />It was in June of 1965, when Virginia was preparing her Salutatorian commencement speech for her upcoming graduating class at Mainland Regional High School. It was certainly a time of fast cars and fast uncertain change as she recalled the most memorable events during her last four years spent there.<br /><br />Actress Marilyn Monroe had died from an overdose of sleeping pills while a band of four British fellows; The Beatles, emerged to a host of screaming, giddy teen-aged American girls. The Cuban Missile Crises had the students practicing for air raid drills by crawling under their school desks while later that year Pope John XXIII had died. <br /><br />Not a student could forget that cold and bitter November, when on Friday afternoon the school PA system announced the assassination of President John F. Kennedy. <br /><br />The plea for Civil Rights was impacting various places throughout the nation with strong, determined leaders such as Martin Luther King, Jr. and Malcolm X who was just assassinated earlier that year. <br /><br />Times were certainly changing and fully impacting the lives of those about to graduate from that newly built, small High School in Linwood, NJ. A High School with classrooms that still had yet to educate an African American student. The ground war in Vietnam had just begun that March and many of the young men graduating that year were already recruited and packed for military basic training.<br /><br />Virginia, a soft-toned, gentle girl who barely whispered in class was finding it difficult to write such a speech. She was scared out of her wits of the day that she had to deliver it. Being chosen as Salutatorian was the result of good grades at the direction of her father. She hadn’t signed up for College Preparatory Classes but had excelled in Business Courses. Earning a part-time after school job in the bookkeeping offices of the local Sears & Roebuck catalog center. <br /><br />As a daughter of a Navy Officer and Christian English Mother a career was not a consideration for a young lady such as herself. Instead of college, Virginia was to attend finishing school that summer then continue her job at Sears until she found herself a decent husband. <br /><br />“Ginny!” her mother called up the stairs, “Rosalie and her Mother are here. Are you ready to go pick out your graduation dress?” <br /><br />With a sigh of relief Virginia tossed down her pencil replying, “Yes, Mother. I’ll be right down.”<br /><br />“I’m so excited!” expressed Rosalie as Virginia climbed into the back seat of the car and sat down beside her. “Mom said I can pick out a pair of real heels. How about you Ginny? Are you allowed to get heels?”<br /><br />“Oh, I don’t know. I’m so tall already you know,” squeaked Virginia as Rosalie's mother backed out of the driveway, “Plus flat pumps are easier to walk around in anyway.” <br /><br />“You’re such a fuddy duddy, you know that? But I love you anyways,” chimed Rosalie. “Hey,” she whispered, “Jimmy and I Frenched kissed last night.” <br /><br />“What’s that?” Virginia asked.<br /><br />“You know,” Rosalie nodded twirling her tongue around her lips while rolling her eyes back. “Kissing with your tongue,” she whispered.<br /><br />“Eeeeew! Those French folks are nasty. Is Jimmy French or something?” asked Virginia.<br /><br />“No silly! Gosh, you wait and see. Your day will come and it’s not that bad. You’ll like it, I promise.” giggled Rosalie. “Oh, Jimmy wants to know if you’d be interested in double dating.”<br /><br />“Let me guess,” Virginia snidely remarked, “He has a nasty, french kissing friend? No thanks!” <br /><br />“What are you silly girls giggling about back there?” asked Virginia’s Mom. “Just think, you two will be graduating High School next Friday. Then it’s off to finishing school. You both better get control over that giggling, you know. Head Mistress Eliza-Jane will expect you both to be on your best manners.”<br /><br />“Oh god!” gasped Rosalie, “Don’t tell me she’s still there!” she giggled.<br /><br />Head Mistress Eliza-Jane was the dorm mother of St. Catherine’s Academy. It was toted as a school of charm to teach young girls proper etiquette and manners. They spent two whole weeks over the past few summers attending and mastering the fine skills of being socialite young ladies. It was an old English tradition that both the girls’ mother’s had to endure when they were teenagers during World War II. Head Mistress Eliza-Jane was old and just as mean as nails way back then as she was now. <br /><br />“Mind your matters Miss Rosalie,” scolded her mother from the front seat. “I expect you to respect your elders no matter what.” <br /><br />“Mind my manners Mom? Really?” joked Rosalie sarcastically. “You mean like you two had a part in spiking her nightly tea and sneaking out to the USO dance down in Atlantic City years ago?”<br /><br />Virginia’s mother gasped, “Heavens to Betsy, Eleanor! Please tell me you didn’t tell your daughter about that! My word!!” <br /><br />“Mom!” giggled Virginia, “Didn’t you meet Daddy at a USO dance?” <br /><br />As she pulled up into a parking spot at the dress shop, Rosalie’s mom chuckled, “Yes Virginia, she did. All of us girls had our eyes fixed on that handsome young sailor from Kentucky. His southern charm and accent had us all fixated but the moment he glanced over our way, he couldn’t take his eyes off of your mother.” <br /><br />Virginia’s mother blushed as the girls hurried out of the car and into the dress shop. “What are we going to do with these two girls?” she asked Eleanor. “They’re twice as wild and free as we were at their age.” <br /><br />Placing her hand on her long-time friend’s shoulder, Eleanor comforted, “Don’t worry Edith, they’re both good girls. Good heads on their shoulder’s too. They’ll be fine.”<br /><br />“My Jimmy has a friend named Marty. A real nice fellow and cute as a button. Blond hair and gorgeous blue eyes. You’d really like him. He seems just your type.” chimed Rosalie as she shuffled through a few dresses on the rack.<br /><br />“So I take it he’s boring, just like me, huh?” Virginia joked as she held up a bright red mini-skirt to her hips. <br /><br />“That’s adorable Ginny! Is there one in my size?” Rosalie asked. <br /><br />“Yup, there’s a few. We should sneak back here and buy one before we get sent off to St. Catherine’s. You know all the other girls are going to have these this year.” whispered Virginia. <br /><br />“Really? You think?” Rosalie whispered back. “I can’t see how in the name of carnations a girl can sit or live in something that short. Their Hoo-Hoos will be showing.” <br /><br />“May I help you girls?” asked the nosy old Saleslady who snuck up behind them. <br /><br />Quickly stuffing the red skirt on the rack Virginia nodded, “Yes.. um.. Ma’am. We’re here to pick out our graduation dresses.” <br /><br />“Follow me girls, we had a large shipment arrive yesterday and I’m sure you’ll find something a little more decent, shall I say?” the saleslady huffed as she stomped over to a rack of crisp white dresses. <br /><br />Rosalie immediately found the dress that she wanted. White, of course, with lace trim around the hem and sleeves. It was almost exactly like the one she saw in the Sears Catalog when she visited Virginia at work a month back. Virginia however, was stumped. All of the dresses were white and they all seemed the same to her. She pulled out a collared version with a straight hem. “Eeeew, put that ugly thing back on the rack,” squealed Rosalie. “What are you a nurse or something?” she giggled. <br /><br />“Oh dear,” the saleslady chimed in and motioned to Rosalie, “I don’t believe these dresses will fit you young lady. Your breast are entirely too big. When was the last time you came in for a bra fitting dear?” she inquired while handing Rosalie’s coveted dress to Virginia and gently pushing Rosalie over to the fitting room area. <br /><br />Rosalie shot Virginia a look of dread and despair as Virginia tried her best not to let out a giggle. Just a few short years ago their mother’s brought them to this very same shop for their first bra fitting by this prudish, old saleslady. Her and Rosalie stood there topless in just their underpants in the cold fitting room just as they were told to do. Nervous and full of anxiety they watched one another get practically molested by the saleslady and her measuring tape. She poked, twisted, tweaked and wrote down the measurements before she handed down the dreaded breast size verdict. Despite the uncomfortable feel-up by the saleslady; Rosalie was ecstatic to hear that she was going straight into a B-cup. “Giving you a little room to grow.” the saleslady smiled and proudly said as if she was congratulating Rosalie on her accomplished tit size. <br /><br />Virginia wasn’t so lucky back then, as the saleslady shook her head despairingly and handed her a Double A training bra. “You know my dear, they say if you play with your breasts it will encourage them to grow faster. Perhaps you may want to consider helping yourself along.” The young, clueless Virginia stood there mouth agape as the saleslady turned her towards the mirror to look at herself. With her gnarly old cold hands she grabbed each of Virginia’s nipples and tugged them forward. Holding them out and counting to four and repeating the dastardly act again and again while sing-songing, “One, two, three, four - make your titties grow some more.” Virginia saw her face flushed in embarrassment while she stared into the mirror. She also saw her good friend Rosalie’s reflection, red in the face also but only because she was trying so hard not to burst out laughing. <br /><br />Yes, the training bra incident was most definitely the most embarrassing moment in young Virginia’s life thus far; but her imagination went wild thinking about what could be going on in the fitting room between Rosalie and the saleslady now. She looked at the Rosalie’s choice of dress that the saleslady rudely stuffed in her hand and decided, that she kind of liked it too. The saleslady was right, there was no way Rosalie could squeeze her fat titted self into a form fitted dress as this. She’d do far better with a skirt and shirt set. <br /><br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">*******</div><br /><br />On the western side of New Jersey, across the river from Philadelphia; a young teen was outside washing out paint brushes with turpentine. As he wiped the sweat from his brow he noticed a used ‘57 Ford Fairlane 500 Town Vic for sale across the street for $400. He would be turning 16 in just a few short weeks and finally able to drive his own car.<br /><br />As Marty stood there half daydreaming about the Town Vic and half dizzy from the turpentine fumes, a crowd of six teenagers were heard coming around the corner. <br /><br />“Well, well, well,” the oldest boy chided, “Looky what we have here. Looks like Jew-boy Morris here got himself a fancy little job.” <br /><br />Marty turned around ignoring them and went back to work rinsing off the brushes, rollers and paint pan. These guys were the very reason he dropped out of school. These and all the rest of them from the riverside projects who integrated the halls of Woodrow Wilson High School after Camden’s new black mayor toted desegregation.<br /><br />“Yo! Jew-boy! Shows some respect when Tyrone be talking at you.” said one of them, while he shoved up on Marty’s arm. <br /><br />Marty was just about to turn around and deck him one, when suddenly the boys started to haul ass down the street. His nose stung from the smell of sulfur as he heard the familiar scratch, whoosh of a lighted match. “If them nigger boys had a lick of sense they’d set your stupid ass on fire boy.” a gruff voice grumbled from above. “Christ to hell boy, you smell like a goddamn gas rag. How much turp you wastin’ now? You’re gonna kill this lady’s grass, you fool.” <br /><br />“Sorry Dad,” Marty apologized, “I promise to be more careful next time.” <br /><br />“Well just makes sure you rinse the grass down well. It’ll burn itself yellow in five minutes if you don’t and the lady of this house will make a fuss.” said Marty’s father. “We’re ‘bout finished up here and we’ll call it a day.” he stated as he flicked his cigarette butt into the lady’s flower bed and walked back into the house.<br /><br />Marty squirted the nasty butt with the hose in fear that it would catch the mulch on fire. If there’s one thing I hate more than niggers it’s those damn cigarettes thought Marty. Both of his parents smoked like chimneys and everything he owned was stained yellow and reeked of those nasty things. Even his baby sister’s golden yellow hair smelled like an ashtray when she’d climb on her big brother’s lap before suppertime. <br /><br />Girls who smoke was a big turn off to Marty, yet the old movies and westerns were showing ladies smoking more and more these days. Marilyn Monroe had the hottest set of tits around and her poster hung on the inside of his closet door for years. That was, until he saw her puffing away on that fancy long cigarette in her latest movie. The movie sucked he thought, but that just made it suck even more as he remembered tearing her poster down and defacing her puckering lips with a moustache and beard. In his mind, kissing a woman who smoked was just as bad as kissing a man. <br /><br />As he packed up the brushes in the back of his dad’s old Chevy his eyes caught glimpse of the old Ford again across the street. $400 was a whole two weeks away as his Dad only paid him $100 a week. This was Marty’s second week working with his dad and he already had $185 saved. Surely the car would be sold to someone else by then. <br /><br />The screen door slammed as his father skipped down the steps and over to the truck. “Well son, it’s time to get paid. All packed up here?” his father asked. “Lets head down to Roscoe’s and cash this check and get your daddy some beer.” he said while lighting another cigarette. <br /><br />With a turn of the key the old Chevy rumbled back to life spewing a cloud of blue grey exhaust out of it’s backside. The radio squeal tuned into a static filled news report on the war in Vietnam. The North and South were at it again and had both suffered massive losses in this battle. It seemed like just yesterday President Johnson was more concerned over civil rights and the happenings in Cuba than he was with this small country half way around the world. <br /><br />Marty wondered about his Uncle David and what he thought about all of this war mess. Uncle David served the US Army a few years back and in 1962 he was stationed down at Ft. Bragg, NC. His enlistment was almost up when they suspended his discharge indefinitely back in 1962 due to the Cuban Missile Crisis. His new wife was pregnant and he was looking forward to a normal civilian life with his new family when this had to happen. He was with the core of engineers STRAC (Skilled, tough, ready, around-the-clock) unit attached to the 82nd Airborne. They sat for weeks ready to roll with heavy construction equipment at a moments notice. <br /><br />In March Uncle David received notice that his first son was born at Womack Army Hospital just a few short miles over on base. He wondered for weeks afterward if he’d ever get to go back home when his discharge orders finally arrived that April. He shared with Marty how wonderful the Army was for him and the skills that he learned. Yet oddly, Marty was left with the impression that Uncle Dave couldn’t wait to be discharged either. This left Marty wondering if maybe he should consider enlisting instead of working for his father. <br /><br />His father downshifted and the old Chevy stalled as it coasted into the bumpy, unpaved parking lot of Roscoe’s Bar. The hinges of the passenger door shrieked like a pterodactyl as Marty opened the door to get out. Parked neatly in a row were four brand new motorcycles which meant they weren’t going to get home any time soon. Randy and the boys were at the bar and when they all got to talking and carrying on, chances are they’ll stay until last call. <br /><br />It was the usual Friday night routine as Marty’s father bellied up to the bar and lit another Salem. Caroline, the bartender saw him coming and had a frosted mug of Schlitz straight off the tap and ready for him just as he sat down. She smiled at Marty and said, “Hey young man, the usual?” Marty nodded yes as she pulled out another frosty mug and a bottle of birch beer. <br /><br />With her worn but gentle hands, cold from the mugs she just poured; she brushed Marty’s bangs aside and whispered, “Look at those handsome blue eyes. You’re going to break some young lady’s heart someday with those.” <br /><br />“Leave the boy alone Caroline.” gruffed Marty’s Dad. “He ain’t got no time for cherry poppin’. Get your hot ass on over here and cash this check for me so I can send him home to his Momma.” he commanded as Caroline shuffled over to the cash register. <br /><br />“Dad?” Marty awkwardly asked, “Would it be okay if I play a few rounds of pinball before I got to go?” <br /><br />“Boy, I don’t know what it is about that flashy bell and whistle machine that gets your fancy going, but if you want to waste your hard earned money on shit like that you just go right on ahead.” his father chided. <br /><br />“Thanks Dad!” smiled Marty as he skipped over to the pinball machines with his frosty mug of birch beer. <br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div></div><div class="blogger-post-footer">Everyday solutions for everyday problems of extraordinary people.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23701477.post-60678210049929319082010-11-06T16:31:00.004-04:002010-11-06T16:38:51.207-04:00NaNoWriMo - "I Know a Place Where the Dancing's Free"<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><b>JERSEY BOY</b></span><br /><br /><object height="344" width="425"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/Avw0n9b2o9U&hl=en_US&feature=player_embedded&version=3"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowScriptAccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/Avw0n9b2o9U&hl=en_US&feature=player_embedded&version=3" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowfullscreen="true" allowscriptaccess="always" height="344" width="425"></embed></object><br /><br />Author's note: Hit a bit of a snag, or shock so to say in my writing after finding out someone who was a big part of my life, was really not a Jersey Boy. Not by my definition anyhow.<br /><br />So I seek, wonder, research and wait for inspiration on a definitive. <br /><br />Impatiently.<div class="blogger-post-footer">Everyday solutions for everyday problems of extraordinary people.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23701477.post-56962647157173428502010-11-01T00:21:00.005-04:002010-11-01T08:01:40.864-04:00NaNoWriMo - "I Know a Place Where the Dancing's Free" (Forward)<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUP-uXcxsGXHCwAdndXRb9QzjW9a1D2R3n21eTBXRKMjCw53j1r2cM1t97SiWdacDLIm3zQG77KhyEz4Dr94BXKVn8KZLQV3jmhspouOvSk9H_4xonIklKuFGHVyvDBZgtIP1LaQ/s1600/Jerseygilr.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 144px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUP-uXcxsGXHCwAdndXRb9QzjW9a1D2R3n21eTBXRKMjCw53j1r2cM1t97SiWdacDLIm3zQG77KhyEz4Dr94BXKVn8KZLQV3jmhspouOvSk9H_4xonIklKuFGHVyvDBZgtIP1LaQ/s200/Jerseygilr.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5534423668294601026" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><b>JERSEY GIRL</b></span><br /><i>by Tom Waits </i><br /><br />I got no time for the corner boys<br />Down in the street making all that noise<br />Or the girls out on the avenue<br />'Cause tonight I wanna be with you<br />Tonight I'm gonna take that ride<br />Across the river to the Jersey side<br />Take my baby to the carnival<br />And I'll take her on all the rides<br /><br />'Cause down the shore everything's all right<br />You and your baby on a Saturday night<br />You know all my dreams come true<br />When I'm walking down the street with you<br /><br />(Chorus) Sha la la la la la la<br />Sha la la la la la la la la<br />Sha la la la la la la la<br />Sha la la la I'm in love with a Jersey girl<br /><br />You know she thrills me with all her charms<br />When I'm wrapped up in my baby's arms<br />My little girl gives me everything<br />I know that some day she'll wear my ring<br />So don't bother me man I ain't got no time<br />I'm on my way to see that girl of mine<br />'Cause nothing matters in this whole wide world<br />When you're in love with a Jersey girl<br /><br />(Chorus)<br /><br />I see you on the street and you look so tired<br />I know that job you got leaves you so uninspired<br />When I come by to take you out to eat<br />You're lyin' all dressed up on the bed baby fast asleep<br />Go in the bathroom and put your makeup on<br />We're gonna take that little brat of yours and drop her off at your mom's<br />I know a place where the dancing's free<br />Now baby won't you come with me<br />'Cause down the shore everything's all right<br />You and your baby on a Saturday night<br />Nothing matters in this whole wide world<br />When you're in love with a Jersey girl.<br /><br />(Chorus)<br /><br /><div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large; "><b>Forward</b></span></div><div><br /></div><br /><i><b>“If this is the ‘new’ Jersey, can you just imagine what the ‘old’ Jersey must had been like?”</b></i><br /><br />There seems to be a stinging stigma aimed towards those who hail from the small state known as New Jersey. This novel of historical fiction will put a beat down on the stereotypes attributed to the Jersey Girl.<br /><br />I’m sure we all have heard by now about the infamous Nicole Polizzi. Better known as MTV’s sleazy character “Snookie” from its reality TV series <i>The Jersey Shore</i>. An actress of sorts, if you may dare call her one; born in Santiago, Chili, raised in Poughkeepsie, NY and whom currently resides in Marlboro, NY. A loud, obnoxious drama queen who is about to release a novel of her very own; <i>A Shore Thing.</i><br /><br />A sure what? New Yorker maybe, or perhaps she’s what us true Jersey Girls would deem a ‘Shoe-bee.’ A Shoe-bee is an old derogatory term dating back to the 1930’s to describe tourists from outside of New Jersey who come down to visit the Jersey Shore and act like they own the place. Back then they packed and brought along a shoe-boxed lunch, but today they drag out coolers of iced down piss poor beer and leave the Jersey shores much worse for the wear.<br /><br />Contrary to popular notion not everyone from New Jersey speaks with a heavy Italian accent or belongs to the mob. Not every gal wears big hair or halter tops with half their tits hanging out. New Jersey much like any other East Coast state has a charm all of her own, as much as each female who has been born and raised there. I’ve for one, have been a Jersey Girl all of my life and will probably die one, regardless on where I lay my head down tonight.<br /><br />Growing up in New Jersey I was just a hour or two drive from two fantastic cities; Philadelphia and New York. On any spontaneous night a gal could rock out at a RUSH concert in Philly or spy out a Broadway play in New York City. Museums, history and cultures abound in these metro-areas and being a Jersey Girl, I always had a quiet home to return to after seeing what life was like someplace else.<br /><br />Jersey Girls adore Bon Jovi and Bruce Springsteen. This is not a stereotype, its a fact - so get used to it. We will stand in line for fucking hours and camp overnight freezing our asses off for concert tickets. And yes, many of us have done this just so we can pass out on the floor within one minute of the band coming out on the stage.<br /><br />As this novel will attest, Jersey Girls always tend to keep it real. We get right to the point and heart of the matter not wasting any time with small talk. There is no being subtle or talk about the cold, windy weather that a Nor’easter may bring. We are the Nor’easter when it comes to letting someone know what we really think about them. Cold? Perhaps. Painfully honest? Absolutely. Blow your mind? You can count on it.<br /><br />I’m grateful that New Jersey is only prone to stereotypes, not earthquakes or tornadoes. Every place has its share of flaws, but the Jersey Girl within them; accepts them. We are strong, confident in who we are, determined in what we do and tend to forget everything else. Nothing matters in the whole wide world when you’re in love with who you are; A Jersey Girl.</div><div class="blogger-post-footer">Everyday solutions for everyday problems of extraordinary people.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23701477.post-76601540603250728522010-08-11T09:54:00.004-04:002010-08-11T10:11:27.127-04:00Celestial University Alumni, Class of September '67<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi42jjG3ei6RTd8m_jAMIxgBMrwScnNCynuwWxwZLez-0ltfcqC2egmvWgLJAhmqDmC3MfAMp0LQHZGbo3wGs13ks2BWo_ESH3KL5lbIR0gqqwrxGJmAsBc0Xbmo_gcZmyQNyV1Aw/s1600/imagestarbur.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 178px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi42jjG3ei6RTd8m_jAMIxgBMrwScnNCynuwWxwZLez-0ltfcqC2egmvWgLJAhmqDmC3MfAMp0LQHZGbo3wGs13ks2BWo_ESH3KL5lbIR0gqqwrxGJmAsBc0Xbmo_gcZmyQNyV1Aw/s200/imagestarbur.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5504154590989054866" /></a>Dear Alumni Member of Celestial University's Class of September 1967:<br /><br />Have you ever been stuck for hours at an airport? A flight has been drastically delayed and there are a few others waiting along with you. Different lives, different reasons but over all you are all anxiously anticipating getting to the same destination. You have coffee with some and talk about the delay, often striking up conversations with strangers whom you otherwise wouldn't. <br /><br />In the same light, I believe Celestial Twins <em>(those born on or around the same day and year)</em> were soul beings gathered around in the same waiting area - awaiting their departure to be born. Perhaps we just graduated with our "Humanity Degrees" where our souls studied and learned about what we now perceive to be instincts or hunches. In a sense we were classmates and playmates and all great buddies. <br /><br />We were intrigued as our Angelic Instructor taught us how to survive the Disco era, the cone bra of Madonna and the fading away of Michael Jackson. We were excited to learn about the technologies that would come available during our time here. We were moved with events that would sadden us yet inspired with the opportunity to develop a personal passion to carry out our "fleshy internship" with. <br /><br />While in the waiting area for our "moment of birth" to arrive we never even gave a thought that there would be imperfect human parental units waiting to receive us. We excitedly conversed with one another wondering what race we would be, if we'd have any sisters or brothers awaiting us or have the opportunity to be a first born. <br /><br />This all sounds weird, as I will fully admit. Blame it on my weird Grandmom who even today at 96 can come up with some mad, magical tales and fantasy. She told me at a very young age that I should find a "Birthday Twin." Something I never even gave thought to, other than her own personal experience being married to Grandpop who was 2 days younger than herself. That was, until I divorced at the age of 30. <br /><br />My own birthday present to myself that year was my own PC and internet connection. That evening, I went to "Ask Jeeves" to see what things happened during my life on my birthday. Instead of events, I found all kinds of people with the same birthday as I and connected with quite a few of them. <br /><br />Married one even! :) <br /><br />I found that Grandma was right, there is a special bond or a celestial connection. Despite what many of us have in common or our differences - we found a way to find one another here on earth. Many whom I have talked to immediately felt like good old friends refound. The experience has been awesome!<br /><br />I found Patrick back in 2002 when I was pregnant with my miracle daughter Katie. I found him through his <a href="http://www.grumpkins.com">Grumpkins</a> website, which listed his birthday on his <a href="http://www.grumpkins.com/about/index.php">About Me</a> page. I'm sure somewhere he still has my original email that read something like this:<br /><br /><em><strong>"There you are! I can't believe it's been 35 years since that week before we were born. How's it going? Me, well - I ended up in one of those dysfunctional family units that our instructors warned us about. I managed to survive but this era certainly has been a challenge, just as we were promised. <br /><br />You were so brave! Diving in with the first group. It took me 2 more days to get the nerve up to come down here. Finally it was Monday morning and I promptly took my dive down and arrived at 8:01 EST on 9/11. As a girl even!! Yuk! ...."</em></strong><br /><br />Well, anyhoo - my email intrigued Patrick to the 11th degree and we quickly became best buddies. <br /><br />.... and here we are! <br /><br />So <a href="http://livewelldiefree.blogspot.com/">Patty</a>! Wow, it's been 42 years! I would had never imagined that when Patrick dove down 4 minutes behind you that the both of you would end up in the same womb!! Looks like you turned out to be a girl too! Aren't we lucky? I don't know, all this shaving, PMS, cramps and these bothersome breasts still seem nonsensical. I guess it could had been worse.<br /><br />Speaking of Patrick, looks like he's completed his <a href="http://livewelldiefree.blogspot.com/">human internship</a> with flying colors no less! Wow, he really turned up the heat on all that he was passionate about and he rocked. Those pumpkins are fantastic!!!! Not to mention the love and joy that he emitted, wow - that reached out to so many!! I bet our Celestial Instructor is going to give him an A+!! <br /><br />Goodness, how can we beat that? It's going to be hard to do but let's try to match it. I'll be honest, my passions are still all over the place right now and haven't been so finely tuned as they should be. This life thing is hard to manage sometimes, juggling work, career and family. I'm lucky to get through a day to even write <em>(which is my passion)</em> half of the time. <br /><br />I'm still chugging along with the giving and receiving of love and joy. <em>(Lightbearer 101)</em> It's hard to come by these days and I've found that I have to prod it out of so many. Sometimes that discourages me. I wonder how Patrick handled that? <br /><br />It's a wonderful pleasure to finally catch up with you! Keep in touch!<br /><br />Your Celestial Classmate,<br /><br />Margie<div class="blogger-post-footer">Everyday solutions for everyday problems of extraordinary people.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23701477.post-16679180847179653902010-02-13T21:34:00.002-05:002010-02-13T21:55:26.577-05:00Happy Valentines Day Squirt!<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYde_wuEr3ZbWQY999G-PprAHwOtMvahyA1R9AXhwM3EvTEbAnNdTtB7NOATKQIMg2z5YY7juPS_d7WG9s7gltFH1FqZKesfYDEgQcsYehKo5gHzcDGS6PnG5AMJF0oLkMtypXDQ/s1600-h/Disney+028.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYde_wuEr3ZbWQY999G-PprAHwOtMvahyA1R9AXhwM3EvTEbAnNdTtB7NOATKQIMg2z5YY7juPS_d7WG9s7gltFH1FqZKesfYDEgQcsYehKo5gHzcDGS6PnG5AMJF0oLkMtypXDQ/s200/Disney+028.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5437927239384715666" border="0" /></a>Dear Squirt,<br /><br />You are my sun-shine each morning,<br />and my last thought every night.<br />Sun beams shoot out of your butt,<br />like Tinker-bell taking flight.<br /><br />Sometimes I duck,<br />Sometimes I laugh out loud,<br />Sometimes I cry -<br />because you make me so proud.<br /><br />Yes. Sometimes I frown,<br />Sometimes I pout.<br />Sometimes I just need coffee -<br />to get my sleepies out.<br /><br />But ALL of the time I love you.<br />All of the time forever more.<br />Because you remind me all of the time<br />about what we are all living for.<br /><br />Love,<br />Mommy<br /><br />P.S. Do NOT let Daddy read this! He gets all teary eyed and mushy when he sometimes reads what Mommy writes. That's why I fell in love with him. He always feels what I feel in my heart, believes in me and in what I believe and wish for. He will always do the same for you.<br /><br />Remember this because someday you'll need to search the heart of a potential Prince and know without a doubt what kind of good stuffs you must find in there.<br /><br />Don't be superficial for at times our Princes live like frogs and you may have to pick up a dirty sock or two in order to find the good stuffs.<br /><br />Remember to forgive lots for you too will need forgiving lots yourself. <br /><br />Never put a price on what a potential Prince will bring you. Only count the cost.<br /><br />Those long stem roses may be rejects from his first choice in girl to gift them to earlier this morning.<br /><br />They could be a last minute purchase on his way over from work,<br /><br />or creatively fashioned with a pack of rolling papers and pipe cleaners.<br /><br />He must love you without conditions and he must think you're the coolest chick in the world.<br /><br />He will however, eat your last Reeces Peanut Butter cup but will offer to buy you more.<br /><br />He'll mean that. Trust him. <br /><br />Remind him.<br /><br />Love him.<br /><br />Pray for him.<div class="blogger-post-footer">Everyday solutions for everyday problems of extraordinary people.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23701477.post-86982471956960493372010-01-04T11:21:00.004-05:002010-02-09T12:53:47.067-05:00If You Smoke Cigarettes You Need to Read This!If given a choice would you mind smoking a pair of those God awful Croc clogs?<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaJXOF5IMLBvtb63jf_AE0ZlKgYwlujOC_X7F1rbJba7wJGl1PRXoezJcXcif9rtNND4itS3puW0wcgZBZFIcOjLtdJODuEL06zdKqgD8I6aIqBUVw4xMLkN7CrAFXekFRXMicDA/s1600-h/crocs_shoes.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaJXOF5IMLBvtb63jf_AE0ZlKgYwlujOC_X7F1rbJba7wJGl1PRXoezJcXcif9rtNND4itS3puW0wcgZBZFIcOjLtdJODuEL06zdKqgD8I6aIqBUVw4xMLkN7CrAFXekFRXMicDA/s200/crocs_shoes.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5422921027179614546" border="0" /></a>How about a tube of Saran Cling Wrap, Carpet Adhesive Glue or a pair of Boxing Gloves?<br /><br />If not, be afraid. In fact, be very afraid because as of this New Year of 2010 - you are!!<br /><br />Have you noticed that your cigarettes taste funny and have been snuffing out frequently? Is your throat often sore and do you cough more than usual? Is there an acronym in capital letters that reads "FSC" printed over the UPC code on your cigarette pack? If so, than you're one of the millions of unknowing victims of the new <a href="http://www.miamiherald.com/news/florida/story/1404066.html">"Fire Safe Cigarette" law</a> that has been imposed on the tobacco companies and forced upon you.<br /><br />Funny how the mainstream media outlets are not covering this change, but thankfully a few local and private news outlets find the story substantial enough to put into print.<br /><br />Miami Herald: <span style="font-style: italic;">"Smokers in Florida and 11 other states will be lighting -- and relighting -- fire-safe cigarettes designed to go out when they're not puffed as the result of new laws that will take effect Friday, January 1, 2010."</span><br /><br />You are now probably asking where do the Croc Clogs and Carpet glue come in this picture. Along the paper on your cigarette you'll notice two or three thicker bands that they are calling "speed bumps". These are designed so an unattended cigarette can self extinquish.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCZTYCM0N3_m4Of5JUL1FP3lMpWh7ODRTq8FAnaOLVWGXPexHZpxkZWrl4pYCLP5njp-VqVQQCHyEg2VfhsctGFJSLiPxSGiit7yokJTLPuXLJ3lKIs96TGvLLk_4LHBlYM9lvew/s1600-h/Cigarettebandingwords030906.gif"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 119px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCZTYCM0N3_m4Of5JUL1FP3lMpWh7ODRTq8FAnaOLVWGXPexHZpxkZWrl4pYCLP5njp-VqVQQCHyEg2VfhsctGFJSLiPxSGiit7yokJTLPuXLJ3lKIs96TGvLLk_4LHBlYM9lvew/s200/Cigarettebandingwords030906.gif" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5422921033102420786" border="0" /></a>These so called speed bump strips are made of <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ethylene-vinyl_acetate">Ethylene Vinyl Acetate</a> which is the same copolymer that is used to make Crocks, ski boots, boxing gloves and carpet glue!!<br /><br />Is this safe? Watch this video for a real eye opener!!<br /><br /><object height="344" width="425"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/_mTXZVCOM0Y&hl=en_US&fs=1&"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/_mTXZVCOM0Y&hl=en_US&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" height="344" width="425"></embed><a class="kngduuzjiflxnguqnciv" href="http://www.youtube.com/v/_mTXZVCOM0Y&hl=en_US&fs=1&"></a><a class="kngduuzjiflxnguqnciv" href="http://www.youtube.com/v/_mTXZVCOM0Y&hl=en_US&fs=1&"></a><a class="kngduuzjiflxnguqnciv" href="http://www.youtube.com/v/_mTXZVCOM0Y&hl=en_US&fs=1&"></a><a class="kngduuzjiflxnguqnciv" href="http://www.youtube.com/v/_mTXZVCOM0Y&hl=en_US&fs=1&"></a><a class="kngduuzjiflxnguqnciv" href="http://www.youtube.com/v/_mTXZVCOM0Y&hl=en_US&fs=1&"></a><a class="kngduuzjiflxnguqnciv" href="http://www.youtube.com/v/_mTXZVCOM0Y&hl=en_US&fs=1&"></a></object><br /><br />They can "release irritating and/or toxic fumes and vapors if involved in a fire." Way to go tobacco companies! In a rush to appease our government Nanny laws they found that Ethylene Vinyl Acetate was the superior element to manufacture and produce a Fire Safe cigarette. A product that we smokers tend to set on fire, burn and inhale?<br /><br />Thanks a lot! A double thanks for not even telling us of this dangerous additive and leaving us to wonder why our smokes taste like crap and keep going out on us. Below is a video of an audio phone conversation with Marlboro on why they didn't tell us. Why they didn't mark the packs or cartons with a note of the change? Why they didn't do anything to notify the consumer at all?<br /><br /><object height="344" width="425"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/-2MaVerTBP4&hl=en_US&fs=1&"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/-2MaVerTBP4&hl=en_US&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" height="344" width="425"></embed><a class="kngduuzjiflxnguqnciv" href="http://www.youtube.com/v/-2MaVerTBP4&hl=en_US&fs=1&"></a><a class="kngduuzjiflxnguqnciv" href="http://www.youtube.com/v/-2MaVerTBP4&hl=en_US&fs=1&"></a><a class="kngduuzjiflxnguqnciv" href="http://www.youtube.com/v/-2MaVerTBP4&hl=en_US&fs=1&"></a><a class="kngduuzjiflxnguqnciv" href="http://www.youtube.com/v/-2MaVerTBP4&hl=en_US&fs=1&"></a><a class="kngduuzjiflxnguqnciv" href="http://www.youtube.com/v/-2MaVerTBP4&hl=en_US&fs=1&"></a><a class="kngduuzjiflxnguqnciv" href="http://www.youtube.com/v/-2MaVerTBP4&hl=en_US&fs=1&"></a></object><br /><br />Granted smoking is bad for us, we all know that - but how can the Government enforce the Tobacco companies to put this in cigarettes without informing the general smoking public?<br /><br />About 2 months back my husband made the complete switch to the electronic cigarettes and has been encouraging me to convert over. Mainly because it's time to quit, have a healthier lifestyle and let's face it, cigarettes stink. In addition the price has skyrocketed due to taxation. Our conversion is not so much to save money - but to stop forking money over to our irresponsible government.<br /><br />Little did I know how irresponsible they have been!!! My husband asked me earlier this week why I had a pack of Marlboros vs. my usual brand. I didn't know why but my cigs kept burning out, didn't taste right and were giving me a sore throat. Now I know and I want everyone to know.<br /><br />I'm going to make the switch to the much safer E-cigarette immediately. I'll be inhaling nicotine and sno-cone juice!! No more additives, tar, carbon monoxide or taking a chance of gluing my lungs together or releasing irritating and toxic vapors!!<br /><br />For anyone who has been scared out of their minds like I have been, I recommend <a href="http://www.awesomevapor.com/">Awesome Vapor</a> as a supplier for your E-cigarette and E-juice. This guy is local, honest and forthright. He only sells a superior product that is reviewed highly by ex-smokers and charges a fair price. Other than this alternative - I highly recommend making this your catalyst to quit the habit.<br /><br />Also, please pass this information forward to all that you know who smoke. <br /><br />Before it's too late.<div class="blogger-post-footer">Everyday solutions for everyday problems of extraordinary people.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23701477.post-32673089316476101312009-12-27T18:05:00.004-05:002011-01-28T13:28:15.211-05:00Chimichanga Recipe<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnlWS9F4RpJlYMwxRPltoKwwicnQn9s1wfgOTsmqqeIwr8ZJE2bht17S6tPkBUGto3H1Oy5AaKZgc4NVC5mjGqn9K8s7cRgFalxd2bkLCW2cLKwkh0NsFg2F9IxS2TWmxqaoR9xw/s1600-h/Holidays2009+060.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnlWS9F4RpJlYMwxRPltoKwwicnQn9s1wfgOTsmqqeIwr8ZJE2bht17S6tPkBUGto3H1Oy5AaKZgc4NVC5mjGqn9K8s7cRgFalxd2bkLCW2cLKwkh0NsFg2F9IxS2TWmxqaoR9xw/s200/Holidays2009+060.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5420056845144942146" border="0" /></a>I promised to share my top secret Chicken Chimichanga Recipe. Here goes...<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHo-fr7yESh9CKbsDyxHl101GPlu-agkOQ2kJT1ORMBOqb6krZyWt1CWHnQQTbMYS2NY0ds4kQ186ePA_IGqk3sXhzz5ZdvaMmLXB3mYBfHHWLPWPZDsMrzrmX-nnfE-pNTFbm6w/s1600-h/Holidays2009+050.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHo-fr7yESh9CKbsDyxHl101GPlu-agkOQ2kJT1ORMBOqb6krZyWt1CWHnQQTbMYS2NY0ds4kQ186ePA_IGqk3sXhzz5ZdvaMmLXB3mYBfHHWLPWPZDsMrzrmX-nnfE-pNTFbm6w/s200/Holidays2009+050.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5420056851951071266" border="0" /></a>In two tablespoons of Olive Oil, caramelize 1 cup of chopped onion (Large Onion will do) and 2 cloves of crushed garlic. Add 1 tablespoon of chopped parsley, chili powder, garlic powder and cinnamon.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGY3Q9yBvVPhZPK8-q3hNhhc2ASFBPZ86lXRVeCdXC2JJIztdqI3Cuir-1FWCxq8_nKvOT5FL6zMVXkcWJ-JzpCRIzphQFG2zy6oo4_KnSf5qw4eJa7h5p-2X7h_Fp2X2KYaO4pg/s1600-h/Holidays2009+051.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGY3Q9yBvVPhZPK8-q3hNhhc2ASFBPZ86lXRVeCdXC2JJIztdqI3Cuir-1FWCxq8_nKvOT5FL6zMVXkcWJ-JzpCRIzphQFG2zy6oo4_KnSf5qw4eJa7h5p-2X7h_Fp2X2KYaO4pg/s200/Holidays2009+051.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5420056854423199554" border="0" /></a>When onions are done add 1 cup of shredded chicken breast (can use beef if you have leftovers) and one jar of salsa. (Your choice of hotness, I use Mild here.)<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXvjnqR4NBxhjlnw4Wjlp-qLDJNzWjHmZsiOf_w3TPH0xjO9zgK9GPIh_-38fkwBh-gPMfalqPfSHn_OLh7_z0v8jnSXAAhpflemnnIyPNU0SqYs8ncRYK0ICmRuK_eLWqh40jtA/s1600-h/Holidays2009+052.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXvjnqR4NBxhjlnw4Wjlp-qLDJNzWjHmZsiOf_w3TPH0xjO9zgK9GPIh_-38fkwBh-gPMfalqPfSHn_OLh7_z0v8jnSXAAhpflemnnIyPNU0SqYs8ncRYK0ICmRuK_eLWqh40jtA/s200/Holidays2009+052.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5420056861618982946" border="0" /></a>Slice one ten-pack of soft tortillas in half and nuke for about 30 seconds for that makes them easier to work with.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwBEckYAfXyGJJd1mVgUTYP30u_FoYoYp5asNFCzcuHTOqQramqjsK7Kvw-fNVHVC-NFfW8Mr2EWLt1xdmIHEZtgepYBNN-ssBJbSJARxNZBA5CaFgNPx25nGdEWXY__Cm6GeIrA/s1600-h/Holidays2009+053.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwBEckYAfXyGJJd1mVgUTYP30u_FoYoYp5asNFCzcuHTOqQramqjsK7Kvw-fNVHVC-NFfW8Mr2EWLt1xdmIHEZtgepYBNN-ssBJbSJARxNZBA5CaFgNPx25nGdEWXY__Cm6GeIrA/s200/Holidays2009+053.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5420057330091067650" border="0" /></a>You'll want to fold each 1/2 tortilla into a cone like this.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwI7n4sHUM9C5qSsb_8N2laKuHzCnOjOVTWFgpNOent4usyHPgQSQVHhY0WBPUH1EKUSUtEWtnU4LD8gcPbKZF8xo1Pjpf5OffpH8uZ_G03oYHMC6vYl0No0yh3LlDM9P7URbREw/s1600-h/Holidays2009+054.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwI7n4sHUM9C5qSsb_8N2laKuHzCnOjOVTWFgpNOent4usyHPgQSQVHhY0WBPUH1EKUSUtEWtnU4LD8gcPbKZF8xo1Pjpf5OffpH8uZ_G03oYHMC6vYl0No0yh3LlDM9P7URbREw/s200/Holidays2009+054.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5420057335816083602" border="0" /></a>Preheat oven to 400 degrees. Prepare by plopping in one tablespoon of the chicken mixture and top it off with 1 tablespoon of refried beans.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjO1smTImLQVNhivP4wCDY-bSBh16gaHDFY7LcCQsZ683s3fnewqUYAZzdmf90fd_o9X3o2xIw4Zi_uf2dtU-Z7Yv16m2tVDe4bEsJzhL3hyHOCTrKm7kHh72XLl77IMwUvh7JEuQ/s1600-h/Holidays2009+056.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjO1smTImLQVNhivP4wCDY-bSBh16gaHDFY7LcCQsZ683s3fnewqUYAZzdmf90fd_o9X3o2xIw4Zi_uf2dtU-Z7Yv16m2tVDe4bEsJzhL3hyHOCTrKm7kHh72XLl77IMwUvh7JEuQ/s200/Holidays2009+056.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5420057341960793330" border="0" /></a>Tuck in the tops and lay them seam side down in well oiled pan - top seam tuck against the edge of pan also helps them to stay put. Brush a little oil on the tops. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhchtUFmh-ONTlMOvUcDOQGx66oJKdEd6kdIeQvExxS5wCApVDTRS0Ps624WflTV5SaC5ygErtUMh-G63gLKL6n3fBGZg8Gg-AGRkXc2wV-WyLjlyU3oaXbCY3grFPfM7DZUQO9ow/s1600-h/Holidays2009+057.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhchtUFmh-ONTlMOvUcDOQGx66oJKdEd6kdIeQvExxS5wCApVDTRS0Ps624WflTV5SaC5ygErtUMh-G63gLKL6n3fBGZg8Gg-AGRkXc2wV-WyLjlyU3oaXbCY3grFPfM7DZUQO9ow/s200/Holidays2009+057.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5420057348015915778" border="0" /></a>Place in pre-heated 400 degree oven for about 8-10 minutes for each side. (Flip carefully) Drain on paper towel. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9ZyPORXQ1yObIPrg4WhLgg8ct8AcrikXB8MeQSW-GTmz_tvVfB7vLmmrsq3OaOsh2IQv_OOK8YtaJl-mr6dGxhFhpEnaa5ocnmcVYOkD3VDwqDF9wOZ9k0MUTfWydOzSX1SYBpw/s1600-h/Holidays2009+058.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9ZyPORXQ1yObIPrg4WhLgg8ct8AcrikXB8MeQSW-GTmz_tvVfB7vLmmrsq3OaOsh2IQv_OOK8YtaJl-mr6dGxhFhpEnaa5ocnmcVYOkD3VDwqDF9wOZ9k0MUTfWydOzSX1SYBpw/s200/Holidays2009+058.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5420057349252619170" border="0" /></a>Here is Squirt's plate. She likes her flavors separated. I prefer them with two served on a bed of lettuce, topped with some salsa, sour cream, shredded cheese and black olives. You can add guacamole or anything your heart desires.<br /><br />The recipe makes 20.<div class="blogger-post-footer">Everyday solutions for everyday problems of extraordinary people.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23701477.post-77028628137808011412009-10-26T21:44:00.003-04:002010-03-08T13:17:13.110-05:00"Shmily"<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEit9uzHf9hqSiRMtm5BLUJj5skZ_LgeDPQ5iWy5HRKZilFzLpXxhAT8HyHeqxZxwF9slanDsU2ja3A43kEfVD8LCKcuT4waxhk1aX4Ah5JaTMuY8qY0nQr1j7Koqi1yWIPw8abXYQ/s1600-h/smiley-face-flat.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEit9uzHf9hqSiRMtm5BLUJj5skZ_LgeDPQ5iWy5HRKZilFzLpXxhAT8HyHeqxZxwF9slanDsU2ja3A43kEfVD8LCKcuT4waxhk1aX4Ah5JaTMuY8qY0nQr1j7Koqi1yWIPw8abXYQ/s200/smiley-face-flat.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5397089747125533378" border="0" /></a>My grandparents were married for over half a century, and played their own special game from the time they had met each other. The goal of their game was to write the word "shmily" in a surprise place for the other to find. They took turns leaving "shmily" around the house, and as soon as one of them discovered it, it was their turn to hide it once more.<br /><br />They dragged "shmily" with their fingers through the sugar and flour containers to await whoever was preparing the next meal. They smeared it in the dew on the windows overlooking the patio where my grandma always fed us warm, homemade pudding with blue food coloring. "Shmily" was written in the steam left on the mirror after a hot shower, where it would reappear bath after bath. At one point, my grandmother even unrolled an entire roll of toilet paper to leave "shmily" on the very last sheet.<br /><br />There was no end to the places "shmily" would pop up. Little notes with "shmily" scribbled hurriedly were found on dashboards and car seats, or taped to steering wheels. The notes were stuffed inside shoes and left under pillows. "Shmily" was written in the dust upon the mantel and traced in the ashes of the fireplace.<br /><br />This mysterious word was as much a part of my grandparents' house as the furniture. It took me a long time before I was able to fully appreciate my grand-parents' game. Skepticism has kept me from believing in true love-one that is pure and enduring. However, I never doubted my grandparents' relationship. They had love down pat.It was more than their flirtatious little games; it was a way of life. Their relationship was based on a devotion and passionate affection which not everyone is lucky to experience. Grandma and Grandpa hold hands every chance they could. They stole kisses as they bumped into each other in their tiny kitchen.<br /><br />They finished each other's sentences and shared the daily crossword puzzle and word jumble..<br /><br />My grandma whispered to me about how cute my grandpa was, how handsome and old he had grown to be. She claimed that she really knew "how to pick 'em."<br /><br />Before every meal they bowed their heads and gave thanks, marveling at their blessings: a wonderful family, good fortune, and each other. But there was a dark cloud in my grandparents' life: my grandmother had breast cancer. The disease had first appeared ten years earlier. As always, Grandpa was with her every step of the way. He comforted her in their yellow room, painted that way so that she could always be surrounded by sunshine, even when she was too sick to go outside. Now the cancer was again attacking her body.<br /><br />With the help of a cane and my grandfather's steady hand, they went to church every morning. But my grandmother grew steadily weaker until, finally, she could not leave the house anymore. For a while, Grandpa would go to church alone, praying to God to watch over his wife.<br /><br />Then one day, what we all dreaded finally happened. Grandma was gone. "Shmily." It was scrawled in yellow on the pink ribbons of my grandmother's funeral bouquet. As the crowd thinned and the last mourners turned to leave, my aunts, uncles, cousins and other family members came forward and gathered around Grandma one last time. Grandpa stepped up to my grandmother's casket and, taking a shaky breath, he began to sing to her. Through his tears and grief, the song came, a deep and throaty lullaby. Shaking with my own sorrow, I will never forget that moment. For I knew that, although I couldn't begin to fathom the depth of their love, I had been privileged to witness its unmatched beauty.<br /><br />S-h-m-i-l-y: See How Much I Love You.<div class="blogger-post-footer">Everyday solutions for everyday problems of extraordinary people.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23701477.post-37047163027152530402009-10-24T22:21:00.001-04:002009-10-24T22:23:19.565-04:00The Obama Chicken<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPZN4k3VJ-IrGhK89WEyPNPdGtWlZAgc1yvAyrwjiSDn_e3eJxKC3Fld1jGoRPLOKqAKjja0aVZ1zi-R54pesYM2BybeMb9A7XtaAzsx6-jeaWfgXbAvF3qEu3DUldfgS4pnkBpA/s1600-h/BFH_barack_obama_chicken.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 134px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPZN4k3VJ-IrGhK89WEyPNPdGtWlZAgc1yvAyrwjiSDn_e3eJxKC3Fld1jGoRPLOKqAKjja0aVZ1zi-R54pesYM2BybeMb9A7XtaAzsx6-jeaWfgXbAvF3qEu3DUldfgS4pnkBpA/s200/BFH_barack_obama_chicken.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5396357215101059746" border="0" /></a> John the farmer was in the fertilized egg business. He had several hundred young layers (hens), called "pullets" and eight or ten roosters, whose job was to fertilize the eggs.<br /><br />Farmer John kept records and any rooster that didn't perform went into the soup pot and was replaced. That took an awful lot of his time so he bought a set of tiny bells and attached them to his roosters. Each bell had a different tone so John could tell from a distance, which rooster was performing. Now he could sit on the porch and fill out an efficiency report simply by listening to the bells. The farmer's favorite rooster was B. Obama, and a very fine specimen he was, too. But on this particular morning John noticed B. Obama's bell hadn't rung at all!<br /><br />John went to investigate. The other roosters were chasing pullets, bells-a-ringing. The pullets, hearing the roosters coming, would run for cover. But to Farmer John's amazement, Obama had his bell in his beak, so it couldn't ring. He'd sneak up on a pullet, do his job and walk on to the next one. John was so proud of Obama, he entered him in the Boone County Fair and Obama became an overnight sensation among the judges.<br /><br />The result... The judges not only awarded Obama the No Bell Piece Prize but they also awarded him the Pulletsurprise as well. Clearly Obama was a politician in the making: who else but a politician could figure out how to win two of the most highly coveted awards on our planet by being the best at sneaking up on the populace and screwing them when they weren't paying attention?<div class="blogger-post-footer">Everyday solutions for everyday problems of extraordinary people.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23701477.post-85699390780861322532009-09-15T11:56:00.007-04:002009-10-02T20:17:16.695-04:00Help Coastal Pet Rescue win $20,000!!<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6dnjbfOcLS1vf7B6-ddN-74aBClaqs5yLuCPn5FTIMMs288AF-we7CASud5x-RN3hNN17bdvOZ6A0gNVTwbv1bLVTsTwiqRjhaLXZqqZRVO5ZJjmeK6xVhh5usgB7V9Rt_0Dx0Q/s1600-h/savannah_lisa.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 158px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6dnjbfOcLS1vf7B6-ddN-74aBClaqs5yLuCPn5FTIMMs288AF-we7CASud5x-RN3hNN17bdvOZ6A0gNVTwbv1bLVTsTwiqRjhaLXZqqZRVO5ZJjmeK6xVhh5usgB7V9Rt_0Dx0Q/s200/savannah_lisa.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5381724020245840738" border="0" /></a>I don't usually do this, but I'm writing today to let you know about The Animal Rescue Site $100,000 Shelter & Challenge. Together with Petfinder, the Animal Rescue Site is awarding $100,000 in grants to eligible Petfinder.com member rescue organizations to help animals.<br /><br />Lisa here is a wonderful friend, but also a caring, passionate and driven individual who does so much for the homeless and abused pets here in the Coastal Savannah area. Times have been rough in this economy and donations aren't up to par, and this organization can really use this extra money to put towards vet bills, spays/neuters and finding homeless pets long term loving homes and families that will love them.<br /><br />You can learn more about Lisa and Coastal Pet Rescue, and all of their wonderful, selfless efforts here at <a href="http://www.coastalpetrescue.org/">www.coastalpetrescue.org</a> If you have a few dollars to <a href="http://www.coastalpetrescue.org/donate.php">spare</a> that would be welcomed, appreciated and wonderful...<br /><br />...but we know times have been hard on so many. Especially on many of our furry friends who seem to be suffering the worst of effects of neglect and abandonment during these tough times. If you don't have a dollar to spare, could you give just 30 seconds of your time and vote for Coastal Pet Rescue in Savannah, GA for a chance to help the organization to make ends meet?<br /><br />The grand prize is a $20,000 grant, and there are many other prizes. Please visit <a href="http://www.theanimalrescuesite.com/clickToGive/shelterchallenge.faces;jsessionid=7DC719A3C72A2CA4B367B9DD3F69167A.ctgProd03">www.theanimalrescuesite.com</a> to vote today and every day if you can. You don't have to register, and voting is free.<br /><br />Thank you so much!!<br /><br /><blockquote><strong>A Dog's Purpose. <em>(From the view of a 6 year old)<br /></em></strong><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitXHMa8R2licA3cyvwBysXpMMQkzynRRl13TNnqhX5RgNfStxNTfDb-rj6X2MfDgHrCj9VXxJPGhPXaf2ULCqDdW5_Wq7n4appl5BzHG8D_Ud6ww6AcoRD4ipkKXf4gsrNh1J-9A/s1600-h/dog.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 151px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitXHMa8R2licA3cyvwBysXpMMQkzynRRl13TNnqhX5RgNfStxNTfDb-rj6X2MfDgHrCj9VXxJPGhPXaf2ULCqDdW5_Wq7n4appl5BzHG8D_Ud6ww6AcoRD4ipkKXf4gsrNh1J-9A/s200/dog.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5381748047183582994" border="0" /></a>Being a veterinarian, I had been called to examine a ten-year-old Irish Wolfhound named Belker. The dog's owners, Ron, his wife Lisa, and their little boy Shane, were all very attached to Belker, and they were hoping for a miracle.<br /><br />I examined Belker and found he was dying of cancer. I told the family we couldn't do anything for Belker, and offered to perform the euthanasia procedure for the old dog in their home.<br /><br />As we made arrangements, Ron and Lisa told me they thought it would be good for six-year-old Shane to observe the procedure. They felt as though Shane might learn something from the experience.<br /><br />The next day, I felt the familiar catch in my throat as Belker 's family surrounded him. Shane seemed so calm, petting the old dog for the last time, that I wondered if he understood what was going on... Within a few minutes, Belker slipped peacefully away.<br /><br />The little boy seemed to accept Belker's transition without any difficulty or confusion... We sat together for a while after Belker's Death, wondering aloud about the sad fact that animal lives are shorter than human lives.<br />Shane, who had been listening quietly, piped up, ''I know why.''<br /><br />Startled, we all turned to him. What came out of his mouth next stunned me. I'd never heard a more comforting explanation. It has changed the way I try and live.<br /><br />He said,''People are born so that they can learn how to live a good life -- like loving everybody all the time and being nice, right?'' The Six-year-old continued,<br /><br />''Well, dogs already know how to do that, so they don't have to stay as long.''<br /><br /><br /><em><strong>Live simply.</strong></em><br /><br /><strong><em>Love generously.</em></strong><br /><br /><strong><em>Care deeply.</em></strong><br /></blockquote><br /><p style="text-align: center;"></p><div class="blogger-post-footer">Everyday solutions for everyday problems of extraordinary people.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23701477.post-1471328931543273492009-09-14T11:51:00.003-04:002009-09-14T11:54:13.529-04:00What Have you Missed?<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2HVJKsXGMvbG2LMFwAxZnqvqZQyuEskUJmHggi239Rr6dJnIPTqk1AkkdQ4OxpP8yO9-5q9oPwiWgYuD0PH2lrusd9B4hHUcLbLWc1bfj4J3vqKnlK1v_NDzbHculOhdzPgWoUQ/s1600-h/image001.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 165px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2HVJKsXGMvbG2LMFwAxZnqvqZQyuEskUJmHggi239Rr6dJnIPTqk1AkkdQ4OxpP8yO9-5q9oPwiWgYuD0PH2lrusd9B4hHUcLbLWc1bfj4J3vqKnlK1v_NDzbHculOhdzPgWoUQ/s200/image001.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5381351349127350898" border="0" /></a>Washington, DC Metro Station on a cold January morning. A man with a violin plays six Bach pieces for about 45 minutes. During that time approx. 2 thousand people passed through the station, most of them on their way to work. After 3 minutes a middle-aged man noticed there was a musician playing. He slowed his pace and stopped for a few seconds and then hurried to meet his schedule.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">4 minutes later:</span><br /><br />The violinist received his first dollar: a woman threw the money in the hat and, without stopping, continued to walk.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">6 minutes:</span><br /><br />A young man leaned against the wall to listen to him, then looked at his watch and started to walk again.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">10 minutes:</span><br /><br />A 3-year old boy stopped but his mother tugged him along hurriedly. The kid stopped to look at the violinist again, but the mother pushed hard and the child continued to walk, turning his head all the time. This action was repeated by several other children. Every parent, without exception, forced their children to move on quickly.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">45 minutes:</span><br /><br />The musician played continuously. Only 6 people stopped and listened for a short while. About 20 gave money but continued to walk at their normal pace. The man collected a total of $32.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">1 hour:</span><br /><br />He finished playing and silence took over. No one noticed. No one applauded, nor was there any recognition.<br /><br />No one knew this, but the violinist was Joshua Bell, one of the greatest musicians in the world. He played one of the most intricate pieces ever written, with a violin valued at $3.5 million dollars. Two days before, Joshua Bell sold out a theater in Boston where the price of seats averaged $100.<br /><br />Joshua Bell playing incognito in the metro station was organized by the Washington Post as part of a social experiment about perception, taste and people's priorities. The questions raised: in a commonplace environment at an inappropriate hour, do we perceive beauty? Do we stop to appreciate it? Do we recognize talent in an unexpected context?<br /><br />One possible conclusion reached from this experiment could be this:<br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">"If we do not have a moment to stop and listen to one of the best musicians in the world, playing some of the finest music ever written, with one of the most beautiful instruments ever made... what else are we missing?"</span></span><div class="blogger-post-footer">Everyday solutions for everyday problems of extraordinary people.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23701477.post-55841810493563249702009-09-12T22:09:00.002-04:002009-09-12T22:11:26.285-04:00The Mayonnaise Jar and 2 Cups of Coffee<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPkd5npI2axaQztupK8JaOhG2ruFIJmxuDEg-gjcKFXDcjQE4jkV4oo1Gi3-RLFYav1yFJuLG8ZSW9BhuCMYUJf-_drtlEmh9p9tMjphBtKR1Yvc3o_qGab33mVNqA0CPwtDCnoA/s1600-h/428727_f520.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPkd5npI2axaQztupK8JaOhG2ruFIJmxuDEg-gjcKFXDcjQE4jkV4oo1Gi3-RLFYav1yFJuLG8ZSW9BhuCMYUJf-_drtlEmh9p9tMjphBtKR1Yvc3o_qGab33mVNqA0CPwtDCnoA/s200/428727_f520.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5380768845415693794" border="0" /></a>When things in your life seem almost too much to handle, when 24 hours in a day are not enough, remember the mayonnaise jar and the 2 cups of coffee...<br /><br />A professor stood before his philosophy class and had some items in front of him. When the class began, wordlessly, he picked up a very large and empty mayonnaise jar and proceeded to fill it with golf balls. He then asked the students if the jar was full They agreed that it was.<br /><br />The professor then picked up a box of pebbles and poured them into the jar. He shook the jar lightly. The pebbles rolled into the open areas between the golf balls. He then asked the students again if the jar was full. They agreed it was.<br /><br />The professor next picked up a box of sand and poured it into the jar. Of course, the sand filled up everything else. He asked once more if the jar was full. The students responded with a unanimous "yes."<br /><br />The professor then produced two cups of coffee from under the table and poured the entire contents into the jar, effectively filling the empty space between the sand The students laughed.<br /><br />"Now," said the professor, as the laughter subsided, "<br /><br />I want you to recognize that this jar represents your life.<br /><br />The golf balls are the important things-your God, family, your children, your health, your friends, and your favorite passions -- things that if everything else was lost and only they remained, your life would still be full.<br /><br />The pebbles are the other things that matter like your job, your house, and your car.<br /><br />The sand is everything else -- the small stuff.<br /><br />If you put the sand into the jar first," he continued, "there is no room for the pebbles or the golf balls. The same goes for life. If you spend all your time and energy on the small stuff, you will never have room for the things that are important to you.<br /><br />Pay attention to the things that are critical to your happiness. Play with your children. Take time to get medical checkups. Take your partner out to dinner. Play another 18. There will always be time to clean the house and fix the disposal."<br /><br />Take care of the golf balls first -- the things that really matter. Set your priorities. The rest is just sand."<br /><br />One of the students raised her hand and inquired what the coffee represented. The professor smiled. "I'm glad you asked. It just goes to show you that no matter how full your life may seem, there's always room for a couple of cups of coffee with a friend."<div class="blogger-post-footer">Everyday solutions for everyday problems of extraordinary people.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23701477.post-53498341492924119832009-09-11T12:33:00.003-04:002009-09-11T12:42:42.711-04:00September 11th<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxDjmogxVwZKJz12gc0CD5iSmehLfzTSYMed5VXAy2bKIhRPYStmSqbWRfY3k6tdSR1HVP7SjsRAolAwepT_JgOa7kBXKavVx3tP2yBiqZJxoQUKKwSb7qBZo4tMkXqRhBJQrTCA/s1600-h/cupcake-2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 134px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxDjmogxVwZKJz12gc0CD5iSmehLfzTSYMed5VXAy2bKIhRPYStmSqbWRfY3k6tdSR1HVP7SjsRAolAwepT_JgOa7kBXKavVx3tP2yBiqZJxoQUKKwSb7qBZo4tMkXqRhBJQrTCA/s200/cupcake-2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5380248903467110626" border="0" /></a>Ten years ago today, I was alone. A choice, perhaps even a selfish one, for earlier that year I had ran away with what was left of my life to Savannah, GA. Toting only a very few possessions that represented not what I had became, but only what I wished so badly to be. <br /><br />As I reminisced on the year that had passed I dialed up onto AOL and asked Jeeves what had happened on September 11th during the birthday years that had passed me by. There nestled among the search engine results somewhere between the introduction of the Ford Pinto and Camp David Accords, was a misplaced resume’.<br /><br />Seems Jon was hip to search engine optimization before the acronym SEO was even thought of. There in all of its glory was a condensed synopsis of a computer geek’s life. Yes, I had read it entirely but only because of my nagging curiosity on what the contents had to say or do with September 11th. <br /><br />It turned out that this Jon Dude had not only the same birthday but was born on the same year. For those of you that know me, the selfish me – this was indeed a travesty. There was no way on God’s green earth that I was going to let some nerdy geekazoid get away with such a matter. I sat there in disgust imagining the stereotypical guy in plaid slacks and pocket protector perv’ing over Visual Basic and Tesla Coils and was prompted to fire him off my very first flaming email.<br /><br />“Dude! You stole my birthday and I’d like to have it back!” <br /><br />This began an avalanche of back and forth correspondences over the next few months that eventually landed me on a non-stop flight to Boston to attempt to forcibly wrestle my birthday back from him. Only that didn’t happen. No, for at the bottom of the terminal escalator stood not the nerd of expectation, but a tall handsome figure that made my knees give out from under me and I haven’t walked on anything but air ever since. <br /><br />I’ll fast forward quickly before this mushy, Cinderella meets Prince Story ejects the sandwich that you just ate for lunch. We did spend our next and first birthday together magically as intended, but the following year we awoke to have the magic ripped from underneath us. <br /><br />19 crazy men wrestled our birthday away from us and left in its place tragedy, destruction and sorrow. Every anniversary that has passed of this day reminds us to never forget and that it is improper to smile, party-on or celebrate anything. Our birthday had become bigger than us and we both must share it with the entire world. <br /><br />Today, we're finally finding that it’s okay to celebrate, not the event but for the beautiful day that it is and for the people who walk within it. Somewhere there is a fireman risking his life to save a stranger, a police officer responding to a call for help and a teacher guiding a child in the right direction. Out there today is a volunteer who helps the elderly, the homeless, the poor and the abused. There is a soldier defending us, a Mommy mending a scraped knee and a person simply praying. <br /><br />It is indeed a Happy Birthday for we wouldn’t have wanted to be born at any other place or time, or to have lived without such a wonderful collection of beautiful, caring people. All who represent what we have become a part of and will never forget or ever leave behind. <br /><br />To you, to ALL of you who are the candle on our cake that we will never wish to blow out - God Bless.<div class="blogger-post-footer">Everyday solutions for everyday problems of extraordinary people.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23701477.post-31301525794303601832009-07-23T20:35:00.003-04:002009-07-23T20:40:10.439-04:00Fast Food From the God Box: Shock 'n Awe<center>I was shocked, confused, bewildered<br /> As I entered Heaven's door,<br /> Not by the beauty of it all,<br /> Nor the lights or its decor..<br /><br /> But it was the folks in Heaven<br /> Who made me sputter and gasp--<br /> The thieves, the liars, the sinners,<br /> The alcoholics and the trash.<br /><br /> There stood the kid from seventh grade<br /> Who swiped my lunch money twice.<br /> Next to him was my old neighbor<br /> Who never said anything nice.<br /><br /> Herb, who I always thought<br /> Was rotting away in hell,<br /> Was sitting pretty on cloud nine,<br /> Looking incredibly well.<br /><br /> I nudged Jesus , 'What's the deal?<br /> I would love to hear Your take.<br /> How'd all these sinners get up here?<br /> God must've made a mistake.<br /><br /> 'And why's everyone so quiet,<br /> So somber - give me a clue.'<br /> 'Hush, child,' He said, 'they're all in shock.<br /> No one thought they'd be seeing you.'</center><br /><br /><br /> <br /> <b><i> Every saint has a PAST, every sinner a FUTURE.</b></i><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcqDdiIXmnuAKHBAW9Ifc9PEXxgR50j2te3x9gEIDwWepJLnMYIn-4QEAgQZ5N_Nz5Vjk1LVnW2LUoh84J4yea81hF3bl6gTKsDHuyBzVXBkseAptIcjsOXZhO1tgwJ8CK0yTjFQ/s1600-h/add_toon_info.php.gif"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 360px; height: 343px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcqDdiIXmnuAKHBAW9Ifc9PEXxgR50j2te3x9gEIDwWepJLnMYIn-4QEAgQZ5N_Nz5Vjk1LVnW2LUoh84J4yea81hF3bl6gTKsDHuyBzVXBkseAptIcjsOXZhO1tgwJ8CK0yTjFQ/s400/add_toon_info.php.gif" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5361818955215125010" border="0" /></a><div class="blogger-post-footer">Everyday solutions for everyday problems of extraordinary people.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23701477.post-2992288293179918622009-07-17T13:07:00.005-04:002009-07-17T13:12:08.578-04:00Interview with former President George W. Bush (My Hero!)<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnhRW5boxcgOEJdSDmNaz82msr7cHjvuU1Ayt6HeldPTZoapJ7CX2PwumjiGtWQy4Nzd1ALeZu5GFnINgn9iq81kUCO6DD5QFEF_N2YkHhQ4ZpPTNbsGDpR6zXMrY3SD9Hv7YqGw/s1600-h/dubyame3.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 381px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnhRW5boxcgOEJdSDmNaz82msr7cHjvuU1Ayt6HeldPTZoapJ7CX2PwumjiGtWQy4Nzd1ALeZu5GFnINgn9iq81kUCO6DD5QFEF_N2YkHhQ4ZpPTNbsGDpR6zXMrY3SD9Hv7YqGw/s400/dubyame3.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5359477745742386722" /></a><br /><br /><object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/GtP2e1cfCvc&hl=en&fs=1&"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/GtP2e1cfCvc&hl=en&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object><br /><br /><object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/blexxLLhYcs&hl=en&fs=1&"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/blexxLLhYcs&hl=en&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object><div class="blogger-post-footer">Everyday solutions for everyday problems of extraordinary people.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0