tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26090481983791514392024-03-12T19:03:35.698-07:00The Cluck and StrutAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10446774468836503251noreply@blogger.comBlogger92125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2609048198379151439.post-75619028881271451582018-04-22T16:30:00.004-07:002018-04-22T16:44:15.980-07:00Full Moon<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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We broke the rules. We knew it was wrong. Worst part, we involved the children. <br />
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It really was out of our hands. With spring break just over a week away, our original dog sitter experienced a family emergency. So we reached out to two boys in our neighborhood and asked them to come over and spend time with our puppy, Milo. Sweet Milo is notorious for hiding in impossibly small spaces and refusing to come out - even for food - when strangers call. Unfortunately, during both visits, Milo was decidedly, embarrassingly, very unfriendly with the boys. So, when we woke up the morning of the trip, we knew what had to be done. The baby was going with us to the "No Pets Allowed" vacation house.<br />
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And yes, we left the other two, best-behaved dogs, behind.<br />
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It was a long ride to the beach, with Milo in self-imposed exile under a car seat. Us humans had plenty time to develop a cover story in case we got busted. In a nutshell, we decided "the dog is staying with friends on the island, and 'just happened' to be over for a visit" would be simple and believable. We even stooped so low as to inform said friends so that they would now be complicit in our lies.<br />
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When we at last arrived, it was agreed that we would all take turns escorting Milo outside to the bathroom, every hour, to ensure no indoor accidents. That night, he slept in his crate in the master bedroom. Sure enough, in the wee hours, he started crying. Hearing my husband snoring next to me, I decided to take one for the team, and I hustled Milo outside.<br />
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The wind was literally howling, which spooked us both, but Milo still managed to do his business by the light of the full moon. I was feeling the call myself, and so, being cold and barefoot, in just a t-shirt and pajama pants, I was eager to get back inside. Once I saw him do his slow little "back leg kick", I raced him up the steps to the house. I grabbed the door knob, turned it, and ... it didn't budge.<br />
<br />
Sh*t.<br />
<br />
Immediately I began a frantic run around the property, with Milo happily frolicking at my heels. I tried every door I could find. Locked, locked, lockedity, locked. Panic began setting in as the winds rose to a fevered pitch and the temperature plummeted. I banged on doors and called out my family's names, but it was no good - my hands and voice turned raw as the screams of the night air drowned me out. With hypothermia slowly setting in, I suddenly realized that my 45-year-old body, which had birthed two large babies, could no longer hold "it", and I needed to pee asap.<br />
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Yes, dear reader, there were two full moons that night. <br />
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After a humiliating and quite chilly squat in the trees, I resumed my self-rescue mission. I next considered climbing. If I could get up to the balcony off the master, I could wake my husband. But without shoes or a ladder, shimmying up a pole promised splinters in very bad places. I did throw a pine cone up there, but pitifully, it barely cleared the railing.<br />
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Finally acknowledging defeat, I moved into survival mode. It was time to build a shelter. <br />
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Milo and I investigated a screened porch on the ground floor, and lucked on to some accent pillows. After a quick search of a utility closet (which was too small for me to get into --- yes, I tried) we hit jackpot with a lounge chair cushion. So, we created a fort, pressed up against a glass door looking directly into the warm foyer, shielded from the monsoon by nothing more than a screen and a prayer.<br />
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You learn a lot about yourself trapped in the wild. You discover just what you're made of; if you have the raw strength to survive. And ultimately, you hope your family won't feel too guilty when they find you petrified under a table with a yippy dog licking your frozen tears.<br />
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I eventually grew tired of feeling sorry for myself and watching Milo press his little paws up against the window. So I decided to recommit to a last-ditch effort at salvation. Making a mental map of the house, I grasped at straws and hoped that there might be another door on the upper deck that I didn't try. Throwing off my pillows, I roused Milo and we made a final attempt to get back inside. <br />
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We raced up the steps to the deck. I found a door! I grabbed the knob, turned it and ... EUREKA!!!!!!!! WE WERE SAVED!!!!!!<br />
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Just as we triumphantly entered the bedroom, I heard my husband's cell phone ringing. It was my daughter.<br />
<br />
Me: "I'm fine, I'm fine, tell her I'm fine."<br />
Him: "What?" Hello?"<br />
<br />
- pause -<br />
<br />
Him: "I don't know."<br />
Me: "I got locked out. I'm fine now."<br />
Him: "She got locked out ... I don't know how. Go back to bed."<br />
<br />
- snore -<br />
<br />
I looked at my cell phone and it was after 4:30 a.m. I had a text from my daughter at 4:00 a.m. "Why are you calling me?"<br />
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Um, no reason.<br />
<br />
Sliding under the sheets, with the sensation slowly coming back into my feet, a feeling of immense relief washed over me, and I was finally able to go back to sleep.<br />
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There are a lot of important lessons I learned from my near-death experience, the most impactful one being that my family has no compassion and they think I'm a complete idiot. Such fools - they just haven't reached enlightenment like me and Milo.<br />
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Until next time, keep crowin' and always know your key code!<br />
<br />
<br />
P.S. We did get busted with the dog, but the property manager bought our story and he and my husband came to a "bro code" agreement!<br />
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10446774468836503251noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2609048198379151439.post-51703887121025870152018-01-22T06:35:00.003-08:002018-01-22T06:40:26.069-08:00The Dog Universe<div>
After a roughly 20-year hiatus, I decided to revive my tennis career. I was missing the sport, and the exercise, and the socialness of the game. I was also, apparently, missing my body from 20 years ago. Because immediately following my team’s second practice, I had to send my racquet back into hibernation, after going for a forehand and hearing an unmistakable “crack” inside my right shoe.</div>
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As luck would have it, this mishap coincided with my family’s upcoming spring break trip to Edisto Island in South Carolina. I certainly couldn’t tell my two kids that the beach was cancelled, and I was getting tired of rolling around my house in an office chair, so I had to get creative. After a few sketchy searches on the internet, I eventually met up with a man in a McDonald’s parking lot in Woodstock, who rented me a wheelchair from the back of his pick up truck.</div>
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Once on the island, my husband had the unenviable daily task of getting me down the long stairs of our house, wheeling me up the bumpy street, pushing me over the unyielding sand walkway, dragging me backwards over the broken oyster shells that lined the beach, and then parking me far enough away from the tide so that I didn’t rust my borrowed chair.</div>
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One day, as I entered about the third hour of ennui while watching my kids play in the water, I saw a man come buzzing along the shore on a golf cart. Seated next to him was a cute little dog, clearly enjoying the ride, despite the fact that it had an enormous cone of shame around its head. This unusual, unexpected scene gave me a much-needed chuckle. Surely, the universe was reaching out to pat me on the head and tell me that I was not alone in my pitiful state – that I had a kindred spirit in this fellow injured soul. </div>
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So imagine my pure delight when, a few minutes later, the little cone dog came trotting back down the beach, exploring his domain like an upside down martini glass. As he drew closer to my family, I could see he was taking an interest in the kids’ activities, and then -- his sights turned to me. My hopes rose as he approached me without fear, no doubt sensing our common bond. I spoke to him lovingly, his eyes met mine, and then ever so slowly, without leaving my gaze, he lifted his leg, peed all over me, and then sauntered off.</div>
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Turns out, the universe was giving me a pinch, not a love pat.</div>
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I really wanted that dog to like me. I really wanted him to jump up in my lap and let me scratch his tummy and then settle in for a cozy afternoon nap. I wanted him to put his cone head up to mine and give me little dog kisses. I really wanted us to be soulmates.</div>
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Maybe it was because my kids were having a great time without me, and I was feeling lonely and sorry for myself. Or, maybe I was disappointed that my injury had not earned me some well-deserved good karma. Regardless, my ego was crushed, because let’s face it, if a cute puppy comes for you, then you have probably hit rock bottom.</div>
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Somehow, though, I managed to survive the humiliation and enjoy the rest of the trip, despite the fact that we met another animal during our stay --- one that goes by the name of lice. </div>
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Fast forward to today - all of my bones are currently intact, but I find myself relating back to that “broken Alison.” My two kids are now teenagers. My daughter is about to graduate high school and move far away. I officially have begun the stages of empty nest syndrome, because even though my kids are still physically in the house, mentally, my daughter is like that Eagle’s song – “already gone.” And my son, while just a freshman, has decided that there are some things he definitely no longer wishes to discuss with me.</div>
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That’s where my dogs come in. I have three of them of varying size, age and personality, and I really need them to like me right now. I really need them to jump up in my lap and let me scratch their tummies and give me dog kisses so we can all settle in for a cozy afternoon nap. I need the universe to just chill for a minute, and send me a sign that despite the fact that soon I will be once again observing my kids from afar, I am going to be ok. I need to know that I can pick myself back up, wipe the pee off my leg, and keep on wheelin’. And once my nest is actually empty, I am probably going to need another dog.</div>
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Until next time, keep crowin' - and find a cute puppy to love on!<br />
<br />
<i><b>Thank you to <a href="https://storysisterslive.wordpress.com/" target="_blank">Story Sisters Live</a> for letting me share this "tail" in front of a lovely audience!</b></i><br />
<i></i><b></b><br /></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10446774468836503251noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2609048198379151439.post-32181104291432879192018-01-01T10:42:00.001-08:002018-01-01T10:42:36.656-08:00The Perfect StarbucksIt's 2018, and people around the world are making resolutions, pledging to do better, be better, in this new year. There are a lot of things I could put on that list, but they would all pale in comparison to what I achieved on December 29, 2017. On that date in history, I found the perfect Starbucks.<br />
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I wasn't looking for it - but good things often happen when you least expect them. It wasn't even my goal to achieve. My daughter has been on this quest all year, driving from east Cobb to east Atlanta to find her little cup of heaven and just the spot to set up her laptop. I would ask her, often, why she was driving 15-20 miles for a Triple Berry Hibiscus, when she could practically walk to one of the four Starbucks within two miles of our house for the same drink. Her response was always, "You just don't get it. They aren't the same." <br />
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She was right - I didn't get it. Why venture out so far when what you want is right in front of you? <br />
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And then like a sunbeam breaking through a storm cloud, or the hallelujah of a celestial choir, the truth was revealed to me.<br />
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It was a cool, bright Friday morning in downtown Atlanta. My husband and I had just celebrated our 21st anniversary with a staycation in Buckhead, and were taking a detour so he could do a site visit before we headed home. He had been tasked with inspecting the Peach Drop set up at the Flat Iron Building, but it was a restricted area, so I had to wait for him outside. We walked together to the building, joined by a parade of pigeons who were clearly expecting a treat.<br />
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As luck would have it, there was a Starbucks right across the street. It was tucked in a corner, part of a larger office building. The outside was made up of a long expanse of windows, painted with festive holiday images.<br />
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I walked in, sunlight everywhere, was greeted warmly, and ordered my usual chai tea latte. I then found a seat at a high bar, facing the window and the street. I could feel the sun on my face, see the trees rustle in the wind, watch the people walking by - and the pigeons still looking for their breakfast. It was quiet and peaceful. I pulled out my cracked Ipad and a story I had been working on, and reached for the latte. <br />
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It was at that moment that I noticed the name printed on my cup. "Alison". A miracle. A-L-I-S-O-N --- my name, spelled absolutely correct. Not Allison, or Alyson, or Allessin, but Alison.<br />
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And that's when I knew. This place was clearly special - or, dare I say - perfect. Let's face it, there is something cosmically gratifying about a barista spelling your name right. Fresh with inspiration, and with a cleansing, deep breath, I turned back to my story, absorbing the sounds around me. A man next to me was on the phone, talking to someone about sending them a package, and explaining about his legal name change and how he had never met his father. Two other men came in with delightful British accents, ordering their coffee like proper gentlemen. I joyfully texted my daughter a photo of my view, pleased to actually be able to speak "Starbucks" with her. I finally got it.<br />
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I was so very content, and making progress on my story when my husband suddenly snuck up on me at the window, done way too soon with his site visit. Reluctantly, I packed up my gear, wishing I could stay longer and keep this feeling going. But, my life in the 'burbs was calling, and, relaxed and refreshed, I was ready to get back to reality.<br />
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Yes, Virginia, there is a perfect Starbucks. But it is different for each person. Mine created a zen moment for a chaotic mind, and gave me a chance to center and regroup. Yours might be a bustling, two story mini-city full of interesting characters and a few chummy regulars. Whatever it is, make 2018 the year that you step out and create those spaces for yourself, somewhere you can regain your footing and discover something new.<br />
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Until next time, keep crowin' and - treat yourself to a venti! <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10446774468836503251noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2609048198379151439.post-27170032104961989042017-07-21T11:59:00.001-07:002017-07-21T11:59:16.866-07:00Poop in the Pool<i>The following post was a story I told at a "Listen To Your Mother" event earlier this year. So, just imagine it with hand gestures. ;)</i><br />
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When my son was 4, I enrolled him in swimming lessons at the same time as his older sister. It was a small class, taught by an energetic, one-legged young man whose personality filled the room. He would get distracted talking with the other parents while the kids swam, so it was bound to happen that one day, my son took one too many laps, and just got plumb tuckered out. When the instructor pulled him out of the pool and saw a tint of brown mixed with the water running down his leg, he immediately screamed, “That’s poop!”<br /><br />In sheer panic, I scooped up my son and raced to the bathroom, where, yes indeed, he had gone #2 in his pants. He was crying, I was panicked, and the next few minutes were a blur of cleaning him up, watching the evacuation of the pool, making apologies, negotiating with the manager, and sitting in humiliation as my daughter finished her lesson in the now overflowing second pool.<br />My son and I were completely mortified, and I believe I drank my weight in tears that evening.<br /><br />And although I tried to put on a brave face, I felt so horrible about what happened, that I never took him back to the swim school, and even today, I still avert my eyes when I drive past it.<br /><br />Boy, did I feel guilty. I was supposed to protect him from such disasters, and I let him down. But it toughened me up for the next crisis, right?<br /><br />Wrong.<br /><br />When my daughter was in 7th grade, she became ill and just couldn’t shake it. So, we went through a battery of tests, which, you guessed it, involved poop.<br /><br />The doctor wanted to test her “business”, so I collected it, put it in a baggie, and drove it over to the lab. I hustled to the door, and just my luck, they were on a lunch break. This meant that I had the distinct pleasure of standing for an hour in front of a locked door with a clear bag of poop in my hand, nodding hopefully at the employees as they came in and out with their sandwiches. When I was finally granted entry, I received a look of horror when I explained what I had (which had now gotten a little warm) – and I found myself, once again, apologizing for my child’s poop.<br /><br />As my kids have grown up, they have dealt with increasingly larger and more complex issues. Some of them have been typical teenage challenges, like puberty, friend drama, and the pain of first heartbreak. Others have been completely overwhelming mental and physical setbacks that have taken our family in directions I could never have anticipated nor prepared for.<br /><br />Sigh. I miss the poop.<br /><br />The guilt that weighs on me, and has kept me up every night for the last 16 years, is the difficult acceptance that I can’t bubble-wrap my children to protect them from the unpleasantness of life. They will often face problems that I can’t solve. Sure, I can give advice, buy the medicine, get the best books on the subject, but sometimes – well, many times – I have had to confess to them, “I can’t fix it.”<br />It has been frustrating, to say the least. But it has also opened up a new chapter in my relationships with my son and daughter. They are learning, albeit the hard way, how to stand on their own two feet, how to weather a storm, and how to accept the bad but keep looking for the good. And slowly, vey slowly, I am learning how to support them without taking over, and giving them space to find their own way. Will I ever stop worrying? Nope. Will I ever not feel guilty when I can’t save the day? Probably not. But, what I can do is hug them and kiss them, and laugh and cry and yell with them. And I can stay just close enough so that they know they only need to reach over and my hand will be there, ready to hold, the next time the poop hits the fan.<br /><br />---------------------<br />
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Until next time, keep crowin' <br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10446774468836503251noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2609048198379151439.post-3199151144632897072017-06-21T12:51:00.003-07:002017-06-21T15:02:03.815-07:00We Came HomeIt was the morning of our 20th anniversary trip, 6 months late. We had been trying to find a free-ish weekend, and my mother-in-law happened to be coming to town, so it was perfect.<br />
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I stumbled outside with the puppy to make sure he made his one outside poop of the day. He refused, and raced back into the house. I ran after him, lost my footing on the deck stairs, and ripped a few holes in my right leg. <br />
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The pain was excruciating, and panic flashed through my mind - what about the trip? But, after I wrapped my leg in paper towels, and made sure I couldn't see bone, I resolved that this was not worth cancelling our big weekend. <i><b>This was just one little thing.</b></i><br />
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So, I settled in to my day, and waited for my son to get home from basketball training. When he walked in, I could feel the heat emanating off of him.<br />
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"Mom, I think I have a fever."<br />
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Definitely, he did. This was a larger problem. I could hobble my way through the weekend, but could I really leave a sick child behind? My mother-in-law assured us that she was fine with it - he was just going to lay in bed all day anyway. So, <i><b>this was just a second little thing.</b></i> We had not hit the "bad luck three" yet, so we were still good to go.<br />
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Thus, with reluctance and a dampened mood, my husband and I set off for the hour-long drive to our little oasis.<br />
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We made it about 5 miles.<br />
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<i>Cell phone rings.</i> It's my daughter.<br />
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"Mom? We were leaving the restaurant and trying to turn but someone hit us and I need you to tell the EMT that I am fine and don't need treatment."<br />
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We pulled over into a parking lot, where I tried to come back down to earth and have a lucid conversation with an affable, deeply Southern, paramedic. He cheerfully assured me my daughter was 100% fine. Walking around, talking normally, all good. I made her FaceTime us to show us her actual body. She told us that everyone was intact, that they were just a little shaken up. She insisted she would feel miserable if we cancelled our trip.<br />
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My husband and I sat in the parking lot debating what to do. We called his mom to tell her the news. Within minutes of hanging up, our son texted us:<br />
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<i><b>"That was number three."</b></i><br />
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There's an old story about a man stuck on his roof as the flood waters swirl around him. A rowboat, motorboat, and helicopter all come by, but the man refuses, saying that he was praying to God, who would save him. Well, he drowned, and when he got to heaven and asked God why He didn't come to his aid, God explained to the idiot that he sent three pretty big signs of help.<br />
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Despite knowing this story, and The Rule of Three, my husband and I took a deep breath and continued our trip.<br />
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I know we shouldn't have. I know we should have turned around and gone home. But with the assurance from both kids that they were fine, we made the selfish choice. We never have date nights, we never go away together, and the next opportunity wasn't even on the horizon. So we went.<br />
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It was a lovely little modern dwelling, courtesy of AirBnB, set amongst a green, organic, artsy-fartsy, farm-to-table settlement. We enjoyed a drink on the porch, and a delightful dinner at a charming restaurant.<br />
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Then we came back to our love nest.<br />
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The first sign of trouble was dog poop on the walkway. Then, upon opening the door, we discovered that the unit above us was now inhabited by some type of monstrous creatures, clearly engaged in an angry ritual dance that likely involved dead bodies.<br />
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I contacted our host, who was super sorry, who had received complaints from other visitors, and who had now updated the listing, and said - I quote - "But that doesn't really help you, does it?"<br />
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The noise died down that night, but picked back up again with an impressive fury the next morning at 7:00 a.m. I complained again, and received an auto-notification of a partial refund.<br />
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My husband asked me, "Is this number four?" To which I replied, "No, we have started back over, and this is number one."<br />
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We called home and turns out, the kids weren't fine. My son still had a fever, and my daughter confessed that she had lied, that the accident had been very traumatic, she actually had to help pull the driver from the car, another friend might have a broken bone, and she was sore and scared.<br />
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We weren't going to wait for number three this time. We left immediately.<br />
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<i>But not before I bagged up all the dog poop and left it in a Kroger bag on our neighbors' steps.</i><br />
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After the dust settled, and my kids were on the other side of these setbacks, I needed time to process everything. I was very disappointed in how the trip turned out, and in myself for even going in the first place.<br />
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But then I realized, this is exactly what it means to share a life with someone for 20 years. It can be messy and stressful and the hits just keep coming, but my husband and I can take a look at these two decades and feel extraordinarily lucky that we made it through together. And we can remind each other of the happy stuff too --- our kids are in good places right now, we just had a wonderful family trip out west, and my husband and I still love each other.<br />
<br />
The anniversary may have sucked, but this life does not.<br />
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Until next time, keep crowin' and watching for signs!<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10446774468836503251noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2609048198379151439.post-24470087498205538412017-04-22T15:37:00.000-07:002017-04-22T15:37:46.849-07:00Pink Toes<div class="messagepane basepane tripane" id="yui_3_16_0_ym19_1_1492899714467_676" role="main" style="display: block; left: 260px; top: 0px;" tabindex="0">
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<span class="yiv6800400901s1" id="yui_3_16_0_ym19_1_1492899714467_4601">The boys are away at a basketball tournament this weekend, so my daughter and I decided to get our nails done.<span class="yiv6800400901Apple-converted-space"> </span>She said she "knew a place," and after a bit of a wander (typical Carolyn, saving that for another blog post), we found it.<span class="yiv6800400901Apple-converted-space"> </span>We walked into the biggest nail salon I have ever seen, but were greeted within minutes and sent to our respective stations.<span class="yiv6800400901Apple-converted-space"> </span>I
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<span class="yiv6800400901s1">"Mark, you told Steve you didn't want primary custody.<span class="yiv6800400901Apple-converted-space"> </span>Are you telling me now there is a disconnect?<span class="yiv6800400901Apple-converted-space"> <b> </b></span><b><i>very brief pause</i></b> "But you don't do all the technical things with the kids - Lori does all that.<span class="yiv6800400901Apple-converted-space"> </span>Are you going to start doing them?<span class="yiv6800400901Apple-converted-space"> </span><i><b>very brief pause</b> </i>"Well then you can't leave the house if you want primary custody.<span class="yiv6800400901Apple-converted-space"> </span>Do you understand what that means?<span class="yiv6800400901Apple-converted-space"> </span>Mom and Dad and I have talked about this."<span class="yiv6800400901Apple-converted-space"> <b> </b></span><b><i>very brief pause</i> </b>"Mark, I can't hear you.<span class="yiv6800400901Apple-converted-space"> </span>It's not you, it's me.<span class="yiv6800400901Apple-converted-space"> </span>I have mitts on and can't turn up my ear buds. Ok, bye."</span></div>
<div class="yiv6800400901p2">
<span class="yiv6800400901s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="yiv6800400901p1">
<span class="yiv6800400901s1">Deep breath, and peace was restored.<span class="yiv6800400901Apple-converted-space"> </span>I
reminded myself of the importance of being patient and empathetic with my
fellow human beings. That lasted for three minutes, until MARK CAME
INTO THE SALON.</span></div>
<div class="yiv6800400901p2">
<span class="yiv6800400901s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="yiv6800400901p1">
<span class="yiv6800400901s1">He walked up,
his sister invited him into "her office" and he sat down on the
swivel chair in front of her. They proceeded to discuss the terms of his
custody arrangement, Lori's credit card debt, the fact that he was much
older than Lori and now had a girlfriend, how karate wasn't working out
for his son, how his daughter needed counseling, how Lori had grabbed
Mark during an argument, and the fact that their father played racketball the morning of my new pedi friend's wedding.<span class="yiv6800400901Apple-converted-space"> </span>This
conversation was made more difficult by the fact that Mark appeared to
be hearing impaired, so his sister had to be loud enough, and enunciate
well,<span class="yiv6800400901Apple-converted-space"> </span>so he could understand her.</span></div>
<div class="yiv6800400901p2">
<span class="yiv6800400901s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="yiv6800400901p1">
<span class="yiv6800400901s1">This lasted through the entirety of the best pedicure I have ever had, hands down.<span class="yiv6800400901Apple-converted-space"> </span>The man gave me a neck massage that changed my life.<span class="yiv6800400901Apple-converted-space"> </span>He insisted on scrubbing my callouses.<span class="yiv6800400901Apple-converted-space"> </span>And he pretended not to notice that I needed to shave my legs.</span></div>
<div class="yiv6800400901p2">
<span class="yiv6800400901s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="yiv6800400901p1">
<span class="yiv6800400901s1">Mercifully, the embattled sibling duo finally got up and left the salon.<span class="yiv6800400901Apple-converted-space"> </span>At which point, I involuntarily blurted out to my pedicurist, "Oh my God!<span class="yiv6800400901Apple-converted-space"> </span>Talk, talk, talk!" <span class="yiv6800400901Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></div>
<div class="yiv6800400901p2">
<span class="yiv6800400901s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="yiv6800400901p1">
<span class="yiv6800400901s1">And then, deliciously, he nodded enthusiastically and said, "Yes, she start talking the minute her foot hit water."<span class="yiv6800400901Apple-converted-space"> </span>At
the same time, an impeccably dressed young woman, seated nearby, who had
been very attentively overseeing the mani/pedi of her elderly mother
came over to me "I felt so bad for you!<span class="yiv6800400901Apple-converted-space"> </span>I was just hoping that you were ok!<span class="yiv6800400901Apple-converted-space"> </span>I mean, some people come here to relax!"</span></div>
<div class="yiv6800400901p2">
<span class="yiv6800400901s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="yiv6800400901p1">
<span class="yiv6800400901s1">It was a connection that completely made up for the disruption.<span class="yiv6800400901Apple-converted-space"> </span>I sat down next to the dutiful daughter to dry my toes, and we talked about being "stuck" in awkward situations.<span class="yiv6800400901Apple-converted-space"> </span>Then
we talked about her mother and how she brings her to the salon once a
month, and makes sure the technicians know not to give her a massage or
rub her feet, and which colors she likes.<span class="yiv6800400901Apple-converted-space"> </span>We parted ways wishing each other well, the pedicurist gave me a loving pat, and I knew I had had a moment.</span></div>
<div class="yiv6800400901p2">
<span class="yiv6800400901s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="yiv6800400901p1">
<span class="yiv6800400901s1">Should I have
leaned over to the Mouth Of The South and said, "Please excuse me, but I
am afraid I can hear your personal business.<span class="yiv6800400901Apple-converted-space"> </span>I hope you don't mind waiting until I leave so you can have some privacy."</span></div>
<div class="yiv6800400901p2">
<span class="yiv6800400901s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="yiv6800400901p1">
<span class="yiv6800400901s1">Maybe? Probably? I don't know.<span class="yiv6800400901Apple-converted-space"> </span>The entire section was held hostage by this woman's personal drama.<span class="yiv6800400901Apple-converted-space"> </span>I have never heard of divorce mediation taking place in a massage chair, but perhaps they were oblivious.<span class="yiv6800400901Apple-converted-space"> </span>Or, perhaps they were just obnoxious narcissists who assumed we were all on bended ear.</span></div>
<div class="yiv6800400901p2">
<span class="yiv6800400901s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="yiv6800400901p1">
<span class="yiv6800400901s1">There were two types of people in this story.<span class="yiv6800400901Apple-converted-space"> </span>Those who spoke without listening, and those who listened without speaking.<span class="yiv6800400901Apple-converted-space"> </span>Mark
and his sister failed to hear how their noise was disrupting the
silence of the salon, and my fellow sufferers and I failed to tell them
to shut up. <span class="yiv6800400901Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></div>
<div class="yiv6800400901p2">
<span class="yiv6800400901s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="yiv6800400901p1">
<span class="yiv6800400901s1">We can't change people, but we can change how we react to them.<span class="yiv6800400901Apple-converted-space"> </span>I
am glad I didn't make a scene, and I am equally glad that my
pedicurist, the good daughter, and I turned that mess into a truly human moment together.
That is what we should seek out --- connection, not conflict. <span class="yiv6800400901Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></div>
<div class="yiv6800400901p2">
<span class="yiv6800400901s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="yiv6800400901p1">
<span class="yiv6800400901s1">Until next time, keep crowin', and treat yourself to some pink toes like I did!</span></div>
</div>
<div>
<br /><br />Alison Paul</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<div class="base-card-footer">
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10446774468836503251noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2609048198379151439.post-68246186585071338232017-03-26T15:15:00.000-07:002017-03-26T15:15:07.681-07:00Listen to ThisI hear a car pull up the driveway, and soon the kitchen door slams. A familiar voice calls out to me.<br />
<br />
<b>Daughter: <i>Mom, listen to this.</i></b><br />
<b>Me: (deep breath as I swivel around in my chair) <i>Tell me.</i></b><br />
<br />
There are three things I know when it comes to my daughter:<br />
<br />
1. Never take my bra off - she hosts guests without prior warning. <br />
2. Always have cash - there is usually an immediate, dire need.<br />
3. When she says "listen to this", be ready for anything. <br />
<br />
Sometimes, what she asks me to listen to is how she got a good grade on a test she thought she'd bombed, or the latest shade on Instagram. Many times, however, it is bigger, heavier stuff, so I have to
be on my toes.<br />
<br />
Listening is easy. Hearing is much harder. <br />
<br />
When my daughter talks to me, sometimes she is drowned out by the dialogue going on inside my head, <i><b>"We need to get a tutor ... she can never speak to that person again ... I'm calling the doctor ..."</b></i><br />
<br />
I have to constantly remind myself to <i><b>really listen</b></i> - to receive the information before I notify the authorities and the local news.<br />
<br />
There <u>is</u> a proper way to listen to a person, to hear their words and find a way to connect, appreciate, and communicate back. And I had the most profound opportunity to listen with that type of purposeful intent this afternoon.<br />
<br />
It was my first rehearsal for <a href="http://ltymatlanta2017.brownpapertickets.com/" target="_blank">Listen To Your Mother</a>, a show where 13 women from all walks of life will take the stage and open a brief window into their world. I got glimpse of that world today --- and the energy, the emotion, and the pureness of our time together deeply affected me. Of the seven readings given, all I can say is this - I heard you. I heard the deep, expansive, deafening cry of women as single mothers, adoptive mothers, daughters and aunts. I heard the struggle of women trying to connect with mothers long passed, or mothers whose choices were a mystery until we were old enough to understand. I heard the pain of raising children in a world that can be volatile and cruel. And, I heard the joy of memories that comfort us on tough days. <br />
<br />
And that was just part of the group. I read last, and let me tell you, I was completely intimidated, but at the same time, honored to share the same energy with these beautiful women, and for them to hear my words. <br />
<br />
Listen. Let someone hear you. We all have a really good story to tell.<br />
<br />
Until next time, keep crowin'!<br />
<br />
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10446774468836503251noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2609048198379151439.post-52738816806650800762017-01-11T14:13:00.002-08:002017-01-11T14:13:13.551-08:00The Year of the RoosterThe other day I was looking up rooster graphics - because you can't have enough - when all of a sudden I discovered that 2017 is The Year of the Rooster. Clearly, the universe is speaking to me with a rousing cock-a-doodle-doo. If you have noticed my blog background, or visited my kitchen, or even browsed <a href="https://www.pinterest.com/asmpaul/roosters/" target="_blank">my Pinterest Board</a> dedicated to this magnificent bird, you will know that the rooster is no small fowl in my eyes.<br />
<br />
Subsequently, I found out that I was born in The Year of the Rat. But, never mind that - I am Rooster all the way.<br />
<br />
I think it all began when I inherited a grandmother's rooster trivet, and then another grandmother's rooster bins. With the addition of a grandmother-in-law's rooster salt and peppers, a collection was born. From those humble beginnings, I have filled my house with ceramics, hooks, rugs, and chalkboards, all in homage to the feather and comb.<br />
<br />
I like roosters because they are loud and colorful. I like that they come in all shapes and sizes. I like roosters because they often take center stage in art, literature, and even religion.<br />
<br />
<i><b>And, it turns out, they don't need nests. </b></i><br />
<br />
This is particularly important to me as the empty-nest chapter of my life is rapidly closing in. Granted, I still have a little more time until the last chick flies the coop, but once the first one takes off next year, nothing will ever be the same.<br />
<br />
I was talking to a friend recently about prom, graduation, college, and "letting go", when she made a kind remark about this blog. She asked me if I still wrote here, and I confessed to a long stretch of writer's block. I explained that since my kids were never home, I didn't have as much to write about.<br />
<br />
Later, it hit me that I am entering dangerous territory. Did I really mean what I said, that I have nothing to say if it isn't about my kids? When they leave, is my life just going to be a black void until they come home for a visit?<br />
<br />
<i><b>Cluck, no!</b></i><br />
<br />
This is where The Year of the Rooster comes in. Although its significance lies in Chinese zodiac, I am taking it on as a sign from my spirit animal. The rooster often is referred to as a symbol of strength, confidence, assertiveness, pride, and hard work. It is a herald to a new day, a fresh chance to strut your stuff. It is a bold call to action to show the world how unique you are, both with and without your chicks.<br />
<br />
So, that's what I am going to do. The longest and most vibrant feather in my cap is the one named Mom. But there are lots of other feathers in there too, and I can't wait to give them a fluff.<br />
<br />
Until next time, keep crowin' and growin'! <br />
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10446774468836503251noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2609048198379151439.post-37518931552711354422016-07-02T17:44:00.000-07:002016-07-02T17:44:14.548-07:00Spilling the TeaI write for two blogs. One is for the <b><u><a href="http://atlanta.citymomsblog.com/" target="_blank">Atlanta City Moms Blog</a></u></b>, to which I am very committed and for which I keep all my deadlines. I also have this blog, to which I am completely irresponsible and only write when I have an unexpected event or an a-ha moment.<br />
<br />
This post is neither. I am writing this one because I need to be free of a burden, and I am drumming up the courage to spill my tea.<br />
<br />
The day before my 41st birthday, (I am almost 44 now), I was in my local Kroger. I had lost a ton of weight, and had put lot of hard work into Choosing Joy. However, my family was in the middle of a catastrophic ordeal, as my father had suffered a brain injury and was hospitalized for quite some time. But his condition had improved enough that I could return home and help my mom manage things via phone.<br />
<br />
And I was on the phone with her when, while shopping, I noticed a man out of the corner of my eye. He was pacing back and forth behind me as I put together my lunch at the salad bar. I thought he was just impatiently waiting his turn, so I moved on. I finally made it to the spice aisle and was texting someone when a very loud voice inside my head instructed me to “keep walking”. I did, but then stopped further down the aisle to finish the text. Behind me, I heard the crunch of a potato chip bag. And then it happened.<br />
<br />
---<br />
<br />
I think victims of sexual assault deal with the crimes committed against them in different ways. Mine was to freeze, to demand to know what he was doing, to tell him to get away from me, and then freeze again. <br />
<br />
But I wish I had chased after him. I wish I had kicked his ass. I wish I had been stronger. <br />
<br />
I also wish the Kroger staff hadn’t left me and my groceries alone in their deli for over an hour while I waited for the police and my husband. Thank goodness one of the patrons there took the time to lean over and quietly ask me questions, trying to calm me down.<br />
<br />
Although they had the entire incident on video, the police never found him, and my case was closed. Well, for them anyway. From the moment that man put his hand up my dress and did the unthinkable, I have never been the same. It took me a year to re-enter that Kroger, and when I did, I had a full-on panic attack.<br />
<br />
I retreated from my world, and, in turn, my world retreated from me. MealTrain apparently doesn’t have a category for “crime victim.” As time went on, feeling such deep rejection and hopelessness, I cut myself off completely. Thank God for the angel friends and family who stuck with me, despite that fact that I had nothing to give them in return. They keep me going even now, and I bet they don’t realize how much they help me. I need to tell them.<br />
<br />
This is so very personal. But if there is one thing I am trying to learn, and hope to impart, it is that while my happiness is my responsibility, I cannot recover without support. If you are going through something, and you feel alone, don’t be afraid to be raw and real with someone you trust. We all need at least one person in our lives to whom we can say absolutely anything. And we need to give ourselves permission to feel all the feelings, because healing can’t start until the band aid is ripped off.<br />
<br />
I am tugging at that band aid – and it is starting to give. So don't cry for me, Argentina. And don't give up on me either. <br />
<br />
Until next time, keep crowin’ and don’t stop trying to find your joy!Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10446774468836503251noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2609048198379151439.post-28558025557005431362016-06-05T08:27:00.000-07:002016-06-05T08:27:02.265-07:00Time Out<i><b>Waiting for the 11th grade basketball game to finish so I can cheer on my son's 7th grade team. Sitting next to a mom I don't know.</b></i><br />
<br />
<b>Mom I Don't Know: </b>Do you know who's winning?<br />
<b>Me: </b>I am sorry, I don't. I just walked in. Who are you cheering for?<br />
<b>Mom I Don't Know: </b>The home team.<br />
<b>Me: </b>Oh, me too! My son plays in the same league for the 7th grade team.<br />
<br />
<i><b>Lively banter follows about where the boys go to high school and the newest guilty pleasure by Julian Fellowes.</b></i><br />
<br />
Whistle blows. A Mom on Other Team Starts Screaming. Gets kicked out of game. Second Mom on Other Team Takes Up Where She Left Off.<br />
<br />
<b>Mom I Don't Know: </b> Ugh. We played a game recently where they had to hire a police officer to stand next to one mom during a game, and she still got thrown out. She is an actress on some reality show and she is always getting escorted out of games. The other parents loved her.<br />
<b>Me: </b> I just don't understand why people think it is ok to behave like that.<br />
<br />
<i><b>3rd Quarter.</b></i> Our 11th grade team is winning handily, but tensions are high. Without warning, a player from the opposing team throws a punch at one of our players. <br />
<br />
The stands clear. <br />
<br />
Boys, adults, strangers are all tangled up in an explosion of violence. Everyone is screaming.<br />
<br />
And then.<br />
<br />
I see Second Mom. She is in the middle of the melee. She grabs one of our players, throws him to the ground, and is on top of him, cussing him out, hands all over him.<br />
<br />
This next part gets a little blurry. Here's what I can remember.<br />
<br />
I get up out of my seat. I run over to some players who are trying to get in the fight.<br />
<br />
<b>Me: </b> Son, sit down! Don't do it!<br />
<b>Player: </b>Don't touch me!<br />
<b>Me to Second Mom: </b> Ma'am, please stop! Sit down! Sit down!<br />
<b>Second Mom: </b>YOU sit down!<br />
<b>Coach holding Second Mom back:</b> SHUT UP!<br />
<b>Me:</b> Act like an adult! (Remind me to work on my comebacks.)<br />
<br />
I then return to my seat, realizing my mission was futile.<br />
<br />
Suddenly, I am surrounded with fingers in my face.<br />
<br />
<b>Second Mom, Her Friend, and Her Son: </b> You better watch yourself you better watch how you to speak to my mom you better shut the hell up unless you want to get tore up you need to leave it to the kids you sitting there acting all nice ...<br />
<br />
Somehow, my son's assistant coach gets between them and me and saves me from injury. They go away. I am shaking.<br />
<br />
The police come, and I give my statement. They don't ask me for my name, and they don't seem that concerned about what has happened. However, I am later told by the head of the league that charges will be filed. <br /><br />
Anger. Hate. Pain. Fear. I saw it all manifested on that basketball court. And in trying to digest it all, the only thing I have learned is how much I don't understand about the world, and about people. There is no tidy wrap-up for this one - just a feeling of sadness for all those involved, and the hope that next time, things turn out differently. <br />
<br />
Sigh.<br />
<br />
Until next time, keep crowin' and growin' and lovin' through hate.<br />
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10446774468836503251noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2609048198379151439.post-1880384762523589602016-03-07T21:49:00.001-08:002016-03-07T21:52:27.448-08:00For BrianWhen
you are an awkward teenage girl with no prospects and you go to the
beach and meet a really great guy who doesn't know you
are supposed to be awkward, your whole world can change. I was that
girl, and Brian Fleenor was that guy. We met at St. George Island one
night and sat together by a bonfire, confessing to each other our demons
and dreams, as if we had been friends forever. After that starry,
remarkable night, we parted ways - ostensibly forever, as these things
go. Then weeks later, I received the most beautiful letter from him,
telling me how incredible it was to meet me, and how our time together
was bookmarked in his mind as one of those significant "life moments."
We kept in touch, he came to visit me in my small town, and he managed
to make me feel more special and important than any boy ever had. <br />
<br />
He did all these things without even once kissing me or holding my hand. We had connected in a way that didn't require anything more. <br />
<br />
Years
later, we would find each other again, after he met some of my friends
at the same beach. And then once more, thanks to social media. I was
able to see that he was happily married with an adorable son, and he
could see that I had also found my way into a loving marriage with kids
of my own. We couldn't believe that our brief time together would
result in a Facebook Friending! But that is the way of the world in this new technological age.<br />
<br />
I write about these memories now, because Brian died today.<br />
<br />
He
battled brain cancer until he could battle no more. I find myself
feeling the loss more deeply than I expected - it has been 20 years since we spoke. But Brian was special, because he was the only man, until
my husband, that showed me respect, interest, and caring without any
physical expectations. He made me feel that I was a beautiful, worthy
person, no strings attached. <br />
<br />
I pray for Brian's wife and son,
and for the family and friends that loved him so well. And I hope that
Brian, who is resting now in eternal peace, is settled in by a roaring fire on a sandy beach, surrounded by the loving spirits of all the lives he touched.
He made a difference to me, even if for one night.<br />
<br />
Never underestimate how your life can be a blessing to another --- that is Brian's legacy, and I hope I can pay it forward.<br />
<br />
Until next time, keep crowin' and making special moments with the ones you love.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10446774468836503251noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2609048198379151439.post-86673940112472334432015-10-15T17:00:00.002-07:002016-04-28T13:40:31.636-07:00Ch-Ch-Ch-ChangesSomeone posted a video on Facebook recently of the most horrid looking thing I have ever seen. It appeared to be a burned gherkin pickle with painted on eye balls, and it had a bright orange forked tongue that resembled the horns of Satan.<br />
<br />
<br />
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-XvkLqWgdv9g/VhLJHrF772I/AAAAAAAAAdA/1E2iH12VFLs/s1600/image001.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="193" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-XvkLqWgdv9g/VhLJHrF772I/AAAAAAAAAdA/1E2iH12VFLs/s200/image001.png" width="200" /></a></div>
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The comments on this apparition ranged from disgust to fear, including one man who asked, “Are the lambs still screaming, Clarice?” But then the voice of reason shone through, and a level-headed nature lover declared that this was an Eastern Tiger Swallowtail Caterpillar. And this is what it becomes once it is done terrorizing the villagers …<br />
<br />
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-TKgwwqs8qoU/VhLK1HrgFUI/AAAAAAAAAdM/2x9IDUm6tsQ/s1600/image003.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="132" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-TKgwwqs8qoU/VhLK1HrgFUI/AAAAAAAAAdM/2x9IDUm6tsQ/s200/image003.jpg" width="200" /></a><br />
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Turns out that the creepy little creature was not a warning sign for the end of days. Turns out it was the promise of better things to come. It just had to go through the ugly to get to the beautiful. I bet the change was scary, though.<br />
<br />
We have had some changes at our house too. This week, my daughter officially exchanged her cleats for boxing gloves, and her lacrosse stick for a paintbrush. She wriggled out of her cocoon to see what else was out there in the world. When she first told me and her dad of her plans, I was supportive, but really unsettled about it, until I noticed she's the happiest she has been in a long time.<br />
<br />
It took courage for her to leave behind a sport she has played, and identified with, for so many years. And she is using this new-found confidence in other areas of her life -- confronting a bully, setting higher standards in her relationships, and taking ownership over her future. She is literally kicking butt.<br />
<br />
I have always found change to be difficult and uncomfortable, but in this case, it has been like a strong cleansing wind that has swept through my daughter's soul and given her wings. <br />
<br />
So, I leave you with David Bowie, who seemed to understand parenting much better than I. And, once again, I have received from my daughter another lesson in living:<br />
<br />
<i>And these children that they spit on</i><br />
<i>As they try to change their worlds </i><br />
<i>Are immune to your consultations</i><br />
<i>They're quite aware of what they're going through</i><br />
--- David Bowie, Changes<br />
<br />
Until next time, keep crowin', and embrace the butterfly!<br />
<div>
<br />
<br /></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10446774468836503251noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2609048198379151439.post-35599331318894118712015-08-31T18:06:00.000-07:002015-08-31T20:09:00.267-07:00The Subtle GiraffeToday is my 43rd birthday. Birthdays are often catastrophic for me --- on a Biblical level. Truly, honestly, cursed. Those who know my story can confirm that this is not an exaggeration. I usually approach August 31 with a great deal of dread, and with the assumption that it will be the worst day of my life. That I will once again be the lame gazelle that can't escape the merciless clutches of the deadly cheetah.<br />
<br />
But today, it wasn't like that at all. Today I was like the subtle giraffe.<br />
<br />
A dear friend called this morning to wish me a happy birthday, and to share details from a family funeral that occurred over the weekend. The stories progressed in such outrageousness that I finally told her, "The universe is literally shoving this down your throat, begging you to write it all down."<br />
<br />
And then I wondered, what is the universe trying to tell <b><i>me</i></b>?<br />
<br />
Two weekends ago, my parents were in town. My sister and her family came over for brunch, which turned out to be a birthday party for me. They were running a little late, which is to be expected when you have a toddler. But it turns out the reason was because the baker dropped my cake and then spelled my name wrong on the new one. My sister wouldn't leave until the cake was perfect.<br />
<br />
Last weekend my sister-in-law and her kids made dinner for me. When I walked in the door, my three year old nephew jumped into my arms and gave me a big hug. He then led me around the house to show me my flowers and balloon. He wanted me to see that everything was perfect.<br />
<br />
This morning, I awoke to texts and Facebook messages from people who chose to start their day by wishing me well. I had a greeting card from my husband on my nightstand and breakfast waiting for me downstairs. I received a random text from my son's former coach, telling me what a great basketball player he is. And then I got a text from my daughter.<br />
<br />
<br />
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-75_syTVa0m8/VeTup1LlYOI/AAAAAAAAAbY/IlyeJR7_L7w/s1600/photo.PNG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-75_syTVa0m8/VeTup1LlYOI/AAAAAAAAAbY/IlyeJR7_L7w/s640/photo.PNG" width="360" /></a></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="text-align: left;"><br /></span></div>
<span style="text-align: left;">I have experienced great pain and loss on my birthday. But today I received the gift of the subtle giraffe. A thing so big, yet so easily overlooked, that it took a million signs from the universe for me to open my eyes and see it.</span>
<br />
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<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
Turns out, I am actually blessed. Yes, some horrible things have happened to me. And yes, I am still dealing with their darkness. But look at all the people that love me - and look at all the good things weaving their way into my world. I have a daughter who makes me laugh like no one else can, and is going to change the world, just by being herself. I have a son whose drive to succeed and whose work ethic inspires everyone around him. I have a husband that loves me so much, and a family that goes out of their way to make me feel special. </div>
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<br /></div>
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How can I feel cursed with so many people in my corner? </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
The answer is, I can't. I will still have good days and bad days, but on this day, this birthday, I can see life for what it truly is - an adventure, a safari, in which sometimes, the cheetah goes home hungry. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
Turns out, my birthday was perfect.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
Until next time, keep crowin', and look for the subtle giraffe in your life!</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10446774468836503251noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2609048198379151439.post-76581530146576781472015-07-28T20:31:00.001-07:002015-07-28T20:31:01.206-07:00Thy Kingdom Come ...My daughter and I were chatting after lunch at a Panera in Virginia, finishing some food before a lacrosse game, when she laid down some wisdom. As usual, it came most unexpectedly. After I made a particular comment, she replied, "Well, thy kingdom come, thy kingdom go."<br />
<br />
<b>Me: </b> What do you mean?<br />
<b>Her:</b> Isn't that how it goes?<br />
<b>Me:</b> No. Let's review the Lord's Prayer again. But can I use that sometime?<br />
<b>Her: </b> Sure.<br />
<br />
I didn't have to keep it in my pocket for long.<br />
<br />
Three days later, we were back in Virginia for another lax tourney, but with a different team. <br />
<br />
We joined this new team by invitation, and were honored to have the chance to participate in a national championship. The practices had gone really well - my daughter's Coach #1 said she was top 50 college material and was planning to use his connections to get her recruited. The team has a major corporate sponsor, and so our only expenses were for travel. Having just finished a season with our regular club team, which was suddenly mired in bickering and turmoil, this was like a breath of heavenly fresh air. We even had a cute bulldog puppy as a mascot.<br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i>Thy kingdom come ...</i></b><br />
<br />
<b>Game One: </b> Here we go. First game with the team that is going to get us to the top and make us a household name. Game begins, game ends. We lose. Coach #2 brings the team to a huddle. Coach #1 yells at the team to get off the field. Coach #2 tells Coach #1 to relax. Coach #1 disagrees with this directive in a verbally violent way. Everyone within earshot stares, slack jawed.<br />
<br />
<b><i>Thy kingdom go ....</i></b><br />
<br />
<b>Game Two:</b> Game begins. Game ends. We lose. Coach #1 comes up to my daughter afterwards "I know you didn't play much, but you are going to start the next game. You are my favorite."<br />
<br />
<b><i>Thy kingdom come ...</i></b><br />
<br />
<b>Game Three: </b> Game begins. Game ends. My daughter doesn't play.<br />
<br />
<b><i>Thy kingdom go ....</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
It is now nighttime. The team pays for pizza at the pool as uniforms are being washed. My daughter joins her compatriots in the lounge area. I sit at the parent table and observe what happens when salad is combined with beer. My daughter later reports Coach #2's revelation: "I hate coaching. I don't want to do it any more. This is my last season."<br />
<br />
<b><i>Thy kingdom is going ...</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b>Game Four:</b> The team pulls out a one-point win over a team from Utah. During the post-game hand shake, Coach #1 tells Utah Player #4 "It sucks to suck."<br />
<br />
<b><i>Thus begins SuckGate.</i></b> The Utah team takes umbrage to an adult verbally abusing a child, and sends their largest male over to our tent to demand an apology. Coach #2 complies and delivers an apology to #4. Coach #1 is then approached in a poking fashion to also apologize. He does so, reluctantly, because he says the girl started it. Our parents are in an uproar, because Utah #4 was saying "sucks to suck" during the game, and the Utah girls were elbowing and fouling. They believe the Coaches' behavior is justified and honorable. Prudently, I decide to get involved:<br />
<br />
<b>Me: </b> Yeah, but an adult should never speak to a child that way.<br />
<b>Team:</b><i> Daggers and hell fire go back to your mamma's teat you worthless traitor. 'Merica.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<b><i>Thy kingdom is gone ...</i></b><br />
<br />
So I tuck tail and head to a table at the concession stand with my daughter's best friend and her parents. As we are sipping on Cokes labeled "Bro" and "Awesome" another team parent comes up to us. He has approached the coaches to ask why his daughter was asked to join the team but isn't getting any playing time. Their response was that if he didn't like it, he could get the *F* out. Thus, he and his family were getting the *F* out.<br />
<br />
<b><i>Thy kingdom is in flames ...</i></b><br />
<br />
<b>Game Five: </b>We are playing the defending champions and we lose gloriously. However, my daughter gets time on the field and the team mom/Coach #1's wife exits the stands with a pee sized stain on her butt. So, it's a win win.<br />
<br />
<b>5:36 p.m. text: </b> Meet in the lobby at 6:00 for team dinner.<br />
<br />
We meet in the lobby at 6:00 for team dinner. All the girls on the team are wearing denim shorts and tank tops, except my daughter and her best friend, who were excluded from the dress code memo. They receive feedback on their attire for the remainder of the evening. <br />
<br />
We leave at 6:30 for a caravan to the Latino Village, which is actually a small yellow building used for the lottery, candles of the saints, and various sundries. We then get back in our cars and head to Plaza Azteca, who was not expecting us. Later that night, at least 5 girls, including my daughter and her best friend, enjoy an evening serenading the toilet. But the silver lining is that Coach #1 paid the entire bill while getting drunk at the bar. Coach #2 did not attend, as he was dog sitting our mascot.<br />
<br />
<b>Game Six: </b> We lose, because karma.<br />
<br />
The tournament is over, and my daughter and I return to the hotel. I quickly and expensively change our flight to an earlier time, discover that we are in the "C" boarding group and promptly upgrade to business class. If you have not flown Southwest, then you won't understand that. The sociology experiment that is their boarding system preys upon the weak, and should be reserved for another blog.<br />
<br />
And that, dear reader, is it. Because my friend Tania told me, "Not sure you really have to have a hook; sometimes, it’s just a report."<br />
<br />
Until next time, keep crowin' --- but very carefully ...<br />
<br />
<br />
<so nbsp="" span="" we=""></so>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10446774468836503251noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2609048198379151439.post-63708082794734828112015-07-02T14:27:00.002-07:002015-07-02T14:27:38.502-07:00WildLife<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-PCb-8pPxXqc/VYCV-pQhJoI/AAAAAAAAAag/sJPONmncdts/s1600/raccoon-riding-alligator-wftv.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-PCb-8pPxXqc/VYCV-pQhJoI/AAAAAAAAAag/sJPONmncdts/s400/raccoon-riding-alligator-wftv.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
Please look at this photo. It is a picture of a raccoon riding on the back of an alligator. On its two hind legs.<br />
<br />
You may have seen this photo on the internet already and know the back story. But if you haven't (and even if you have) there is clearly more here than meets the eye.<br />
<br />
At first glance, we have a bad ass raccoon that ain't scared of no gator. He simply needed a ride downtown and this looked like a highly efficient option. He's got confidence, vision, and a clear path ahead.<br />
<br />
However, the truth of this photo is this: One day, a father and son were out in the woods and accidentally startled the raccoon. It then scampered away, and by pure dumb luck, landed on the back of this alligator. The fact that the raccoon was not eaten and actually escaped is a Mutual of Omaha Wild Kingdom miracle. <i>(Young people, Google it). </i>What we are actually seeing here is a moment of frozen shock, not chutzpah.<br />
<br />
This little internet nugget came and went, but the image still resonates with me. <br />
<br />
I think, so many times, we portray ourselves as a raccoon on an alligator's back. No worries, no fears, life is an easy, breezy ride down the river. Social media has made it conveniently possible for people to always put their biggest and brightest smile forward.<br />
<br />
But when you dig a little deeper, when you ask questions and spend time and squeeze hands, you find out that the raccoon doesn't want to be on the alligator, that it is holding on for dear life, and that it is desperately looking for the quickest way out.<br />
<br />
How many times in your life have you felt that misunderstood, that alone, that scared?<br />
<br />
It's OK. I have too. I just don't talk about it. <br />
<br />
Pretending to be whole is hard work. As humans, when we are broken, we often don't know how to put the pieces back together. We turn to friends, family, food, faith, fountain drinks spiked with a little something - the search for peace takes us many places. And sometimes, we come up empty.<br />
<br />
So where do we find sunshine on a cloudy day? How do we get off the gator's back?<br />
<br />
<i>Um, actually, I don't know - I was hoping you would tell me. </i><br />
<br />
I jest. But truly, I don't have "the" answer. What I can tell you is that lately, I have been working on visualizing this:<br />
<br />
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-xPvWRnfwXNw/VZRoaN6NvvI/AAAAAAAAAa8/jav6otG1oCo/s1600/32a993143874dfd8dd1d4a4649ea7520.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-xPvWRnfwXNw/VZRoaN6NvvI/AAAAAAAAAa8/jav6otG1oCo/s400/32a993143874dfd8dd1d4a4649ea7520.jpg" width="175" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<b><i>And don't start singing Frozen ... </i></b><br />
<br />
Now, I know that letting go is not as easy as releasing a balloon into the sky. But it is a first step. Recently, I have let go of a few things. I have let go of the belief that I control my children's destinies. I have let go of relationships that cause more harm than good. I have let go of the notion that I will actually clean my house. And I have let go of the dream that summer is for resting. <br />
<br />
During this process, I realize that I may try to jump back up and grab that string dangling in the air. Because letting go is one thing, but having faith that everything will work out anyway, is quite another.<br />
<br />
I'll let you know how it goes. Hopefully the news will be good. But even if it isn't, at least I know I'm not alone - or gator bait.<br />
<br />
Until next time, keep crowin'!<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10446774468836503251noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2609048198379151439.post-11787446492547047212015-05-29T12:45:00.002-07:002015-05-29T12:45:53.071-07:00Get LostMy 15-year-old daughter and I were sitting in the Chick-fil-A drive thru the other day, watching some women with their small kids in the playground area chatting about organic hand wipes or applesauce brands or something in that vein. I looked at the scene with feelings of nostalgia, remembering my early days as a mother, looking for other mom friends and taking those field trips to the fast food restaurant or the park. <br />
<br />
My daughter looked at that scene and declared, "I really hope I don't lose myself when I become a mom."<br />
<br />
And scene.<br />
<br />
Full disclosure, I did start laughing. Because my daughter says sh*t like that all the time. We are so different, and her perspective on the world fascinates me. For example, we were watching one of those CSI shows the other day. During the autopsy scene, I had to cover my eyes because I started gagging, while she was glued to the set, remarking "how cool" it was.<br />
<br />
And I don't want her to change. But here is what I wanted to tell her, but didn't, because the conversation continued on to other things. The truth of motherhood is, you absolutely will lose yourself. <br />
<br />
You will lose yourself the moment you look into your child's eyes for the very first time, staring up at you and wondering what the hell just happened. You will lose yourself in sleepless nights, stomach bugs, stitches and splinters. You will lose yourself in her laughter, her tears, her songs, and her long-winded stories. You will lose yourself as she discards the tutus and ribbons you have set out for her, and instead grabs a pair of cleats to head out the door.You will lose yourself as she navigates friendships, relationships, wins and losses, good grades and bad. You will lose yourself when she loves you, and also when she hates you.<br />
<br />
You will lose yourself, because your heart and soul will never fully be yours again. And you are different now, because someone else's life is irrevocably entwined with yours. There is nothing you will want more than for your child to experience happiness, good health, and success her whole life. And when she gets older, and more independent, and makes more and more decisions on her own, you will lose yourself in the memories of raising your sweet, sassy, smart, silly girl.<br />
<br />
That is probably more than my daughter wanted to be hit with in the drive thru. And it isn't what she meant when she asked the question. I know she was wondering if she would still get to pursue her own dreams and goals while being a mother. Perhaps. But I think she will find that her dreams and goals become something different once she holds that baby in her arms.<br />
<br />
The journey and the choices are hers. I can't wait to see what happens.<br />
<br />
Until next time, keep crowin' and get lost in the ones you love!<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10446774468836503251noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2609048198379151439.post-26519243760050051902015-04-16T18:41:00.000-07:002015-04-16T18:41:51.105-07:00Let's Make A DealRemember the old game show, Let's Make A Deal? The host, Monty Hall, would challenge contestants in a high-pressure game of chance. You had to wear a crazy costume and hope that whatever door, pocket, curtain, or box that you picked would contain the ultimate prize. Here's a clip for you young people:<br />
<br />
<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/J155bLFAg1k" width="420"></iframe><br />
<br />
This show became very relevant to me over Spring Break. This year, we negotiated our plans with our teenage daughter, who wanted to hang with her friends rather than her family. So, we were faced with two choices.<br />
<br />
<b>Door Number One:</b> Our regular haunt, my oasis, a remote island, accessible only by ferry, drivable only by golf carts, and about as quiet and peaceful as you can achieve without being unconscious. Zen Momma, Tragically Depressed Daughter.<br />
<br />
<b>Door Number Two: </b> Party Island, my daughter's perfect place, where people walk up and down the highway in thongs and fanny packs, while cars and rented scooters litter the streets like lice on an urchin child's head, and the sounds of police sirens and stereo bass bounce you right out of bed. Manic Momma, Blissfully Joyful Daughter.<br />
<br />
<b><i>Guess where we went?</i></b><br />
<br />
Needless to say, my daughter and I had two different vacations. <br />
<b><br /></b>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b><b><span style="font-size: large;">Here was what was behind <u>my door</u>:</span></b></b></div>
<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-fdd-w4leH7s/VS7tOtdOWvI/AAAAAAAAAY0/q26YoJ8Lm00/s1600/photo.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-fdd-w4leH7s/VS7tOtdOWvI/AAAAAAAAAY0/q26YoJ8Lm00/s1600/photo.JPG" height="400" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The view from our house - Dusty's Oyster Bar. We could sit on our front porch and listen to the melody of the intercom system calling for Butler, party of four.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-22LcVxLZz1M/VS7w1vJKIpI/AAAAAAAAAZA/yH_dMjU-9ec/s1600/photo%2B(7).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-22LcVxLZz1M/VS7w1vJKIpI/AAAAAAAAAZA/yH_dMjU-9ec/s1600/photo%2B(7).JPG" height="400" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The local floral and fauna in our yard ...</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-X4kOy-ljkzo/VS7tKtx9W5I/AAAAAAAAAYQ/Cl-8RnNQgeI/s1600/photo%2B(2).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-X4kOy-ljkzo/VS7tKtx9W5I/AAAAAAAAAYQ/Cl-8RnNQgeI/s1600/photo%2B(2).JPG" height="400" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">That appeared to reproduce over night ...</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-TFU7aQHFpjw/VS72TUvz5AI/AAAAAAAAAZQ/IqUoIifTYEk/s1600/photo%2B(1)a.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-TFU7aQHFpjw/VS72TUvz5AI/AAAAAAAAAZQ/IqUoIifTYEk/s1600/photo%2B(1)a.jpg" height="235" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This is either a jelly fish or a breast implant.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-e-Jr2qqPznI/VS7tNll1GAI/AAAAAAAAAYo/RkYdAIhp8Ic/s1600/photo%2B(5).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-e-Jr2qqPznI/VS7tNll1GAI/AAAAAAAAAYo/RkYdAIhp8Ic/s1600/photo%2B(5).JPG" height="400" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Gloomy fog or a pot cloud? You decide.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-KaaztkX4TXI/VS7tNopOtwI/AAAAAAAAAYk/nsAv3QDJAs4/s1600/photo%2B(6).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-KaaztkX4TXI/VS7tNopOtwI/AAAAAAAAAYk/nsAv3QDJAs4/s1600/photo%2B(6).JPG" height="400" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Woke up one day to this booby trap - <br />
little brother was getting real tired of his sister's sh*t.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-size: large;">Here was what was behind my daughter's door:</span></b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-xS5FdgUAtxU/VTASrM8BWKI/AAAAAAAAAZ8/o1Buz5cd5PQ/s1600/photo%2B(9).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-xS5FdgUAtxU/VTASrM8BWKI/AAAAAAAAAZ8/o1Buz5cd5PQ/s1600/photo%2B(9).JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Morning Yoga</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-rlRgiek1njY/VTASqWqJPiI/AAAAAAAAAZw/jVjQSgajRro/s1600/photo%2B(8).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-rlRgiek1njY/VTASqWqJPiI/AAAAAAAAAZw/jVjQSgajRro/s1600/photo%2B(8).JPG" height="400" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pretty beaches to walk, lots of new friends to meet.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-sCBpR_wf91w/VTASpO-icpI/AAAAAAAAAZk/2xA6cg3Ozgw/s1600/photo%2B(10).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-sCBpR_wf91w/VTASpO-icpI/AAAAAAAAAZk/2xA6cg3Ozgw/s1600/photo%2B(10).JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Fun in the surf</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ZygpBF-JTqo/VTASp7_djhI/AAAAAAAAAZs/1FDLrtuRv3Y/s1600/photo%2B(11).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ZygpBF-JTqo/VTASp7_djhI/AAAAAAAAAZs/1FDLrtuRv3Y/s1600/photo%2B(11).JPG" height="400" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Restful afternoons in the ENO</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
So who was the big winner? Well, surprisingly, we all were. My daughter had the time of her life, I received some free shock-treatment, and we all came home in one piece with rosier cheeks. Looking ahead to future vacations, I am happy to report that while Panama City Beach will forever be an asterisk in our Spring Break story, I'm confident that there is a happy medium between isolation and the 9th circle of hell. At least I hope so, and I have an entire year to find it.<br />
<br />
Until next time, keep crowin' and stick with Door Number One!<br />
<br />
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10446774468836503251noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2609048198379151439.post-85132188169893277802015-03-20T16:18:00.000-07:002015-03-20T16:18:35.063-07:00Gone to the DogsWe are in our first year of high school lacrosse, and so some of the other JV moms and I have put together a carpool. The other night I had driving duty, which entailed picking the girls up from practice, taking them to the team pasta dinner, and then bringing them home. The meal was at a varsity player's house, and several varsity moms were providing the food. It's a fun, team-building event. <br />
<br />
Anyway, as I drove from practice to the dinner, traffic was bumper to bumper. I asked my daughter how long the dinner would last, because I really didn't want to get back in the soup if they planned to eat and run. She told me that I should leave and come back (of course) but ultimately, we compromised on me sitting in my car outside the house. This way, I was not imposing on the busy hosts, and I would not be late picking up.<br />
<br />
We pulled up to the house and the girls jumped out. I positioned my car in a good spot, rolled down the windows, and proceeded to wait. Within minutes, I noticed a sweet, white Chihuahua running through the yard and out into the street, just as a large work van whizzed by. I realized that there was no invisible fence, as the dog then left the yard and started trotting down the street. <br />
<br />
I took a moment to assess the situation. The dog seemed to be in mid-life, and may have been confused. With the girls going in and out of the gate of the back yard, it easily could have escaped undetected. I then took another moment to grapple with the decision between saving the dog's life and embarrassing my daughter.<br />
<br />
Morality prevailed, and I opened my car door and called to the dog. Having recently watched a series of animal rescue videos on YouTube, I knew the proper way to earn his trust and calm any fears he might have about strangers. It didn't take long, and I was pleased with my success. I put the dog on my hip and carried him up to the front door. And despite his short-lived freedom, I could tell he was happy to be going home too - he gave my face a few enthusiastic, wet puppy kisses.<br />
<br />
I rang the bell and waited timidly - I am still getting to know these moms, and I knew they weren't expecting me. As the hostess walked up and opened the door, I had trouble reading the look on her face. Was it concern over her dog getting out? Was it stress from the interruption of feeding a horde of hungry girls? Putting on a big smile, I brightly said in a sing song voice, "Did you lose your dog?" :)<br />
<br />
Her response cleared it up for me. "That's not my dog."<br />
<br />
A deep abyss of mortification opened wide in front of me. The aging family treasure I thought I had snatched from the vice grip of death suddenly morphed into a yellow-eyed, disease-ridden stray whose privates were rubbing up against my shirt. <br />
<br />
"Oh. Whose dog is it?"<br />
"I don't know. I think it lives in that cul-de-sac, but I am not sure. It just runs around a lot." <br />
<br />
<b><i>Huh, look at that. The dog doesn't have a tag.</i></b><br />
<br />
Returning to consciousness, I realized she was talking, "Well, I could bring it in the backyard, but my dog would go berserk."<br />
"Um, I think I will just send it on its way."<br />
<br />
And with that, I set the filthy mongrel down and turned to begin the long walk of shame back to my car. Clearly, I needed to burn my clothes and find a sanitizing station as soon as possible. <br />
<br />
"Why don't you come in and eat? We have plenty."<br />
<br />
Knowing my fate as the team idiot was already sealed, I tucked tail and went inside, making a lame joke about seeing a raccoon that I could bring in as well. All of the hostesses were perfectly lovely, but I knew I could never see any of them ever again.<br />
<br />
Driving home, the girls found my story funny, and I believe my daughter felt so sorry for me that she forgave my breach of etiquette. As for the little white devil, he better hope he never sees me again - I will go all Cruella de Vil on his @$$.<br />
<br />
Until next time, keep crowin' and when in doubt, stay in the car!!!<br />
<br />
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10446774468836503251noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2609048198379151439.post-66493543058490445312015-03-13T13:24:00.000-07:002015-03-13T21:08:59.871-07:00And I QuoteIn our house, we play a lot of sports. There is always a practice or a game - I just sit in my car and wait for someone I know to get in. And not only is it hectic, but it is demanding. Both of my kids are now at a level of play where they are experiencing true competition, where coaches are no longer required to be fair, but to win. There is a constant pressure to earn your spot on your team over and over, and over, again.<br />
<br />
In my day, sports didn't really gear up until high school - I don't remember locking in with an agent by 3rd grade. But here we are, and there it is.<br />
<br />
My kids have set goals and are working to achieve them. And just like any other humans, they have good days and bad. But every time they walk out the door, I like to arm them with the right words. <br />
<br />
<b><i>"The only person you should try to be better than is the person you were yesterday."</i></b><br />
<b><i>"Work until you no longer have to introduce yourself."</i></b><br />
<b><i>"Once in awhile, blow your own damn mind."</i></b><br />
<br />
As the legend goes, when my Great Grandma was in her child-bearing years, she kept baby names in her apron pocket. Every time she gave birth, she would pull a name out and bestow it upon her child. They were excellent, hearty, full-bodied names, like Beulah Exolona and Ruby Leota. In that spirit, I keep photos of Pinterest quotes on my smartphone, so that I am ready at a moment's notice to produce creative word genius.<br />
<br />
Since we are in the height of their respective seasons, I have been flipping through my camera roll more than usual. The challenge is, how to continue to provide fresh motivation to my kids on the sports roller coaster? What goes down must come up? The only thing you have to fear is fear itself? At least you didn't throw up?<br />
<br />
I can't draw on my own athletic experience, because it consists of two middle school basketball practices and a single season of tennis my freshman year of high school. I then succumbed to the asthma, at which point Coach Coffee told my teammates, "That Alison, she is sorry." <br />
<br />
But what I <b><u>can</u></b> draw on is my own desire to be proud of myself, to truly feel I have done my best every day. I encourage that with my children, even though I don't exactly know how to achieve it. That's an entirely separate Pinterest board ...<br />
<br />
<b><i>"Be gentle with yourself, you are doing the best you can."</i></b><br />
<b><i>"When something goes wrong in your life, just yell 'plot twist!' and move on."</i></b><br />
<b><i>"The Mad Hatter: 'Have I gone mad?' Alice: 'I'm afraid so. You're entirely bonkers. But I'll tell you a secret. All the best people are.'"</i></b><br />
<br />
The best quotes get right to the heart of the matter, and bring us just a little extra enlightenment. Will they help us run faster, score more often, and win MVP? I don't have scientific proof. But the right words can tap into a universal feeling or need, and give the reader a bit of comfort that the world is with them, in good times and bad. And, just like a fortune cookie, they can often bring a pleasant surprise.<br />
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<br />
Until next time, keep crowin'!<br />
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10446774468836503251noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2609048198379151439.post-53220154055722303762015-03-05T09:45:00.001-08:002015-03-05T09:45:07.145-08:00SignageMy Sunday began with a man on a unicycle and ended with a man in a kilt. I know these are signs from the universe, I just don't know what my next move is.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
My husband and I had decided it was time to replace my 14-year-old car. Not only was it falling apart and smelled, but you just can't get into the good carpools with a two-row car. And I need good carpools. I literally have kids at sports practices and games literally every single night of my life. I use the term "literally" because it is burned on my brain after the last carpool with my daughter's lacrosse teammates. They literally said literally about literally 30 times.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
As we were driving to CarMax, I began feeling the early warning signs of a panic attack. This came on for several reasons - I hate the car buying process, I hate change, and I hate that I cannot handle the car buying process and change.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
As I was deep breathing, we pulled up to the dealership, just in time to see a 57 year old man with a hemp-induced beard casually rolling along the highway on his unicycle. This was clearly a red flag, so I turned to my husband and said, "We need to abort." But he held my hand ever so <b><i>very</i></b> tightly onto the gear shift and we pushed through.</div>
<div>
<br />
So, what defines "a sign"? Is it a hippie on a one-wheel bike? Is it the country fried wisdom on the tire store billboard? Is it the dream at night that seems so real you think it actually happened?<br />
<br />
I once had a classmate in an improv acting course who told me that she was intuitive. Intrigued, I asked her what she could tell about me. She said that I believed that I received secret messages from the newspaper. Well ....<br />
<br />
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-vkdOxDkd6nE/VPiIFpl9-TI/AAAAAAAAAW4/cqFfGPWDiT0/s1600/th2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-vkdOxDkd6nE/VPiIFpl9-TI/AAAAAAAAAW4/cqFfGPWDiT0/s1600/th2.jpg" /></a><br />
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<br />
I am inclined to disagree with the lady, but not because she may or may not have been a wackadoo, but because I don't believe I receive signs - I believe I LOOK for them. Signs of aging, signs of weakness, signs of trouble at every turn. Clearly, I take all signs as bad ones.<br />
<br />
This is where the man in the kilt comes in. About 9:00 o'clock Sunday night, after a long, stressful day of organizing and shuttling and errands and lists, my daughter and I drove to the Kroger for just one more thing. As we were walking in, a man with blue hair in a fully-accessorized kilt came walking out. I tried to telepathically urge my daughter to make a sharp u-turn. But, when I looked over at her to convey this warning, she was smiling. What I took as a sign of clear and present Braveheart danger, she viewed as a quirky little nugget in an otherwise mundane errand. However, as a disclaimer, I should mention that she once tried to take a selfie in front of a drug arrest in a park, and when deciding on an elective for school, she was sold on Forensics when told fake blood would be involved.<br />
<br />
But still. I found our different perspectives so interesting, and realized that perhaps I should take a chapter out of her book. Why couldn't the funny little out-of-context men actually be <b><i>nice</i></b> signs? Maybe the universe wasn't warning me of something wicked this way coming, but warming me up for something good? Is it possible that I am missing the whole point? Or do I just need to adjust my dosage ....<br />
<br />
Like I said, I don't know what my next move is. One thing I do know is that I am going to try it my daughter's way, and attempt to look at the world, and people, with more trusting eyes. And I am <u>definitely</u> going to start reading the newspaper again.<br />
<br />
Until next time, keep crowin'!<br />
</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10446774468836503251noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2609048198379151439.post-42201933547234740902015-02-24T18:13:00.001-08:002015-02-24T18:13:53.534-08:00MomopauseThe other day I was on Instagram, watching a Ball is Life video. This particular feature was of a young man in high school who is obviously a basketball phenom. He ducked and dodged and twirled the ball around like it was a yo-yo --- he made basketball look like Swan Lake. And then there was the boy defending him, in proper position and with ample speed, but clearly embarking on a suicide mission. It wasn't 10 seconds before the defender was flat on the ground, tripped up by the guile and trickery of our Boy Wonder. <br />
<br />
My son would watch that video and be in awe of the skill of the star player. I watched it and felt for the mama that was going to have to find the perfect words for her humiliated son, whose "ankle breaking" was now immortalized on social media.<br />
<br />
When did I switch? When did I start seeing the world as an after-school special?<br />
<br />
One clue may have come the other day, when I woke up in bed with the night sweats, which, according to Google, is either idiopathic hyperhidrosis, or ... the early stages of menopause.<br />
<br />
Gasp. It's a musical, it's a punch line, but I am here to tell you - it's no joke. I am no longer a baby, a honey, or a ragtime gal. I cannot separate my will from my body. But then again, at 42 1/2 it may be too soon for me to be crying menopause. My symptoms - the sweat, the worry, the grey hair, the slow trickle of pee - could just be, in my case, related to motherhood. Perhaps it is Momopause.*<br />
<br />
<b><i>* I thought I was so clever coming up with that, until I did a little research and found out someone else already thought of it. Oh well.</i></b><br />
<br />
But anyway, Momopause, I think, is a real thing. It happens when you have teenagers, but you are especially susceptible if you are in your 40's when that occurs. It's like mid-life crisis meets empty-nest syndrome. When you realize that your parenting years are finite, and that your kids will be out on their own within minutes, and you need to cram in as many life lessons as you can on a daily, nay hourly, basis.<br />
<br />
Suddenly, you aren't thinking about playdates and piano lessons and winter coats. Now, you are pondering colleges, careers, and potential mates. Are my kids good people? Are they working too hard? Are they not working hard enough? Can they say no to drugs? Do they <b><i>want</i></b> to say no to drugs? Are they happy? Are they sad? Did someone just ask me to draw her a bath?! <br />
<br />
I had just about worked myself into a frenzy thinking about all of this today while driving to my upteenth child pick up/drop off of the afternoon. As I pulled up into a driveway to pick up my daughter, I activated my voice texting to send her the usual message, "I am here."<br />
<br />
And then it hit me. That's it. That's the only thing I need to make very sure of, the main thing I need to send them into adulthood with - that both of my kids know, with 100% certainty, that <b>I am here</b>. I am here when they triumph, I am here when they fail. I am here to give advice, and I am here to help pick up the pieces when said advice is not taken. I am here to bail them out, to hold them up, to stand aside and let them shine. I am here. Hot flashes and all, I am here. Momopause could be the beginning of something beautiful, if only I could let go, just a little. We'll see.<br />
<br />
Until next time, keep crowin' - and don't try to save the world - just be there when it needs a hug.<br />
<br />
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10446774468836503251noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2609048198379151439.post-42879191353663307422015-02-17T14:36:00.000-08:002015-02-17T14:36:23.307-08:00Life According to Fenton<b>This is literally the best thing I have ever seen.</b><br />
<br />
<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/3GRSbr0EYYU" width="420"></iframe><br />
<br />
I have watched this video over and over and over again. And I laugh with tears rolling down my face every time. It's funny and it's real and it's actually a perfect explanation of the meaning of life.<br />
<br />
I can so relate to Fenton's Human (FH). Here they are, having a lovely stroll in the park --- like they do every day --- amongst the wild deer in the sunshine. FH is probably thinking about his to-do list, resolving to finish a basement project and get caught up on his correspondence, and to simply make it a good, significant, productive day, which will begin just as soon as Fenton takes a whizz. But on this day, without explanation, Fenton has an epiphany and realizes there is more to life than peeing on a tree. And thus, he takes off into the deep blue yonder with full abandon.<br />
<br />
FH has now lost complete control. His schedule is irreparably taken off course, his tranquility ripped apart like a scab on a band aid. Further, Fenton is absolutely not listening to anything except the call of the wild, and this could potentially lead to: <b>a) </b>severe public humiliation for FH; <b>b)</b> a gruesome death to one or more innocent deer; <b>c) </b>multiple fines levied by the township for a violation of many laws; or <b>d)</b> all of the above. And best of all, someone got it on video.<br />
<br />
So many days, I feel like FH, just chasing after my life, desperately trying to:<br />
<br />
<ul>
<li>Offer my best at work</li>
<li>Manage volunteer responsibilities</li>
<li>Keep the house within fire marshal guidelines</li>
<li>Replenish food every 36 hours</li>
<li>Give the impression that I am successfully raising a teen and a tween</li>
<li>Pretend I make time for my spouse, and </li>
<li>Deal with my rear end, which is resisting the confines of denim like a popcorn bag in an overheated microwave.</li>
</ul>
<br />
But then, I can also feel like Fenton. On the days when I realize that I have zero control over any of the bullet points in my world, I drive myself to Taco Bell in my pajamas and play Soda Crush on my Ipad until I beat that #$%@^ level.<br />
<br />
Of course, the moral of the story is that there is a balance, that we can mow the lawn AND run through it naked with the sprinklers on. Maybe the next time Fenton has a psychotic break, FH will realize that it's only temporary, that his dog will come back, and that he should enjoy the moment to lay down amongst the flowers and be thankful for all the things that make him happy. He just needs to make sure he doesn't lay down in deer poo.<br />
<br />
Until next time, keep crowin' - and this one's for you, Arie!<br />
<br />
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10446774468836503251noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2609048198379151439.post-83723868980627782682014-06-13T10:42:00.000-07:002014-06-13T10:42:19.347-07:00NoLo<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: 13px;"><b>Hey, i am in traffic court. Carolyn home if the boys need anything.</b></span><br />
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<b><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Did ur cop show?</span></b></div>
<div id="yui_3_16_0_1_1402670245220_2157" style="font-size: 13px;">
<b><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I think he is here. Is that bad?</span></b></div>
<div id="yui_3_16_0_1_1402670245220_2158" style="font-size: 13px;">
<b><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">not sure.</span></b></div>
<div id="yui_3_16_0_1_1402670245220_2159" style="font-size: 13px;">
<i><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></i></div>
<div id="yui_3_16_0_1_1402670245220_2160" style="font-size: 13px;">
<i><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">What? What do you mean? Is there going to be testimony? I'm not prepped for trial! Why would this woman tattoo </span></i><i><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">"Boobie" on her back?</span></i></div>
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<div id="yui_3_16_0_1_1402670245220_2168" style="font-size: 13px;">
<b><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">All Rise. Court is now in session. The Honorable Judge Something Schow Schow presiding.</span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">These people all look guilty of serious crimes. And I hope that woman is just asleep.</span></i></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Good afternoon. Before we begin, I would like to explain your options today. Everyone here has been accused of a misdemeanor crime, which is punishable by a $1,000 fine and up to a year in prison.</span></b></div>
<div id="yui_3_16_0_1_1402670245220_2169" style="font-size: 13px;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I'm going to JAIL?! For speeding?!</span></i></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div id="yui_3_16_0_1_1402670245220_2170" style="font-size: 13px;">
<b><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">However, if you plead nolo or guilty today, I will only assess a $150 fine. You may also plead not guilty, and ask for a bench or jury trial, compliant, or first offense. I will consider other options for first offenders.</span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Thank God. I'll take Nolo for $150, Alex.</span></i></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">If you are under 21, please stand. Ma'am did you receive a citation? No? You're with her? Then you can sit down.</span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div id="yui_3_16_0_1_1402670245220_2171" style="font-size: 13px;">
<i><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Rookie mistake. At least the other perps and I are bonding over a laugh. Might help me on the inside.</span></i></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">So, I am going to leave the room. When the clerk says your name, please call out your plea. </span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Roll call? We have to say it out loud? What happened to attorney client privilege? These people don't know my life!</span></i></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Mary Anderson?</span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Tom Baker?</span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Marshall Coleman?</span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></b></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Where is everyone? Am I in the right place?</span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></i></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Ann Davis?</span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Guilty.</span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></b></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Guilty of what?! GUILTY OF WHAT?!</span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></i></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">John English?</span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I gotta question.</span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">What's your plea Mr. English?</span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Naw, I gotta question.</span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">We'll speak with you later.</span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">June Franklin?</span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">NOT. GUILTY.</span></b></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Oh hell, she's pissed</span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></i></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Steve Olson?</span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">First offense.</span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Alison Paul?</span></b></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Speak you idiot, speak!</span></i></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Nolo!</span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>What are they writing down? Who is she calling? </i></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Ms. Franklin? Please step outside with your officer.</span></b></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Now what is this? Where are they going? Is he letting her off so he can go home? What a scam. I am changing my plea. But then I have to talk to my cop - alone. And do I really know what is happening out there? What if she is getting manacled? I'm actually kinda guilty ... They're back. She's sitting down. She still looks mad.</span></i></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Mr. Olson, please come forward. Carl, which driving course does he sign up for?</span></b></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Driving course? How is that better than just paying the fine? Or is it online? Do they check to see if you are really a first offender? Maybe I'll roll the dice. I can totally do online.</span></i></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Yes ma'am, can I help you?</span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I miss court yesterday. What do I do?</span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">According to your original date here, you were supposed to go to criminal court. Have you taken your 12-week anger management course?</span></b></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Oh HELL no. I call a recess. </span></i></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Ms. Paul? Please come forward.</span></b></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Here we go. Don't overdo it. Get your dress out of your butt.</span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></i></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Ms. Paul, by pleading nolo today, you understand that you cannot plead nolo again for 5 years?</span></b></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">You people will never see me again. If I have to drive on the emergency brake for the rest of my life, I swear it.</span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></i></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Please sign here and you can go pay.</span></b></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Hurry and sign. Don't ask questions. Go, just go ... no! Don't follow the officer. Hang back! HANG BACK!</span></i></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>Just walk like you're an attorney ... no one will judge. OK, this was the wrong way. Keep walking like you meant to go down the alley. Don't look at that man. Where's my car? It's not up here! It's been stolen! Oh God. Wait ... ... there it is - at the top of THAT parking deck. I think I've got my next blog ....</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i><br /></i></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>Until next time, keep crowin' and drive 55!</b></span></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10446774468836503251noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2609048198379151439.post-72410239782694843322014-05-04T13:50:00.002-07:002014-05-04T13:50:09.304-07:00On The FlyThere was a span of weeks where I was twice met with the discomfort of interacting with a man whose pants were completely unzipped. I knew both times that I could not, would not, alert him to this crisis. The only male in this situation that I would ever bail out is my husband. Because it feels really dirty pointing it out, as if to say, "I was just looking at your crotch and am about to become a sister wife if you don't make a quick adjustment."<br />
<br />
What interested me even more is that none of the other men around us pulled the offenders aside - there were no wingmen at all. These guys were just hung out to dry. <br />
<br />
*wink*<br />
<br />
Not so in the female world. I remember walking through church one day, and suddenly felt someone tugging at the back of my neck. With a snap of her wrist, a complete stranger yanked the store tag off my new shirt and handed it to me without missing a beat. I thanked her, and she smiled and walked on, because that's the code.<br />
<br />
The code is applied in many ways, by all ages. Here are some proper usages:<br />
<ul>
<li>A daughter-in-law arrives at a family dinner for which her husband's parents have inexplicably brought home food for 50 instead of their original order for 10, and without question to the restaurant, have paid the $1,000 bill --- plus 10% tip. Following this impromptu banquet, the DIL invokes the code, raising a pajama-clad army of girlfriends to relieve her of the strain on both her moral compass and her children's newly-found repugnance for ravioli.</li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li>A 7-year-old discovers during a routine play date that not only is her bedroom door suddenly stuck, but that her guest has a previously undisclosed bowel problem and requires immediate relief. Faced with limited resources, our steadfast hostess remembers the code and produces a shopping bag from the closet to both receive and store the emergency evacuation. And like a true Southern lady, she does not expose her friend's dirty laundry until her mother stumbles upon the remains, much, much later.</li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li>A wife gleefully joins her husband on a wild spin in his new convertible, celebrating the fruits of their labors and a precious night of freedom. Upon dismount from her prince's metal steed, she takes a Chardonnay-induced tumble on a public sidewalk and fears she has incurred serious harm. Concerned that fancycar + bruisedwife = domesticcharges, said wife calls in the code to her housekeeper, who pauses without hesitation from cooking a flan for her niece's <span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Quinceañera</span> to deliver our heroine safely to the ER. </li>
</ul>
While these are hall of fame examples, the code can be activated in small ways too. Sending a "thinking of you" text or sharing a human moment from your life (see above) or just making time for someone even though you have none to spare; these are all powerful uses of the code. And we need them all.<br />
<br />
So, the next time you are faced with a problem,<br />
whether you are up to your ears, or merely knee-high,<br />
just take a deep breath and remember the code<br />
it always works <b><i>on</i></b> <b><i>the fly</i></b>.<br />
<br />
Until next time, keep crowin'!<br />
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10446774468836503251noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2609048198379151439.post-88676162895058082332014-04-12T14:49:00.001-07:002014-04-13T05:39:03.423-07:00Getting in the WeedsIs it weird to wear an outfit to a store that you bought at said store? When someone pulls out in front of you, are they morally obligated to travel at the same rate of speed as you? Why do people from England sound American when they sing but British when they speak? On a scale of 1-10, how rude is it to put your groceries on the conveyor belt and not put a plastic divider down for the next person? <br />
<br />
<b><i>Do any of these things bother you, too?</i></b> Or am I getting in the weeds so I can avoid some larger questions looming over my head?<br />
<br />
Like, is there really (please say yes) a college scholarship for red heads? If a parent from an opposing flag football team starts screaming about my kid, can I "love" them away from the dark side? Why does PMS surprise me every month? How long til my soul gets it right?<br />
<br />
OK, I stole that last one from the Indigo Girls. <b>But they make an excellent point.</b><br />
<br />
I thought that by the age of 41.5, I would have this all figured out. I would be secure in my relationships, excel as a parent, expertly conquer the literary world and have the courage to know difference between things I can and cannot change. <br />
<br />
But here I am, drinking wine on my back deck, with nose dripping and pollen clinging to my too-tight Old Navy t-shirt, taking a roll call of my flaws.<br />
<br />
And the thing that I can't get over is this - my sweet, small-but-sturdy, circle of friends have not given up on me. My spouse still showers me with compliments. My kids still cuddle with me and call me Mama. My family still phones me when they need help. <i>So I guess my secret is still safe.</i><br />
<br />
When I was in college, I studied abroad at Oxford University. One night, I had had too much to drink and got lost walking back to campus. A taxi driver pulled over to offer me a ride. I protested and refused, telling him I had no money. He said, "That's OK. It looks like you have had a rough night." And he got me safely home.<br />
<br />
Human kindness. I will never feel like I deserve it, and never be able to express my gratitude enough for it. If only I could forgive people more quickly when it doesn't happen as expected ..... Namely, myself.<br />
<br />
Until next time, keep crowin'. And be kind whenever possible. It is always possible. (Gandhi)Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10446774468836503251noreply@blogger.com0