tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-67511824894170681212024-03-21T05:45:55.215-04:00Watching the Grass GrowTamarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18043592847837359464noreply@blogger.comBlogger367125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6751182489417068121.post-58154949496887187682020-07-12T13:53:00.000-04:002020-07-12T14:30:42.622-04:00On Confusion and Covid Tests<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Jg2TFdWY8zg/XwtJ4nlJReI/AAAAAAAA5ks/PXR1DIH5oJcWSicyzG7SbeVGx7nChmRtwCLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/covid%2Bswab.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="350" data-original-width="525" height="133" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Jg2TFdWY8zg/XwtJ4nlJReI/AAAAAAAA5ks/PXR1DIH5oJcWSicyzG7SbeVGx7nChmRtwCLcBGAsYHQ/s200/covid%2Bswab.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo credit:<br />
<a href="https://www.webmd.com/lung/news/20200323/new-test-will-give-covid-19-results-in-45-minutes">https://www.webmd.com/lung/news/<br />20200323/new-test-will-give<br />-covid-19-results-in-45-minutes</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Turns out "confusion" is on the ever-vague list of Covid-19 symptoms, down near the bottom, where no one sees it. So if anyone asks, and my test turns out to be positive, I'll have a legitimate excuse for one of the most embarrassing mistakes I've made in a very long time.<br />
<br />
The backstory is that several days ago, I started running a pretty high fever after a couple of days of what I thought was occasional allergic coughing. It's been as high as 103 at a few points, but the fact that I was managing with Tylenol and home remedies wasn't good enough for the people who worry about me, and I was pressured to go get tested. Not that I was morally opposed to the test; I just have a thing about doctors and doctors' offices and avoid them whenever I can. Telehealth is my best friend. Plus, I just didn't feel well enough to be hassled with it. I was taking care of myself, I could breathe, I was coherent...but I caved.<br />
<br />
My first attempt was Saturday morning. I called early in the morning to try to schedule it, only to be told they were already out of the day's tests, and to "call back first thing in the morning." So...I set my alarm on Sunday, and called at 8:01, only to be asked if I was in the parking lot. I wasn't. I was in my bed in my birthday suit trying to keep the fever down. She then told me to "get here quickly." I threw on leggings and a top, threw my contacts in my eyes, and raced out the door, breaking the speed limit on the way a few times, just knowing I'd get all the way there to be told they had run out.<br />
<br />
I arrived to a mostly empty parking lot, patting myself on the back for beating the crowds. The only other people I saw as I went through the telephone registration with a very nice lady were a guy on crutches and a meth-head with an ankle bracelet. Reassuring. After several minutes of waiting, she said, "Okay, they have a room for you ready. Put your mask on and come to the door." I masked up, locked up ('cause, you know...meth-heads and crutch-guy), and trotted myself to the door, wishing all the while I had taken time to put on underwear. My mom was right. "Clean underwear every time you leave the house."<br />
<br />
Nurse Nancy with the bad hair came to the door (and please...who am I to talk, with a three-day-old messy bun and unfettered boobies, probably scaring the-meth heads more than they scared me)...and looked at me quizzically. I explained that I had just checked in...and she continued to look at me like I had four heads. The long story short...I was in The Wrong Place. (Hey, Trump can do it; that makes it okay, right?) Well, hell...I jumped back in the car (Note: I use verbs like "jump," "trot," and "race," when I really only move at a one-speed hobble.) and tried to make it the 3.2 miles to The Right Place before they gave my spot away.<br />
<br />
Only, Nurse Courtney got all impatient and called me back with a, "Where the hell are you," attitude, and I when apologetically explained that I had been in the wrong parking lot, she was taken aback! Wrong parking lot, wrong street, wrong side of town, wrong SIGN on the building...all wrong. But I made it, finally, and understood then how they ran out the day before. Never mind that there's a Starbucks drive-thru in the same parking lot, so the traffic was exaggerated, but I nearly left in panic. There were just too many damn people. But I hung in there. I masked up, went to the door to wait awkwardly with my arms crossed across my chest and hoping there were no seam holes in my leggings facing the full parking lot. Someone soon called back and told me a provider would see me in my car. (I TOLD you my hair was a mess!)<br />
<br />
Several minutes...or chunks of an hour...I saw a PPE-clad provider start visiting cars, and I was relieved that it was finally going to happen. Until, that is, she tested the tough guy next to me in his pickup truck, and he CRIED afterward. Oooof! Julie the PA eventually came to my car, and was very sweet. I checked out well...oxygen level was strong, chest clear, just a mild temperature. My heart rate was a little high...but after all the running, trotting, jumping, and racing, of course it would be. Then, the dreaded test...which was a breeze! A throat culture for strep is much, much worse. I told her the guy cried...and we agreed that men just can't handle the things that we women can.<br />
<br />
Long story short...I'm home isolating and waiting for up to seven days. Of course, because I got tested, I feel a thousand times better than yesterday and the results will be negative, and I suppose that's what I should be hoping for. In a weird way, a positive result would make the hassle worth it, and would also give me some peace of mind that maybe I CAN handle this virus. Either way, here I sit, clearly not confused, but also questioning my reading ability.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_Fm0HU1I56Mc/SoDe5Xm5wnI/AAAAAAAAA7c/iuN2fSrh1hg/s1600-h/signature2.png"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5368535832996725362" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/_Fm0HU1I56Mc/SoDe5Xm5wnI/AAAAAAAAA7c/iuN2fSrh1hg/s320/signature2.png" style="cursor: hand; float: left; height: 36px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 121px;" /></a>Tamarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18043592847837359464noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6751182489417068121.post-85864569574669613932020-03-17T21:50:00.003-04:002020-03-17T21:50:48.100-04:00"St. Patrick's Day" Sitting in the wrought iron chair,<br />
I leaned my head against the backrest<br />
until the decorative flowers pulled one single hair,<br />
as if to keep me from becoming too drowsy in the calm.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-N8ppqz09VFs/XnF96Y0jjmI/AAAAAAAA1Go/B6dz1D5sFg0q67jF50mCy7Gq8QWoEtSWQCLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/trees.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="450" data-original-width="450" height="200" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-N8ppqz09VFs/XnF96Y0jjmI/AAAAAAAA1Go/B6dz1D5sFg0q67jF50mCy7Gq8QWoEtSWQCLcBGAsYHQ/s200/trees.jpeg" width="200" /></a>The sun was bright, my eyes unused to it,<br />
and I averted my gaze towards<br />
the skeletal hands of the of the tops of the trees,<br />
reaching hopefully towards the sky.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
The clouds crawled quickly past my head,<br />
leaving me dizzily thinking I felt the earth moving,<br />
and my stomach lurched as if I were<br />
about to be spun off.<br />
<br />
And I held on tight to the chair,<br />
as the clouds pulled back the curtains for the sun,<br />
and I saw, for one brief moment,<br />
a small piece of rainbow. <br />
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_Fm0HU1I56Mc/SoDe5Xm5wnI/AAAAAAAAA7c/iuN2fSrh1hg/s1600-h/signature2.png" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5368535832996725362" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/_Fm0HU1I56Mc/SoDe5Xm5wnI/AAAAAAAAA7c/iuN2fSrh1hg/s320/signature2.png" style="float: left; height: 36px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 121px;" /></a><br />
<br />
<br />
(Social distancing Day 5 of the Covid-19 Outbreak)<br />
Tamarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18043592847837359464noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6751182489417068121.post-78444975157431000602019-04-14T15:29:00.000-04:002019-04-14T18:35:21.811-04:00Complaints are Not Conversations<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-XMvziAs1aNk/XLN9NajJo1I/AAAAAAAAmXI/Lq376bsuIaktwTBiObfCvEN1r7O9KUZxQCLcBGAs/s1600/i-just-like-complaints-complaints-are-my-favorite.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="279" data-original-width="300" height="186" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-XMvziAs1aNk/XLN9NajJo1I/AAAAAAAAmXI/Lq376bsuIaktwTBiObfCvEN1r7O9KUZxQCLcBGAs/s200/i-just-like-complaints-complaints-are-my-favorite.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Someone very important to me told me recently that a complaint is no way to start a conversation.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">And that's true, to a certain extent. Nobody wants to listen to a Debbie Downer all the time, especially if "Debbie" makes no efforts to change the things she's whining about.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I complain. A lot.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I complain about people, about the weather, about the stupid choices I make, about the obnoxiously loud people at the bar table next to me, about the general public's inability to use the correct version of a homophone...I even complain about having to park in the "wrong" place in a lot with no assigned spaces.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">And it's easy to do. It might be, now that I think about it, my biggest character flaw, and God knows there are plenty. I'm critical, and sometimes overly so. Very few things meet my standards or my expectations. I'm struggling right now to think of something that I reacted to with a, "Wow, that was more than I hoped it would be!" or "Damn, that was great!" With the exception of motherhood and my AMAZING kid, The Rest of Everything is pretty much one huge letdown. Yes, that's my next book title.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I know this about myself, all of you who read this and think, "Oh, so she KNOWS she's being a huge bitch?" I do. Trust me. Trace it on back to elementary school and my former kindergarten teacher who told me one day that I needed to smile more. Right. She meant well, and I guess at the time, that was her attempt to acknowledge that I didn't look happy. Well?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Perfectionism sucks. No, I'm not claiming to be perfect. I probably make more mistakes before I drink my coffee in the morning than most people make in a week. Most days, I'm a mess...a mess working really hard to hide that from everyone else. A mess with messes piled so high I don't know how to get out of them. A pile of discarded efforts, unfinished tasks, things that didn't live up to my expectations and so, got tossed away. I'm working really hard most days to keep those messes from pulling me under and to keep everything neatly in its own pile, its own disorder.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-e63Cgp1KAe8/XLOGVSJZs1I/AAAAAAAAmXU/nKdRwgLB3wIEfypD00G0yhdnxPO1miC-gCLcBGAs/s1600/perfectionism.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><img border="0" data-original-height="257" data-original-width="196" height="200" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-e63Cgp1KAe8/XLOGVSJZs1I/AAAAAAAAmXU/nKdRwgLB3wIEfypD00G0yhdnxPO1miC-gCLcBGAs/s200/perfectionism.jpeg" width="152" /></span></a><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Social media has sensed this weakness in me. It has stuck a screwdriver right into that wound in my psyche and given it a good ole twist. No matter which platform we're talking about, they all have their own little way of driving that, "You're fucking stuff up" idea home. Snapchat terrifies me. What if I accidentally send that stupid selfie to my story instead of the intended audience? I would be mortified, and my heart pounds hard every time I use it. Instagram? Well, it's the least damaging to my soul, I think. I get to take little pictures of artsy-fartsy things, my cats, and the healthy food I'm trying oh-so-hard to make myself eat, and I get to not really pay much attention to anything or anyone else. Twitter used to be my complaint central. I could bitch to the wind, drunk tweet stupidity and self-deprecation, and nobody would know. But real life found me, so I have to be careful there, too. On top of that, I've gathered a slew of like-minded individuals in my following/followers, and that's becoming a blessing and also a curse. Facebook, though...there's nothing for the self-esteem like a good Facebook post, right? When it's your own, that is. And when it's not...well, it's a nice reminder of all of the things you could be doing, should be doing, won't ever be doing...and if you did do them, they wouldn't be good enough.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I'm an all-or-nothing person. I paint every day for thirty days, then lose my paint brushes amongst the books I haven't read. I successfully give up all carbs for two straight weeks, accidentally eat a piece of chocolate, then decide to eat every carb in sight for the next three days. I gave up on writing, really...a while back. Why? Because it wasn't good enough. I started caring about how many views I had more than I should have, and that was never the intent of blogging. The original purpose of this blog was a journal of life for my son; at some point along the way, it changed from that into something more personal. Sometimes I've had things to write about, and sometimes I didn't. Some of the things I did want to write about, I didn't want people to read. So I quit, because I couldn't make this exactly what I thought it should be.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Complaints can be conversations. Or at the very least, conversation starters, if they help us find the things nagging at us and dragging us down. I missed my blog, and I missed the things it helps me figure out. My posts might start as complaints, but my hope is that they turn into conversations...even if I'm only talking to myself.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<br />
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_Fm0HU1I56Mc/SoDe5Xm5wnI/AAAAAAAAA7c/iuN2fSrh1hg/s1600-h/signature2.png"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5368535832996725362" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/_Fm0HU1I56Mc/SoDe5Xm5wnI/AAAAAAAAA7c/iuN2fSrh1hg/s320/signature2.png" style="cursor: hand; float: left; height: 36px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 121px;" /></a>Tamarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18043592847837359464noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6751182489417068121.post-79808251534222753172018-07-23T16:21:00.000-04:002018-07-23T16:21:38.520-04:00When a Dream Becomes a Poem<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;">In a dream, </span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;">I visited an old house</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;">Where students stayed like servants</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;">And the scary old lady of the manor controlled all</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;">Including the old man in the antique wheelchair hidden away upstairs</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;">Behind the house was an English garden with gravel paths and hedges</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;">But also full of hidden dangers </span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;">Unseen by all, I hid my personal documents in an empty drawer</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;">Of a huge dresser with shallow drawers</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;">A dresser so tall I couldn’t even see the top</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;">I hid a couple of old books, weathered and water-damaged,</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;">Bound with a tie that ran the length of the books.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;">I soon found out that I was to leave for Paris the next day,</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;">A one-time opportunity.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;">And I went to retrieve my papers and books, including my passport.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;">Not only did I need the passport to go to Paris, I needed it to leave the house, to escape.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;">And it wasn’t there. Not only were the documents gone, but the entire piece of furniture.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;">And every stranger I saw who asked what I was doing had no idea of the dresser I spoke of.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;">I knew I’d have to go upstairs eventually, but I ventured out into the garden</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;">Where I was afraid of the unseen creatures and traps</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;">...I never found the documents, and woke up when I started up the dark wooden stairs…</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;">In a different dream that was somehow connected, there were vines growing on the </span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;">Back of the house, stretching across...and there were green grapes growing on them,</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;">And I was plucking the ones I could reach and eating them.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;">Two tendrils stretched low, diagonally across the house wall, but the others had been</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;">Trimmed from the top corner, a job left unfinished...and</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;">I was informed by the same old lady that I would have to fire my brother because</span></div>
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_Fm0HU1I56Mc/SoDe5Xm5wnI/AAAAAAAAA7c/iuN2fSrh1hg/s1600-h/signature2.png"><span id="docs-internal-guid-4c469d05-c8c2-38a9-de24-90936a1a5245"><br /></span></a>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;">**I found this in my Google Docs just now. It was written on April 2, 2016. And I like it.</span></span></div>
Tamarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18043592847837359464noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6751182489417068121.post-42526496522163880512017-12-15T22:01:00.000-05:002017-12-15T22:01:01.463-05:00"What Right Have You To Be Merry?".<br />
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..Ebenezer Scrooge asks of his pitiable assistant, Bob Cratchit. What right indeed? It's that time of year when the expectation is there to be joyous and merry, when the pressure is on for Martha Stewart decorations and the gift that wows your loved one. There's baking...because cookies aren't a thing in January? And I don't know about you, but a present out of the blue in March might be even cooler than a bunch of stuff I'm expecting or anticipating in December. But it's also that time of year when a lot of things just suck for some people. Let's face it, the effects of the time change never really go away, not until the Spring Solstice rolls around. Old Ebenezer was probably just suffering from a bad case of Seasonal Affective Disorder with a healthy dose of social anxiety. <br />
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I can relate. This time of year is not a joy for me. It never has been, not really. I want it to be, though, and I'm not as "scroogey" as to want to boil every idiot who goes about with 'Merry Christmas' on his lips with his own pudding and bury him with a stake of holly through his heart. But it's close. Ebenezer was scarred by the shitty things that happened to him in Christmases past, and he closed his heart to all of it. It's easier that way, and I get it. I said recently that there's something about my brain that only lets me remember the bad stuff and not the good. It's not that the good memories aren't there, but they aren't the pushy ones that force their way to my amygdala and mess with my emotions.<br />
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Christmas carols make me cry. I have to listen to the instrumental versions most of the time, because they evoke strong memories of my grandpop standing on the front porch of this very house in a bathrobe listening to my youth group caroling in the front yard. That was his last Christmas, and he died the following February. There was a Christmas in the early 80's on which I wasn't allowed to go home to see my mother, and during which my brother and I sat awkwardly and opened presents with my mom in my dad's living room under his scrutinous and, let's face it, hateful looks. And the mere fact that people aren't with me when I want them to be is an ever-present thing to bear. We all have those things; I'm not special in any of that, or in any other way, really. Charles Dickens himself had a crappy childhood and adult life, truth be known, but managed to put a positive spin on the holidays. Some of us are able to "Bob Cratchit" the crap in our lives away and still easily put a merry spin on things for those we care about, while others of us tend to want to retreat and shut everything out. <br />
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I'm stuck somewhere in the middle. My instincts are to both bury my head in the covers and hibernate until it's all over, for myself, but also to try to make everything perfect and wonderful for those I love. It's the struggle of being a Libra, maybe, in that I'm always divided, always striving for balance, but inevitably ending up falling over in my efforts. So, I put on my jingle bell earrings and my Ms. Santa sweater and try to be festive. I make traditional Italian pizzelles and try to put up Christmas trees when I know the cats are just going to destroy them and the ornaments we place carefully. I try to buy perfect presents on a limited budget for the people I love, and my expectations for a joyful, stress-free holiday for myself somehow manage to rise, even though I try like hell to hold them down.<br />
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I'm struggling this year more than others. It's not a secret to the people who are close to me, and there's no shame in admitting it. Things this Christmas will be very different for me, and for my family, and it's not necessarily a bad thing, but it is stressful because the unknown always is. Christmas should be about the kids, and they should be able to enjoy it without all the stressors that we have. But we adults should cut ourselves some slack, also. If the Christmas party food is a bag of Food Lion pretzels with some Cheez Whiz, then so be it. Enjoy those. If the lights hang crookedly, or you never even get them hung at all, what's the real loss? <br />
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So, this is me. Lowering my expectations for a Christmas in a clean, decorated house in a Victorian postcard. Lowering my expectations to get all my shopping done online as I swore I would. Lowering my expectations to provide an exceptional holiday for everyone while pushing myself into a nervous breakdown. Christmas will happen. In fact, it will be over really fast, maybe faster than some of us want it to be. And none of the cookies, the wrapping paper, or even the gifts, really, will matter much past that day. With any luck, though, I'll get to spend time with the people who are most important to me, and to whom my presence is a gift that's appreciated. And that's all I want for Christmas. <br /><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_Fm0HU1I56Mc/SoDe5Xm5wnI/AAAAAAAAA7c/iuN2fSrh1hg/s1600-h/signature2.png"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5368535832996725362" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/_Fm0HU1I56Mc/SoDe5Xm5wnI/AAAAAAAAA7c/iuN2fSrh1hg/s320/signature2.png" style="float: left; height: 36px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 121px;" /></a>Tamarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18043592847837359464noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6751182489417068121.post-91500335601400912622017-05-01T23:29:00.000-04:002017-05-03T14:38:04.509-04:00Goodbye, VeronaI have a person very close to me who tells amazing stories about his childhood. He has an uncanny knack for details about dates, times, and people that never ceases to amaze me, especially considering he has close to a couple of decades on me. It often makes me wonder about events from my childhood and why I don't have the recall needed to tell a good story. After all, I'm the "writer," not him. But he's the talker, the storyteller, and I'm just the muller-over...or would that be the over-mullerer? But I took a trip down Memory Lane when I visited my elementary alma mater over the weekend, and the stories came rushing back to me, albeit in bits and pieces.<br />
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My elementary school, <a href="http://www.whsv.com/content/news/Verona-Elementary-School-invites-former-students-to-Community-Open-House-420824753.html" target="_blank">Verona Elementary, is closing at the end of this school year</a>. (I'm at the :25 mark in that video, chatting with my kindergarten teacher.) I'm taking it a little hard, maybe a little harder than most people. Let's face it, I take most things harder than most people, but I'm pretty sure that this one is with good reason. No only did I attend school there, but my mother taught there for forty years. Yes, forty. Holy hell, that's a long time! So it's no wonder that Verona has been such a big part of my life. <br />
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My mom and I toured the soon-to-close building on Saturday, along with a small crowd attending the open house commemorating the closing. I got a bumper sticker and a card-stock print of the school, which is pretty nice, but nothing compared to being able to walk the sidewalks and visit the classrooms one more time. Mom made a production (or so I felt) out of introducing me to people I didn't know, and proudly telling them I was a teacher at "the middle school," and talking about how much time I spent in her classrooms through the years. And I got choked up. You see, not only do I have the typical elementary school memories that all kids have, but I have another whole set of memories connected to that school just from being a teacher's kid, and those are just as powerful. Maybe more so.<br />
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I met my best friend Angie in kindergarten. I don't remember how we met, just that we did, and that our kindergarten teacher bit her to show her how it felt after she bit another student. I swallowed a dime in kindergarten, too. It hurt like hell. I got mad because I already knew how to read and we were learning the alphabet. <br />
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In first grade, I got glasses. I also got sent to second grade for reading class because I was so far above grade level. Unfortunately, I was also a chickenshit, so I think it lasted about five minutes. Can you blame me? I was barely six, and thrust into a classroom full of kids who were probably seven and eight, and they seemed so old! I think my parents split up around this time, too.<br />
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In second grade, I fell in love with Joey Chewning, who I'm pretty sure had failed a grade, or at least I thought he had, which made him even more appealing. He had buck teeth and skinny legs, and I thought he was a bad boy, which is probably why I loved him. His best friend tried to hold me still so Joey could kiss me on the hopscotch court one day at recess. I kicked the friend in the shin and ran away, and that was the end of that. Joey moved to Virginia Beach later that year, and I never heard another word about him. We spent recess trying to uncover a "gold" utility cap we found against the second grade classrooms; we'd clean it off, get the gravel dust off of it, and use it for a base in our games of tag. (I looked for that thing the other day; unfortunately, they covered the playground with topsoil and planted grass, and I didn't have time for the vandalism required to dig the damn thing up.)<br />
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In third grade, I read Greek myths and had a boy for a best friend for about ten minutes, but I remember it. My favorite Greek heroine was Atalanta, which maybe explains my tomboy tendencies that year. Jeff McWhorter threw a snowball at me on the playground (we actually went to school when there was snow on the ground in those days) and broke my glasses. He apologized, but I held a grudge and never forgave him. We wrote love notes and asked the boys we liked to write back. <br />
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I don't think I liked fourth grade. I remember 4-H and being made to write "I will not talk in class" one hundred times for homework. I remember telling my dad that on the phone, him calling the teacher at home, and me getting out of it. That's embarrassing. I probably deserved it. <br />
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Fifth grade was a turning point in lots of ways. My BFF and I weren't in the same class, and we both made new friends. I was jealous of hers, and mine didn't speak any English. I spent fifth grade on a mission to teach Sandy English and trying to learn Chinese. We made each other word books, and I went to visit her family in the motel they owned. I stopped going to "Bible" as we called it, (Weekday Religious Education, for those of you not fortunate enough to have that bit of weirdness in your lives) that year, too, with some newfound conviction that religion didn't have a place in the school day. I caught some hell over that from a lot of people, but I stuck to my guns. I gave handwriting lessons, and I learned that racism was a thing. Our school play was <i>The Jungle Book</i>, in which I was cast as an elephant, which traumatized me a smidge. No cute costume for me, nope. I had to wear baggy grey sweatpants, a baggy grey t-shirt, and a paper grocery bag elephant mask with an accordion trunk over my head. I remember how that grey spray paint smelled--a little like shame. I got in a fight with a girl named Michelle during a practice, and we both got in school suspension and kicked out of the dress rehearsal. It was a strange experience to walk into the cafeteria on Saturday, where choir students were performing, to immediately recognize <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9JDzlhW3XTM" target="_blank">a song from <i>The Jungle Book</i></a>, which I performed on that very stage.<br />
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I watched General Hospital and Rick Springfield in the afternoons in my mom's classroom(s) while I helped her do teachery-stuff. I put nametags on desks and graded papers. I used the opaque projector to draw large characters for the bulletin boards, then I colored them with Mr. Sketch smelly markers before they got laminated. I changed the monthly calendar and cut out leaves and turkeys to hang up for the dates. I put a staple through my finger trying to reload a stapler. I bought Tab from the teachers' lounge machine...one of those 1970's machines that sold glass bottles that we slid from one side of the machine down metal slots in the drink chest. Truth be known, I learned how to be a teacher during those years, both from my mom and the whole slew of awesome teachers I had through the years, more so than I did in any college course I ever took. <br />
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Years later, I took my own son to visit his "Grammy" in his preschool years. I'd pick him up at the sitter or at preschool, and we'd stop by for a visit. He'd explore her classroom and she'd show him off to her teacher friends before we made the requisite stop to the modern playground equipment that was added long after they took out our beloved merry-go-round. He'd play, and slide down the "firepole," and my focus was on him, not on the school or the possibility that it might not one day be there just as it always had been during my life. <br />
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I understand the need to close the school, in a fiscal sense. But I'm fighting an urge to try to buy every piece of memorabilia possible from that building. The tiny pastel chairs in the kindergarten and first grade buildings (which must have been great chairs, because they've lasted all this time). The avocado-green bookcases and rolling coat closets that were in every room. The low-slung counters in the primary grades. Even the bathroom stall doors that we used to lock and climb over so the next person couldn't get to the toilet. The large piece of eternal pipe that we used to play on and hide in from the boys who were chasing us. I can't do that, of course, but I can take the memories with me and smile a little at the fact that my mom remembers things the way I do. <br />
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Goodbye, Verona, and thank you. <br />
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_Fm0HU1I56Mc/SoDe5Xm5wnI/AAAAAAAAA7c/iuN2fSrh1hg/s1600-h/signature2.png"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5368535832996725362" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/_Fm0HU1I56Mc/SoDe5Xm5wnI/AAAAAAAAA7c/iuN2fSrh1hg/s320/signature2.png" style="cursor: hand; float: left; height: 36px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 121px;" /></a>Tamarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18043592847837359464noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6751182489417068121.post-84223945549225146582016-11-26T02:11:00.000-05:002016-11-26T02:12:10.896-05:00When Turkeys Try to FlyLast weekend, on a road in rural Maryland, I spotted some strange-looking birds in a small flock beside the road. Too large to be crows or blackbirds, not quite ugly enough to be vultures, I decided they were some type of strange-looking turkey. The fact that a couple of them flew a small distance into the air further complicated the discussion in the vehicle because, after all...turkeys can't fly. Or can they? I insisted they could...but only when they have to...for example, when it prevents their death or dismemberment by minivans hurtling down the road. <br />
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Fast forward a few days to Thanksgiving, and the myriad of races and running events unfortunately titled as a "turkey trot." (There's something in my middle school brain that wants to snicker at the thought of turkey causing the trots, but this post is not about potty humor.) I had signed up for one of these trendy 5Ks on a whim. (I get these ideas sometimes lately in which I either think I'm better equipped for something than I really am, or in which I decide that I don't give a rat's ass what people think about me, both of which are anomalies in my brain. The trouble happens when both of those moods hit at once, as they did when I saw that a friend had signed up to do this race. It's a cliche, but it sounded like a good idea at the time.)<br />
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Anyway, I was signed up for this race, which was to benefit a great cause, T<a href="http://www.valleychildrenscenter.org/" target="_blank">he Valley Children's Advocacy Center</a>. I thought, somewhat stupidly, that 3.2 miles sounds a lot better than 5K, even though they're equivalent. And I thought, "Ehhhh, two miles is easy...three shouldn't be that much worse." But as race day approached, my Negative Nancy inner self kicked in. The idea of the event itself loomed over me. For someone with a raging case of social anxiety, showing up alone at any event is a daunting task, much less to an event such as this one, in which I'd be very out of my element. Combine that with a real fear of being the very last person to finish as everyone else gawked at the fat girl finishing awkwardly...well, I chickened out, apologies to all of the maligned fowl. My internal struggle was real. Half of me knew that I'd never forgive myself for not going, and half of me just wanted to avoid it at any cost. As is par for the course, Ms. Self-Doubt won easily. After all, they had my money, what did it matter?<br />
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When the alarm went off, I turned it off. I was just going to go back to sleep and pretend I wasn't supposed to be somewhere. But then my phone beeped with a "good luck" text message from someone whose opinion I value highly...who also happens to be a coach. And I begrudgingly told him I wasn't going to go. He didn't accept that answer, and guilted me in his own special way into getting out of bed and getting dressed, which I did. I put my big girl panties and my sports bra on, sucked up my growing fear and social anxiety, and went to the event. At that point, I thought I had the hard part behind me.<br />
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What followed was the absolute hardest physical thing I've ever done in my life, and by the time I reached the 1.5 mile mark of the brutally hilly course, I was ready to quit. Instead of urging myself on and telling myself I could do it, my survival instincts kicked in and I started threatening to cut across the middle or hitch a ride with the event staff in their golf carts. I was miserable, physically, and growing more and more anxious by the step, as more and more people passed me and left me in their dust. Even the moms pushing strollers and the guy on crutches easily left me behind. Each time I heard cheers from the finish line, I wanted to run...or crawl... in the other direction. The Fat Girl Finishes Last Phobia was in full swing by this point, which made my labored breathing and racing heartbeat all the more difficult to deal with. And the farther behind I got, the more I wanted to quit. Fortunately, I had another "coach," who wouldn't let me quit. He walked with me the whole time, when he easily could have run all or part of it. He stopped halfway up the most vicious of hills to give me pep talks when I wanted to quit, and he shook his ass cutely at the top of the hills to encourage me to get there in spite of my pain and quivering legs. Without him, I'd probably still be sitting somewhere along the 10th or 11th hole.<br />
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<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-FTMuxuIJCO8/WDk0qZXApjI/AAAAAAAAEmk/G_2du4Y0kYo2Ne_eGYXqh4QnFqf5ZFPoACEw/s1600/IMG_3708.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-FTMuxuIJCO8/WDk0qZXApjI/AAAAAAAAEmk/G_2du4Y0kYo2Ne_eGYXqh4QnFqf5ZFPoACEw/s200/IMG_3708.jpg" width="150" /></a></div>
<br />
I finished the "race." I finished--dead last, what I thought was my worst fear. 204th out of 204. One hour, 13 minutes, and 37 seconds, according to official chip time. That's a 23 minute mile, not that anyone is counting. The guy on crutches finished eons ahead of me, as did all of the Stroller Moms. Behind me, I had my own little embarrassing motorcade of golf carts bringing up the rear...no chance of me sneaking stealthily across the line and to my car unnoticed. But. I. Finished. I finished in spite of my shit hip, and in spite of the fact that in order to make it an even playing field, some of the participants would have to carry each other on their backs. I finished in spite of the fact that it was an emotional struggle to even get there, and in spite of the fact that I was literally in tears behind my sunglasses through a lot of it. I finished. And I made people proud of me in the process...all of my coaches, my tiny little cheering section.<br />
<br />
What does this have to do with turkeys?<br />
<br />
<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-3zvbvWsA4ZA/WDk0qgXZ83I/AAAAAAAAEmo/HbPPLPY6IGAzwxVrMGrJqTNwDWArbO0tgCEw/s1600/IMG_3800.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-3zvbvWsA4ZA/WDk0qgXZ83I/AAAAAAAAEmo/HbPPLPY6IGAzwxVrMGrJqTNwDWArbO0tgCEw/s200/IMG_3800.jpg" width="200" /></a>Well, turkeys don't fly because they think they can't. They're clumsy, and top-heavy, and nobody has ever told them that they can. They only get short bursts of energy that they can utilize. In fact, only the wild ones can and will fly, and the others have been bred not to. Turkeys fly when they need to, not for fun, and they're awkward and silly looking when they do it. They'll never catch a falcon or an eagle, and they'll never impress anyone when they fly. But they'll do it, sometimes, and they might even get better at it if they keep trying. Until then, they'll trot. <br />
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_Fm0HU1I56Mc/SoDe5Xm5wnI/AAAAAAAAA7c/iuN2fSrh1hg/s1600-h/signature2.png" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5368535832996725362" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/_Fm0HU1I56Mc/SoDe5Xm5wnI/AAAAAAAAA7c/iuN2fSrh1hg/s320/signature2.png" style="float: left; height: 36px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 121px;" /></a>Tamarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18043592847837359464noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6751182489417068121.post-79765742769946728832016-09-05T12:01:00.001-04:002016-09-05T12:04:59.599-04:00"I'm Just a Girl in the World"<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-XwKh29Dtqj4/V82XnXQd1zI/AAAAAAAAElk/BHlwDHGTwJw8o9NvNcgMM-SFaOMJ31zfACLcB/s1600/fantasy%2Bfootball.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="233" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-XwKh29Dtqj4/V82XnXQd1zI/AAAAAAAAElk/BHlwDHGTwJw8o9NvNcgMM-SFaOMJ31zfACLcB/s320/fantasy%2Bfootball.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
I just joined a fantasy football league. And by joined, I mean stomped my feet and bitched and moaned until I was begrudgingly allowed to take over an abandoned team. It only took me about two weeks of whining about it, and all along, I was thinking, "You'll just be kicking my ass every week, isn't that a GOOD thing?" I mean, I just really improved the odds of winning for every other person in the league! How can that be bad? <br />
<br />
I don't know much about football. Go ahead, say it. It's because I'm a girl. Pfffffft. I know that I have a team I've rooted for since 1986 that I loyally hold onto, even though they suck. I know that I like to look at football pants. I know enough about the rules to get by, and I know team colors and mascots... Hell, I even like watching it! But what I don't know is the necessary information for competitive play in a fantasy league. Is that because I'm a girl? Maybe. Boys seem to have this innate ability to remember stats and positions and who's injured and who got traded...and I just don't. I could tell you what I remember, but then I'd get sidetracked talking about Odell Beckham's tattoos, and that's just... not productive right now. But I'm not sure if it's due to the male/female brain thing, or if it's about the learned skills that society has drilled into our brains.<br />
<br />
So, why, then, did I want to play? Simple. Because I wasn't asked. The guy running the thing invited every dude he ran into to play, and treated me like chopped liver. He said it was because I didn't know anything about football....although he never bothered to ask, and we'd never discussed it. But he didn't ask those guys either...he just assumed they did. Not because of football knowledge...but because of different...equipment. Grrrrrrrrrr. <br />
<br />
I don't know why I got my panties in a wad over gender inequality for such a trivial topic. I mean, who really CARES about points in an imaginary league with no real bragging rights for a win? But it seemed like the more I was denied the opportunity, the more I wanted it. And the more I was denied that opportunity, the more I wanted to argue about other instances of gender inequality that got me fired up...all of them stupid, and trivial, but somehow really meaningful at the same time. Like being in a room full of guys and the host asking only the MEN if they'd like a shot of bourbon. I frigging LOVE bourbon, and I'm RIGHT HERE! Somehow my skirt, or my boobs, disqualified me. <br />
<br />
I was fired up over dress codes last week, too. Reading articles such as <a href="http://www.upworthy.com/tired-of-being-humiliated-these-girls-fought-the-school-dress-code-and-won" target="_blank">this one</a> and <a href="http://qz.com/762868/giving-up-alcohol-opened-my-eyes-to-the-infuriating-truth-about-why-women-drink/" target="_blank">this one</a> and seeing comments from friends who have daughters really made me thankful to have a boy (the responsibility just changes a bit). I remember being fussed at, shamed, for not wearing a bra in my own house frequently in my adolescent years, and how bad that felt, like it was my fault I had boobs. Like I was supposed to remember to stop to put a bra on under my pajamas before I went to eat my Fruity Pebbles and watch The Smurfs. Hell no. Flagrant issues...by all means, I'll address those. But otherwise, kids are doing the work I assigned and not bothering me or each other, so I don't care. If the boys are distracted, give them more to do and whack them over the metaphorical head with a good case of "act like you have some sense." It might seem like it's about spaghetti straps, but it's not. <br />
<br />
It's human to look and appreciate. That's not lost on me, as a mere girl. After all, Odell and his ink, and those football pants...well, golly. I do a lot of looking and appreciating, but it stops there. Anyone who says "boys can't help it" is risking a fight with me, though, because boys CAN help it. They can help making girls feel bad because her boobs are bigger than the other girls'. They can help not choosing girls to play on their teams...or in their leagues...because they "don't know shit about football. " They can help assuming that girls don't drink bourbon, and that girls are there to sit and be pretty, but not be distracting, mind you! There's that double effing standard that means that we can NEVER win, no matter what we do. They CAN help it, and they need to be taught to, and so help me, if anyone ever says about MY son, "He can't help it, he's a boy," I'll teach everyone in the room how to help it. <br />
<br />
I actually started this post with the idea of writing about how I prefer the company of men to women. About how it's easier for me to be comfortable when I only have to worry about witty banter and not the conversation at a "hen party." About how I'd rather be clueless and at a fantasy draft than on level ground and at a Lularoe party...or Pampered Chef...or any of those other approved "girl" things. About how that comes from being raised with a pack of wolves...I mean, boys...as an only girl, and from watching the men in my family retreat to the dining room to discuss important family issues while the women did the dishes. Clearly, they couldn't be trusted with input, but Saran Wrap? Yeah, we can let them handle that. It's all of the above, and more. And I'm just a girl in the world, giving props to Gwen Stefani for today's <a href="http://qz.com/762868/giving-up-alcohol-opened-my-eyes-to-the-infuriating-truth-about-why-women-drink/" target="_blank">soundtrack</a>. (Just press play and turn up your volume, girls.)<br />
<br />
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_Fm0HU1I56Mc/SoDe5Xm5wnI/AAAAAAAAA7c/iuN2fSrh1hg/s1600-h/signature2.png"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5368535832996725362" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/_Fm0HU1I56Mc/SoDe5Xm5wnI/AAAAAAAAA7c/iuN2fSrh1hg/s320/signature2.png" style="cursor: hand; float: left; height: 36px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 121px;" /></a>Tamarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18043592847837359464noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6751182489417068121.post-44564022280429607762016-08-27T12:50:00.002-04:002016-08-27T12:54:49.984-04:00Dear Rick Springfield...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Y3Kt-SC_gS4/V8G--wCB8gI/AAAAAAAAElE/h6KHusZhDDoJ-F1NlOKxHcSzjHLAQVEHgCLcB/s1600/IMG_3526.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="133" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Y3Kt-SC_gS4/V8G--wCB8gI/AAAAAAAAElE/h6KHusZhDDoJ-F1NlOKxHcSzjHLAQVEHgCLcB/s200/IMG_3526.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
Dear Rick,<br />
I'm a terrible girlfriend. I have put my own needs ahead of yours for the last time. You see, you have been there for me on oh-so-many occasions. You've never let me down. You've been on time for our dates throughout the years, and the words you've said to me have meant so, so much. You've given me hugs when I needed them, and shared your soul. But I suck. At the first sign of inconvenience, I bailed on you. Stood you up. Left you hanging. <br />
<br />
I blame it on old age. Years ago, pre-kid, the eight-hour drive to Myrtle Beach on a Friday night for a Saturday night show didn't even cause me to blink twice. And that one paid off, in spades. You wrapped your arm around me like an old friend while I tried not to pass out. And it was a great night. <br />
But I'm sure you understand. You'd understand that the last couple of weeks have been very trying for me. You'd understand the need to recharge and just exist for a little while. You'd probably even understand that it was a really tough choice for me, one that I'm second-guessing even now, knowing there's no way I could jump in the car right now and drive really fast and still make it to the show tonight. I don't know if you'd understand the tears I stupidly shed (or that I'm shedding now) when I made that final decision, but then again, that wasn't really about you. It wasn't even about the waste of the money I spent on Gold Circle seats months ago, when it seemed like Myrtle Beach was the closest you'd come to me. That was about being stuck, straddling a decision like an ever-widening gap, then having to make a quick, final attempt to get both legs on solid ground. And maybe, just maybe, about knowing you'd been closer and I missed those opportunities, too. <br />
<br />
But, Rick...you see...I don't think I can explain it. My priorities are just different right now. It's not that I'm forsaking you for another. That would never happen. It's just that I need to focus on myself a little, not in a narcissistic kind of way, but in a hold-myself-together kind of way. Too many changes in too short a time requiring too much of my physical and emotional energy have just left nothing else. And I couldn't do it.<br />
<br />
So, have a great show tonight. You'll be on my mind. I'll be wishing I were center stage for "Human Touch." I'll be jealous of other women getting Rick-sweated upon. I'll be wondering if we'd have had a chance to talk before the show, and if Andrew would have gotten to talk to you again and tell you how much he loves "If Wishes Were Fishes" because you drop a couple of F-bombs. But I'll also be braless in my jammies by about ten o'clock, and my feet will be recovering from wearing dressy shoes to school all week. I'll be snuggled up with the blankets pulled up to my chin and a glass of the red wine we love so much on my nightstand...and if I want, I can YouTube you from the comfort of my air-conditioned room without worrying about drunks pissing me off, or traffic, or anything else. <br />
<br />
And I know you'd understand.<br />
Love, Me<br />
<br />
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_Fm0HU1I56Mc/SoDe5Xm5wnI/AAAAAAAAA7c/iuN2fSrh1hg/s1600-h/signature2.png"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5368535832996725362" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/_Fm0HU1I56Mc/SoDe5Xm5wnI/AAAAAAAAA7c/iuN2fSrh1hg/s320/signature2.png" style="cursor: hand; float: left; height: 36px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 121px;" /></a>Tamarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18043592847837359464noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6751182489417068121.post-66303098386370475292016-07-29T23:54:00.000-04:002016-07-29T23:54:02.272-04:00And the Nomination Goes to...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-nNG8L_D1NNk/V5tjE8cOCjI/AAAAAAAAEkU/EM4-4a-fj7E-ckz4eAkdJGPqA9y8SurIgCEw/s1600/07282016-HillaryAndFlags-780x539.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="221" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-nNG8L_D1NNk/V5tjE8cOCjI/AAAAAAAAEkU/EM4-4a-fj7E-ckz4eAkdJGPqA9y8SurIgCEw/s320/07282016-HillaryAndFlags-780x539.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
This little nugget started out as a Facebook post, but when I went past three paragraphs, I decided that this was a better venue for my ramblings, and also less likely to get my blood pressure elevated as I was forced to deal with comments from the masses. We all know I can't ignore things very well, so I'm much better off this way. The root of it is that I'm not trying to get into a political argument with anyone today, but I AM marking the moment in time for my son, in the hopes that he doesn't have to rely solely on his fading memories in later years, as I do. <br />
<br />
<br />
You see, he watched the DNC with me all week (the RNC last week, too, because we believe in being well-informed and listening to all sides, and checking facts, even when we don't agree with the opinion), and he stayed up with me last night as well.<br />
<br />
He humored me while I told him that someday he will be able to tell his kids that he remembers seeing our first black President speak on the soccer field at JMU after freezing to death for hours and then being disappointed when we didn't get into the official speech in the Convo. <br />
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<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-WYbFIbzYVAI/V5tjcUMZ6II/AAAAAAAAEkY/GZx03WFOD2sHnt7XkImEeNmWWG4pkqKUgCLcB/s1600/waiting%2Bfor%2Bbarack.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-WYbFIbzYVAI/V5tjcUMZ6II/AAAAAAAAEkY/GZx03WFOD2sHnt7XkImEeNmWWG4pkqKUgCLcB/s200/waiting%2Bfor%2Bbarack.jpg" width="200" /></a></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="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-7RCS0hW1sEI/V5wj0hGsNjI/AAAAAAAAEkw/MpufcI6V__Ey8mvnp8uBI5vDEkNX5dCIACLcB/s1600/barack%2Bat%2Bjmu.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="191" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-7RCS0hW1sEI/V5wj0hGsNjI/AAAAAAAAEkw/MpufcI6V__Ey8mvnp8uBI5vDEkNX5dCIACLcB/s200/barack%2Bat%2Bjmu.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Barack Obama at JMU October 28, 2008</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
He also humored me while I told him to look around and remember what was happening while Hillary made her acceptance speech as the first female presidential nominee--his father asleep and snoring in the chair, the "porch kitties" chasing moths attracted to the light shining through the window behind the couch, and his sentimental old mom, who was moved to tears and applause, first by <a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2016/07/29/us/elections/khizr-humayun-khan-speech.html?_r=0" target="_blank">Mr. Khizr Khan</a>, then by Hillary's speech. Don't jump to conclusions, this isn't about Hillary, per se, but because it's been too long in the making. The fact that I even have to celebrate the nomination of a woman as groundbreaking in 2016 should be cause for dismay.<br />
<br />
Save your political comments of disgust or whatever...this isn't about whom I've voted for, or for whom I intend to vote. This is about moments in history, and I want to make sure he can say, "I remember when..."<br /><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5368535832996725362" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/_Fm0HU1I56Mc/SoDe5Xm5wnI/AAAAAAAAA7c/iuN2fSrh1hg/s320/signature2.png" style="float: left; height: 36px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 121px;" />Tamarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18043592847837359464noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6751182489417068121.post-7925202908610004292016-06-26T15:18:00.000-04:002016-06-26T15:37:47.840-04:00On Facing Fears, and Former Students...<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhT_IYfhEdJTEYxwsuC8vBIrz9c2qdGxnS7H8c4-kMd8UpMSM4UBhjd2M2yBHnVDv0cYc67_JDK5sut0K7NPYcnsP4w9fdlfHNA5X0Ug-xQYqFbNBUNoEQ_3Ha-0ugCGb2eEQlKlo4rL6nv/s1600/unalome.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhT_IYfhEdJTEYxwsuC8vBIrz9c2qdGxnS7H8c4-kMd8UpMSM4UBhjd2M2yBHnVDv0cYc67_JDK5sut0K7NPYcnsP4w9fdlfHNA5X0Ug-xQYqFbNBUNoEQ_3Ha-0ugCGb2eEQlKlo4rL6nv/s320/unalome.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Unalome tattoos. If it matters, mine is most like the far left image. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
We just returned from a week-long family vacation to the Outer Banks of North Carolina. <a href="http://watchinggrass.blogspot.com/2009/06/bon-voyage.html">It's important to note that this is the first time we have attempted this as a family since the summer of 2009.</a> The significance of this is that that last summer trip really was a last summer trip for one of us. That's not the focus of this post, but it does contribute. <br />
<br />
I have this...problem. Significant dates in my life, usually traumas of some sort, get tagged in my brain and remembered. I have trouble remembering when the good things happen, but things that rip my guts out pop up in their little anniversary outfits and kick me in the teeth on a pretty consistent basis. Sometimes the teeth-kicking is based on a calendar date, but other times, it's just the "oh, the last time I was here" thoughts that get me. So, this was one of those things. The last time we did this, Edna was still with us. The last time we did this, things were very different. The last time we did this, I was a different person than I am now. But again, not the focus of the post, just the backstory.<br />
<br />
Anyway, it was the same week seven years ago that we did this last. To oversimplify, it's also a time of transition for me professionally and personally, and I also had some other "anniversaries" in my head rolling around, when I happened to come across an image of a tattoo that really called my name. I've wanted a tattoo for a couple of years. In fact, it was supposed to be my birthday present in 2014, but I just never got around to it. No, that's not entirely true--I had plenty of time to get one, but I didn't know HOW. The same fear, if you will, stops me from going to get a pedicure without backup from my girls. I don't know how things are done, so I just don't do them. Easy solution, but also the wussy way out. So this tattoo yelled my name, and my ever-courageous (and sometimes slightly scary) baby sister made the appointment. <br />
<br />
I could have chosen an ankle or a thigh or a shoulder for my first ink...but I rarely do things the easy way, and I chose my sternum instead. Worrying about the pain a little, I had ONE cocktail before we left, and chose undergarments and a shirt that I thought would provide easy and modest access to the area. I had the distraction of a ceiling fan accident (another story) to distract me just before departure, and I was feeling pretty good, pretty decisive about the whole thing. A rarity for me, so it had to be acted upon. Not even learning that I'd have to disrobe before the procedure really slowed me down much--it increased the anxiety level, of course, but after all--these people are professionals!<br />
<br />
Turns out, one is required to show ID before a tattoo, even if you're clearly over the age of consent, and when the artist read out my small town name as if he recognized it, warning signs went off in my head. Nobody knows where this town is unless you've lived here, and if that's true, you've usually tried to forget. But he knew it, and then elaborated by saying he grew up around here and...Went. To. My. School. You know, the one where I teach? Oh, and, "You were my 7th grade English teacher!" And here are those band-aids to satisfy your modesty. Band-aids. The little teeny ones. Which makes them the only little teeny things on my body, if you catch my drift. I avoid the grocery store at home in order to avoid students and former students, and you're telling me I'm five hours away from home and about to set the girls free...and, eeeek! <br />
<br />
If I've ever felt like dashing out of a place of business, that was it. But I sucked it up. I was on a mission, the tattoo was calling my name, and I knew if I didn't do it then, I'd never get that one OR any other one. It had to happen. So I sucked it up. I held on to my shirt until the very last possible minute, covered up to the best of my half-naked ability, and counted holes in the ceiling tiles as I anticipated the pain that I hoped would distract me from my psychological discomfort. And it. Was a piece. Of cake. The pain was minimal, the artist was ultra-professional, even when I threatened to time travel and put him in silent lunch, and I love the tattoo itself. (Shout-out to AJ at <a href="http://www.wickedparrottattoo.com/">Wicked Parrot Tattoos in Kill Devil Hills,</a> should you be looking for a vacation tattoo.)<br />
<br />
Symbolically, it represents the path to enlightenment. The curves and spirals are the difficulties of life, the challenges, the times we don't know where our paths are headed. The top, the straight part, is where we figure our proverbial shit out, become "enlightened," if you will. The dots at the top allegedly represent death, the end of the journey. As I write that, I realize that it's like punctuation, and you know I LOVE that connection to the grammar queen in me. I have dots at the bottom, too, which to me, mean that everything comes full circle. Emotionally, it is even more significant. It marks a time when I faced not one fear, but SEVERAL, and came out on the other end better for it. It also marks this time of transition, a connection that I will always make when I look at it. And it replaces some memories, or signifies them, in a way that I could never have done on my own. Those are all my "squiggles," and my getting through them and coming out better and stronger on the other end is my straight line, my goal in life...and it's closer all the time. <br />
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_Fm0HU1I56Mc/SoDe5Xm5wnI/AAAAAAAAA7c/iuN2fSrh1hg/s1600-h/signature2.png"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5368535832996725362" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/_Fm0HU1I56Mc/SoDe5Xm5wnI/AAAAAAAAA7c/iuN2fSrh1hg/s320/signature2.png" style="cursor: hand; float: left; height: 36px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 121px;" /></a>Tamarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18043592847837359464noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6751182489417068121.post-45261548543585876532016-05-20T11:12:00.003-04:002016-05-20T18:51:46.545-04:00On Trust Issues and Disbelief<div class="p1">
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Blind faith is not my strong suit. The other day, a young lady who was helping me direct our most recent play came up to me and said, "Hold out your hand," and she held her hand above mine as if she were holding something inside. I panicked a little. In the span of a second or two, all sorts of things blasted through my brain---things like, "Maybe she's putting a spider in my hand!" or 'What if it's something gross?" I had nothing to fear or worry about from this young lady, so I don't know why I expected it to be a fiery hot thumbtack or some sort of weird creature that might bore a hole in my palm. But I did. I expected the worst. <br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span"></span>Knowing that that's an issue of mine, I went against my better judgment and held out my hand, cringing the whole time. Every bone in my body screamed at me to pull my hand back in the nick of time, but I didn't, because I KNOW that my instincts and emotional reflexes aren't always the best. Once I held out my hand, she laced her fingers in mine and held my hand and swung back and forth and made some silly comment and laughed. I should have relaxed at that point, but I didn't. I laughed it off and flung her hand off of mine and made some smartass comment about being convinced she was putting boogers in my hand. </div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span"></span>I don't trust easily, even when harmless or stupid things are happening. A trust fall, you know those team-building things that people do on retreats, just before they sing "Kumbaya" and make s'mores? Well, a trust fall for me would be an emotional disaster, even if I didn't end up in a pile on the floor. There is no way that I would ever blindly fall backwards and expect someone else to catch me. Instead, I would expect the opposite, that they would drop me, let me down. <br />
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It's become a viral thing lately for people to stand on busy streets or in marketplaces blindfolded with "Hug Me" signs hung around their neck. I saw a few of those myself the last time I ventured onto the Charlottesville Mall. I was fascinated and enthralled. I could have sat and watched approaching huggers and their reactions all day, but it was really the "huggee" that intrigued me more. I was too squeamish to walk over and give hugs. I don't readily touch people, not even people I know well---there was no way I was going to hug a random stranger on the street. (Besides, in typical non-trusting manner, what if it's a trick? A candid camera experiment? The horror!) So there is no fathomable way I'd ever stand blindfolded anywhere, much less with an invitation for bodily contact hanging around my neck.</div>
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I don't think I'm naturally suspicious--I don't automatically assume that people have malicious intent. In fact, I think I do quite the opposite. I give the benefit of the doubt and look for the good in people perhaps more than I should (and sometimes it bites me in the ass). So how does that fit? It comes down to a lack of evidence. I need evidence to support my trust, to support my patience, to support my energy and effort. And if it's not there…if I'm working on blind trust…well, then my brain does its own thing, my psyche jumps in just for shits and giggles, and all proverbial hell breaks loose.</div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span"></span>I don't often quote 80s hair bands as being words that speak from my heart. But Poison's "Give Me Something to Believe In" has been running through my brain the last few days. They're singing about faith in a bigger sense, not the day-to-day trust in other people. But for me, they're the same thing. I need something to believe in, and I need the evidence. And if that evidence isn't there, well, I'll keep looking until it is. </div>
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_Fm0HU1I56Mc/SoDe5Xm5wnI/AAAAAAAAA7c/iuN2fSrh1hg/s1600-h/signature2.png"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5368535832996725362" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/_Fm0HU1I56Mc/SoDe5Xm5wnI/AAAAAAAAA7c/iuN2fSrh1hg/s320/signature2.png" style="float: left; height: 36px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 121px;" /></a>Tamarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18043592847837359464noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6751182489417068121.post-35777464240044017482016-03-29T10:02:00.001-04:002016-04-07T07:33:59.932-04:00Words and Actions<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-oYWZOEBc-Nc/VvqKrPpyWiI/AAAAAAAAEhE/h1w-6aIDZw8p391jcaMi6B3_6yJYZaBFg/s1600/words%2Band%2Bactions.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-oYWZOEBc-Nc/VvqKrPpyWiI/AAAAAAAAEhE/h1w-6aIDZw8p391jcaMi6B3_6yJYZaBFg/s320/words%2Band%2Bactions.jpg" width="299" /></a></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "corsiva"; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">When the words and the actions don’t match</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">When nothing seems to fit</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">When I feel like the only solution</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Is to give up and to quit</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_Fm0HU1I56Mc/SoDe5Xm5wnI/AAAAAAAAA7c/iuN2fSrh1hg/s1600-h/signature2.png"><b id="docs-internal-guid-16add171-c2ab-dd05-44d2-96a0a6c61853" style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b></a>
</span><br />
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Trying to make it work and</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Trying to find a reason</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Because to keep fighting for this</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Love through every season</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_Fm0HU1I56Mc/SoDe5Xm5wnI/AAAAAAAAA7c/iuN2fSrh1hg/s1600-h/signature2.png"><b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b></a>
</span><br />
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Is taking every ounce of my</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Faith and loyalty</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">And all I want understood is that</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">My love doesn’t come for free</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_Fm0HU1I56Mc/SoDe5Xm5wnI/AAAAAAAAA7c/iuN2fSrh1hg/s1600-h/signature2.png"><b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b></a>
</span><br />
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">In your corner, on your team</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Through every bump in the road</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">But that comes with a serious price</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">And, eventually, you’ll reap what you sow</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_Fm0HU1I56Mc/SoDe5Xm5wnI/AAAAAAAAA7c/iuN2fSrh1hg/s1600-h/signature2.png"><b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b></a>
</span><br />
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Wound me, hurt me, I forgive</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">And my scars will slowly heal</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Ignore me, slight me, brush me off</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Eventually, nothing I will feel</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_Fm0HU1I56Mc/SoDe5Xm5wnI/AAAAAAAAA7c/iuN2fSrh1hg/s1600-h/signature2.png"><b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b></a>
</span><br />
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Words and actions need to match</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">It needs to be give and take</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Because when there’s nothing left to give</span></div>
<span style="color: black; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The camel’s back will finally break.</span>Tamarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18043592847837359464noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6751182489417068121.post-88890607476980877782016-02-22T23:29:00.003-05:002016-02-22T23:29:54.593-05:00The Science of Coloring<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-m7uWzGV4lAs/VsvVuhfGNAI/AAAAAAAAEgU/cvlRADJMkYs/s1600/crayons.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-m7uWzGV4lAs/VsvVuhfGNAI/AAAAAAAAEgU/cvlRADJMkYs/s200/crayons.jpg" width="200" /></a>I love the smell of crayons, and I like to fill in empty spaces, like writing in a new notebook or filling in a chart, or rolling a paint roller over a wall and watching the white spaces disappear. There's something very satisfying about making sure every spot is covered and complete. So, of course I like to color! <br />
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I colored a lot as a child. It was one of my favorite things to do. There were very few things that matched up to a new coloring book and sharp, new crayons--you know, the ones where the edge hasn't been worn off yet. I was careful with my crayons, tilting them and coloring on the side, then turning at strategic moments to make sure the tip stayed even. Eventually, I'd have to peel the label off little by little to continue to move up the crayon, but that was always sort of tragic for me, because the names of the colors were very important. There was a big distinction between burnt sienna and raw sienna, and between peach and apricot, but sometimes that difference disappeared with the shreds of the label, and I didn't like to be surprised by the color when those damn labels weren't there. <br />
Adult coloring has become mainstream and trendy lately. Suddenly closeted colorers, myself included, have options other than stealing their kids' super hero or <i>Cars</i> coloring books to satisfy the urge. And thank goodness, too, because the colors just weren't very fun--that Dark Knight IS, after all, DARK!<br />
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I have several coloring books that are all mine. A couple were Christmas gifts from my like-minded sister. But, just like <i>all </i>things in my life, I find it difficult to finish one before I move on to the next one. So when I found myself facing a huge rack of intricately-designed "adult" coloring books in a craft store the other night, I knew better than to try to resist. I'm not the only one, apparently. While I stood there, trying to decide if I was <i>really</i> going to spend ten bucks on yet another coloring book, a friendly older man approached and struck up a conversation about his favorites among the choices, and before I could remove myself from the awkwardness of seeing "AA Susan" in his phone contacts, he was thumbing through photos of pictures he'd colored and snapped pics of, very proud of his work, indeed. It occurred to me at the time to wonder why he'd photographed them at all when he has the colored page, but maybe it was just for bragging rights or to troll for chicks in Michaels' on a Friday night. <br />
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-s443VsDeKis/Vsvajn91_MI/AAAAAAAAEgk/PeyX82_8nso/s1600/IMG_1243.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-s443VsDeKis/Vsvajn91_MI/AAAAAAAAEgk/PeyX82_8nso/s200/IMG_1243.jpg" width="132" /></a>So, what's the appeal? Google "adult coloring" and you'll find a plethora of articles speculating about the health benefits (stress relief) and entertainment value of coloring for us grownups. (You'll also find a bunch of free printable pages, so why the hell am I spending money on these things?) <br />
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There's a sense of satisfaction in taking all of the white spaces, the blank spaces, and turning them into something. I even tend to add my own details when I don't quite like the way it looks (boy, is that ever a metaphor for life!).<br />
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It's fairly mindless. The extent of the mental exercise involved is just in the choosing of the colors (burnt sienna, or raw?). I like a lot of contrast (again, life), but that's pretty easy to do without actual t<i>hought</i>.<br />
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It's cheap, it's not too messy, it's easily transportable, and there's little to no embarrassment involved (okay, maybe now that I've outed my coloring habit) if people see what I created. After all, I just filled in the spaces, right? I didn't actually DRAW anything!<br />
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-alOwLvBWSvk/VsveHlViJPI/AAAAAAAAEgw/otmPQWr8TbM/s1600/IMG_1245.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-alOwLvBWSvk/VsveHlViJPI/AAAAAAAAEgw/otmPQWr8TbM/s200/IMG_1245.jpg" width="132" /></a>I get out what I put into it. I have crayons, colored pencils, and two...no, THREE, different kinds of markers of varying tip widths and scents. And oddly, the coloring utensil that I use is both directly affected by my mood and serves its own purpose. When I really need to tune out, to disengage, an intricate design with a fine-point marker does the trick. I have to concentrate to stay in the lines, and filling up those spaces requires a lot of back and forth in a small space, which is not as dirty as it sounds. When I'm just taking a small break from life, though, I'm more likely to choose a picture with larger designs; I can use a wider variety of tools and not focus as intently on the task. The markers fill the designs smoothly and without much resistance...my hand stays steady and I tend to color in one direction only, with ease...like little else in my life. <br />
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Crayons, on the other hand, are a different story. Aside from that SMELL (yes, I did just stick my face in the crayon bucket and inhale deeply), crayons can do so many things. They create that contrast on their own, if I want, depending on how much pressure I use, being careful not to snap those carefully-created sharp points. And there is something much more satisfying about the need to scribble back and forth, to create that friction to accomplish the task, that markers just can't accomplish. <br />
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I don't think I have a favorite way to color. That would involve choice. As usual, though, when I can't make a choice, I just keep all of them. My favorite way to finish a picture is by using markers, crayons, <i>and </i>colored pencils, to vary the colors and contrast, as well as the textures. Turns out, burnt sienna and raw sienna <i>feel</i> the same, but markers and crayons do <i>not</i>. <br />
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_Fm0HU1I56Mc/SoDe5Xm5wnI/AAAAAAAAA7c/iuN2fSrh1hg/s1600-h/signature2.png"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5368535832996725362" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/_Fm0HU1I56Mc/SoDe5Xm5wnI/AAAAAAAAA7c/iuN2fSrh1hg/s320/signature2.png" style="float: left; height: 36px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 121px;" /></a>Tamarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18043592847837359464noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6751182489417068121.post-88979111729612770132015-09-30T22:01:00.000-04:002015-09-30T22:01:36.710-04:00Ch-ch-ch-changes...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-jOrjqN3mWjs/Vgx9dD93hsI/AAAAAAAAEeQ/JJbIVkKuIgI/s1600/ajb_physical%252Cchemicalchange.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-jOrjqN3mWjs/Vgx9dD93hsI/AAAAAAAAEeQ/JJbIVkKuIgI/s1600/ajb_physical%252Cchemicalchange.JPG" /></a></div>
I failed high school chemistry. No two ways about it. I just plain failed it. Those stupid proofs and balancing equations of things I couldn't even really tell existed...well, it just wasn't happening. Heathcliff and Catherine had my rapt attention, but not the test tubes and lab tables, and I got used to seeing the letter "F" on my papers and acknowledging that I might not graduate because of those stupid covalent bonds. I still, to this day, don't know what the hell those are!<br />
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One thing that stuck, though, as I wrote notes and planned my underage drinking excursions for the weekend, was the spiel about changes. You know, some substances undergo changes that aren't able to be undone, and some just change into other things that you can switch easily back from. If I recall correctly (and I will, because I'll google that shit just to be sure), it's the physical changes that can sometimes be reversed and don't really change the makeup of the original substance. Paper is still paper if you chop it up, and wood is still wood once you hack down the tree. A broken fingernail will grow back, hair will regrow...and what they ARE never varies, no matter how different they might look on the surface.<br />
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The chemical changes, though--there's the rub. You can't just undo that beautiful mess that gets created. Just ask Peter Parker. Some changes, just like a radioactive spider bite, alter the core at the center of the substance, and that is not something that's easily undone. Photosynthesis, digestion, burning...they all result in some new thing, some important thing, but some <i>different</i> thing that isn't going back to the way it was, no matter what you do to it. <br />
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Peter Parker sometimes tries to go back to the ordinary guy he was. He tries to shed his costume and pretend that things are hunky dory and he's normal. But he's not, and he never will be again. He can't change back to what he was. Most of us don't have a spider to blame (not even that little guy that crawled into my shirt to his death last night), nor are the changes quite so drastic as slinging webs and climbing walls (at least not literally) but it doesn't change the fact that we change. <br />
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In the interest of winding this up before I turn into a pumpkin, change is inevitable. As Jay Asher wrote in the excellent young adult novel <i>Thirteen Reasons Why</i>, "You can't stop the future, you can't rewind the past. The only way to learn the secret...is to press play." And true change never changes back, it just is. So press <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gbO2_077ixs">PLAY</a>. <br />
<span id="quote_book_link_1217100" style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;"><i></i></span><br />
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_Fm0HU1I56Mc/SoDe5Xm5wnI/AAAAAAAAA7c/iuN2fSrh1hg/s1600-h/signature2.png"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5368535832996725362" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_Fm0HU1I56Mc/SoDe5Xm5wnI/AAAAAAAAA7c/iuN2fSrh1hg/s320/signature2.png" style="float: left; height: 36px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 121px;" /></a>Tamarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18043592847837359464noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6751182489417068121.post-20230441108323447122015-08-30T12:40:00.000-04:002015-08-30T12:40:44.457-04:00Life is a Transition<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-D3_P72qfYP8/VeMZQWTLiII/AAAAAAAAEcA/VqQab47Fnjs/s1600/path%2Bto%2Bthe%2Bbest%2Bthings.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-D3_P72qfYP8/VeMZQWTLiII/AAAAAAAAEcA/VqQab47Fnjs/s320/path%2Bto%2Bthe%2Bbest%2Bthings.jpg" width="213" /></a></div>
Life is about transition, or transitions. From asleep to awake, from horizontal to vertical, from hungry to fulfilled...all transitions, all day long, every day. Because, guess what? If those transitions don't happen, you're not alive. That's literal and figurative, by the way. Some of those basic biological transitions have to happen in order for our hearts to keep ticking, our lungs to keep filling, or blood to keep pumping. The figurative ones?They may not be as immediately critical to sustaining life, but they can be just as important in the long run. <br />
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It is often the case that things that people say to me get the wheels in my brain turning. Oh, who are we kidding? The wheels are always turning. I'm a charter member of Overthinkers Anonymous, and the alcoholic's glass of scotch is a lot easier to put down than my brain, trust me. I'm also the self-appointed president of the It's Not Right, Therefore, I Don't Accept It Club. God did NOT grant me any sort of serenity, not one little drop. <br />
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The cute little meme gracing this post? The one I plucked from a friend's Facebook share? Well, I don't know how I feel about it. It popped up in my news feed in the middle of me contemplating transitions, and it just seemed apropos, even though I don't really think it's true. Sometimes the bad things are bullshit that shouldn't have happened to start with. Sometimes the bad things are decisions that were made FOR us instead of with us, and which put us down on a path we don't want to walk down at all. Sometimes the path ends without warning--someone throws up a fence, a tree falls, or it just becomes overgrown slowly. And sometimes the BEST things that ever happen in our lives put us on the path to the worst things to ever happen to us...how's that for optimism? And just like I don't know how I feel about the statement, how I react to that blocked path changes also. <br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-QBbIVeMfvpQ/VeMd5f3VuKI/AAAAAAAAEcM/rRQAdpCHDeQ/s1600/komorebi.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-QBbIVeMfvpQ/VeMd5f3VuKI/AAAAAAAAEcM/rRQAdpCHDeQ/s320/komorebi.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Shamelessly stolen photo of trees. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Choice Number One is just to sit down on a rock and let the weeds grow up around me. It's not an awful thing. I can sit and look at trees for hours, no matter where I am. And when the sunlight filters through (my new favorite word, <i>komorebi</i>), that's about as close to God as I get. I'm not going to get anywhere that way, but I also won't get lost or hurt. It's a safe choice, but also a lonely choice. <br />
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Choice Number Two is to grab the nearest machete and start whacking through the shrubbery to make a path that no one has ever walked before. It's exhilarating! It's titillating! But it's also exhausting and a little too much like exercise to be pleasant. Thorns draw blood, there are snakes and creepy-crawlies in the underbrush, and it's not a quick or painless way to get anywhere. <br />
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Choice Number Three is to turn around and walk back the other way, back to the starting point. I know exactly where that path leads and it's already clear and safe. It doesn't really matter that the starting point is miles and miles away, that I worked hard and suffered through the forging of that path. It'll be easier on the way back, but that also means that all that work was for nothing. The scratches and scrapes may be healed, but the scars are still there. <br />
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There are other choices. The wind-up toy choice, the Sheldon-knocking-on-Penny's-door choice, the grin and bear it choice...the list goes on. The point, which I sort of wandered away from, is that every single one of these things is a transition, a change. A transition can be a bad thing, but it can also be a very good thing, a permanent one. Just ask the butterfly. It snuggled itself inside the cocoon as a slow-moving caterpillar with the idea of emerging as a beautiful, treasured butterfly who could fly anywhere gracefully, over the obstacles in the way, away from harmful things, to land on gentle arms and sweet-smelling flowers. That's the way it should happen. And if it does, whether there's a path or not is irrelevant. The butterfly doesn't change back or decide to be something else. It's just a butterfly forever, and happy. And that...is probably way too many mixed metaphors for a Sunday morning. <br />
<br />
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_Fm0HU1I56Mc/SoDe5Xm5wnI/AAAAAAAAA7c/iuN2fSrh1hg/s1600-h/signature2.png"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5368535832996725362" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_Fm0HU1I56Mc/SoDe5Xm5wnI/AAAAAAAAA7c/iuN2fSrh1hg/s320/signature2.png" style="cursor: hand; float: left; height: 36px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 121px;" /></a>Tamarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18043592847837359464noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6751182489417068121.post-73831015305545605722015-08-03T23:34:00.000-04:002015-08-03T23:34:18.662-04:00One Small Step<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-OAem0uWTNVo/VcAgC1vdtKI/AAAAAAAAEbg/ISdahFPvmKU/s1600/IMG_8388.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-OAem0uWTNVo/VcAgC1vdtKI/AAAAAAAAEbg/ISdahFPvmKU/s200/IMG_8388.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">M</span>y dad recently gifted my son with an old jon boat--nothing fancy-- gunmetal grey with oars that clamp on the edge, motor-worthy when he's old enough, but for now, just muscle power to putter around in the cove. Andrew was ecstatic and couldn't wait to be afloat in his brand-new vessel for the first time yesterday. <br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">O</span>nce there, however, he was scared. The boat felt unstable to him. It rocked and tilted as the small swells drifted into our cove from the main channel. The novelty wore off quickly. He realized it was hard work, and in the hot sun, he quickly wished he were bobbing in the cool water himself. But he couldn't get out--there was no one to help him out at the dock. Everyone was either in the water or otherwise occupied, so I suggested to him that he just jump in from the jon boat.<br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">T</span>o your average almost ten year-old, maybe that would have solved the problem, but Andrew froze, uncertain of his balance already and unable to take the leap, small though it was. So there he sat, one leg swung over the side of the boat, one leg firmly inside, while the rest of us grew more and more frustrated over his inability to stop thinking about it and just jump.<br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">I</span>t was clear that the idea of what could happen was worse than what actually would happen. His fear, insecurity, and lack of confidence in himself paralyzed him, even though he knew logically that he was inches from the surface with a life jacket on and capable adults by his side. The more he thought, though, the harder it became, and he went nowhere.<br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">T</span>oday, as we took the pontoon out for a brief excursion, we headed to the marina to fuel up. Normally, we have a full boat and someone is at the ready to hop off and "catch" the boat and tie us off. But with just the three of us, the options were few. I'm not the steadiest on my feet sometimes. I can trip and fall over nothing, and with a tricky hip that isn't always reliable, I don't tend to put myself into physically precarious positions. Today, however, without thinking, I stepped agilely off of the still-moving boat and onto the gas dock, nimbly skirting pilings and line as well as the widening expanse of water between the bow of the boat and the slightly higher dock. And without a thought, until afterwards, when I realized with amazement what I had done. I know, I know...it's not bungee jumping or skydiving, but trust me when I say that it was a big deal for me. <br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">D</span>ifferent situations, but equally challenging in their own way. Why was mine easier? Because I just DID. No thought, just action, while he was locked in a position of neither forward nor backward, looking for a solution that wasn't there. I know the panic he felt trying to get out of the boat. The situation was wobbly and uncertain, and he was terrified of someone letting him down and of the idea of getting hurt. He did eventually succumb to the pressure and slid off effortlessly into the water. And the look of surprise on his face when nothing bad happened was exactly what I felt when I hopped onto the dock like it was my job.<br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">I</span>'ve done a lot of changing and growing in that past two years, all of it for the better. I"m a stronger, more confident person in a lot of ways, and I prove to myself on a daily basis that I can handle whatever life throws at me, even if it doesn't feel like it at the time. He thought too much, I didn't think at all, and we both made it through. He was embarrassed though, and showed his ass a little as he was panicking, and I can relate to that as well. The desperation of trying to hold on to something you've placed your trust in as it slips away is strong, and people do and say dumb things when they're scared and lost, me included. The lesson here? Turn off your brain, trust yourself first, and just let go.<br />
<br /><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_Fm0HU1I56Mc/SoDe5Xm5wnI/AAAAAAAAA7c/iuN2fSrh1hg/s1600-h/signature2.png"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5368535832996725362" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_Fm0HU1I56Mc/SoDe5Xm5wnI/AAAAAAAAA7c/iuN2fSrh1hg/s320/signature2.png" style="cursor: hand; float: left; height: 36px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 121px;" /></a>Tamarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18043592847837359464noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6751182489417068121.post-69846119061495886282015-07-22T15:10:00.001-04:002015-07-22T15:10:07.835-04:00Wednesday Whatevers<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-5iLfyjm3WvY/Va_g_1uEJnI/AAAAAAAAEbA/kjB9mF7C1ck/s1600/keep-calm-and-whatever-31.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-5iLfyjm3WvY/Va_g_1uEJnI/AAAAAAAAEbA/kjB9mF7C1ck/s320/keep-calm-and-whatever-31.png" width="274" /></a></div>
"Whatevers" have sort of been the theme of my life this summer. There have been lots of ups and downs, backs and forths, extreme highs and deep lows, and any other contradictory terms you could throw in there. It's hard to make sense of life sometimes--hell, all the time. But, for whatever reason, the proverbial shit has hit the fan lately, and I've really just felt like I'm treading water waiting for a lifeboat. Good thing I have built-in floatation devices that refuse to let me sink.<br />
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More and more I realize that you just never know what people are really like, or what they really go through in their lives. I think that contrast is more and more apparent as we become more reliant on social media. Most of us tend to paint these rosy little pictures with our status updates and our Instagram pictures, and I'm calling bullshit on most of it, my own included. I'd like, just for one day, or a week, for everyone to just be REAL with what they post. Not for the airing of dirty laundry, that's not my intent. But just because so many of us, myself included, hold ourselves up to these ridiculously high standards of achieving perfection, or at least appearing to the outside world to have achieved that. It can be a daunting task to scroll through my news feed some days. It's not real, it's not factual, and it's not healthy to be so inundated with snapshots of fabulous adventures and 'look-what-we-did-isms" even under the best of circumstances. But when someone struggles, and there are more of us out there than any of us realize, as the events of the last few days have shown me, it can be very damaging and hurtful. Now, you'd think I'd have some sense and separate myself from social media if I think it's the root of all evil, but that's the thing. I don't. I have some amazing relationships with people I either met or reconnected with via social media, and my online support system is actually way more helpful to me most days than my "actual" support system. I just want it to be real, and helpful, and sincere, and honest. The way I want real life to be. My bad.<br />
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I have undertaken an experiment this week, speaking of social media, in which I'm branching out in my professional life as an educator as well as my amateur life as a writer. Hah, writer. I don't think I've ever called myself that before. I'm not sure how the experiment will go, because I've given myself a fairly short deadline under which to function, but I'm cautiously optimistic about my ability to work well under pressure. It's not going to make me rich and famous, but I just might get enough to buy a pair of back-to-school shoes and the ability to put a notch in my belt. Cross your fingers.<br />
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Fleas are the devil's minions, and I can think of absolutely no good reason why these vile creatures exist. Give me snakes, mice, spiders, any day...hell, I'd rather face a herd of zombies right now. I love our dog, but I wholeheartedly blame his low-slung belly and the fact that not a single one of the commercial or prescription flea repellents keeps the damn things off of him. And so, we bomb yet again, hoping beyond belief that the effects on the fleas are quick and devastating.<br />
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I had my second-ever pedicure yesterday. It was just as unpleasant...wait, no more so...than the first one I had. The first one was tolerable because I was with my sister and her bridal party and there were more things to worry and stress about that someone messing with my feet. Yesterday, however, was my attempt to make good on a belated birthday gift for my sweet mom. Next time, I'll just get her a gift certificate and save myself the unpleasantness. I know, I know, some people love them, and maybe under different circumstances, I could, too. But in an already uncomfortable mood, I need a little more than a stone-faced, uncommunicative guy who taps my foot and expects me to guess that I'm supposed to put it in the water, or take it out, or who takes my purse to a chair across the room and gestures to a chair expecting me to magically understand that I'm supposed to put my toes under the nail dryer, when all I could think is "WTF IS that thing, and where do my toes go?" I don't know if he was lacking English skills, social skills, or a sense of humor (or all of the above), or maybe he was just pissed off that I had forgotten to shave my legs. <br />
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Newsflash: I jump to conclusions. I make assumptions. I use my sometimes-flawed deductive reasoning skills to concoct all sorts of theories about people, and the less information I have or the less things make sense, the more I do it. It's worse when I'm anxious about something, because, guess what! Turns out jumping to conclusions is connected to anxiety and panic attacks, both of which pop up to bite me in the ass at weak moments in my life. So it makes perfect sense that in an emotional state, I'll assume my BFF is pissed off at me when she's actually just in the grocery store. It's not in my nature to accept "it is what it is" under the best of circumstances, so asking me to accept that in a heightened state of stress is just as far-fetched as asking me to sprout wings from my hiney. I'm not proud of it, and it causes stress in my life more often than not...but I'm waiting patiently for the time that I figure the exact situation out based on nothing more than thoughtless comments or fleeting actions. It'll happen. I'm optimistic. ;-)<br />
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My final thought for this Wednesday is that we should simply let go, as much as possible, of the things that make us unhappy. It's easier said than done, but I refuse to go through life dragging chains and baggage with me. In contrast, the things that bring us joy, peace, and happiness, even if they don't happen on a predictable or consistent basis, should be grasped quickly and held onto as firmly as possible. Life is short, and unpredictable, and should be lived, explored, and appreciated. Get your joy where you can. <br />
<br /><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_Fm0HU1I56Mc/SoDe5Xm5wnI/AAAAAAAAA7c/iuN2fSrh1hg/s1600-h/signature2.png"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5368535832996725362" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_Fm0HU1I56Mc/SoDe5Xm5wnI/AAAAAAAAA7c/iuN2fSrh1hg/s320/signature2.png" style="cursor: hand; float: left; height: 36px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 121px;" /></a>Tamarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18043592847837359464noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6751182489417068121.post-38043309485042813382015-07-19T22:43:00.002-04:002015-07-19T22:43:58.077-04:00The Trouble with Risks<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-GoDRbVMHjIw/VaxRvsauL2I/AAAAAAAAEZ0/CY3iIcLJodc/s1600/take-risks.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-GoDRbVMHjIw/VaxRvsauL2I/AAAAAAAAEZ0/CY3iIcLJodc/s320/take-risks.png" width="243" /></a></div>
<b>W</b>ho we are often gets lost in what we do--the vagaries, the vicissitudes, sometimes even the chaos of our lives. And inevitably, when that happens, we start to look for ourselves among the rubble. Some people make bucket lists, some take up hobbies, others just do really deep soul-searching. Whatever your poison, a healthy dose of "shake your shit up" can be a really powerful and even necessary thing.<br />
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<b>A</b>nd when we do find who or what it is we were looking for, even by accident, it's natural to want it. You'd have to be dead inside, <i>broken</i>, not to. When dreams are realized, it's the best feeling in the world. A niche that fits, that feels good, that allows us to be who we are, even temporarily--everyone wants that, to be comfortable in his or her own skin.<br />
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<b>T</b>he trouble lies, though, with the smoke and mirrors that our minds (and others') use to fuck with us. Strong language, I know, but it's the only word suitable. The brain is a magical place, where dreams and wishes materialize, but that means there are magical gremlins up there firing shots in the dark just to shake us up. That amygdala is a bitch, and not just to spell. Get the dopamine and serotonin levels fluctuating, as they do when we're falling in and out of love with something or someone, and it's a party of emotions up there. Not a tea party, either...more like a drunken frat party where clothes get ruined and nobody remembers what the hell happened the next day. <br />
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<b>I</b>t's that new car smell, the sound of a beer can opening, the excitement of having a new outfit or hairstyle that you love, that first kiss, that new library book, that brand new television series premiere, Rick Springfield's (or insert favorite artist) newest album, that brand new video game that you have to play obsessively until all the characters are earned...all of those simple things that thrill us, that get our hearts racing, that make us feel like we're not just on a treadmill but actually LIVING, for a little while, anyway. <br />
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<b>C</b>reative people are especially at risk for being ambushed by our overdeveloped sensitivities to boredom and routine. The science behind it is lost on me, but there are parts of the brain that sit there idle while we don't know how to get down and dirty and utilize those brain cells. Taking risks, putting ourselves out there, stimulates those dusty brain areas and lets us use them. <br />
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<b>I</b>'ve been scared of risks my entire life, and terrified of change. That's not a healthy place to be. Things that don't change, die...just ask the dinosaurs. At some point, a new hair color or cut doesn't make the brain matter quiver. And eventually, you just have to decide that risk is necessary. You might fall and skin some knees or elbows, you might fail at whatever it is you tried to do. But you'll live through it and come out stronger on the other side. (And if you don't, you won't care!) <br />
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<b>S</b>o, do it. Whatever it is in the back of your mind tickling your fancy, do it. The best case scenario is that you succeed like a MOTHER and it's amazing! The worst that can happen is that you fail miserably, bruise your ego a little bit (or a LOT) and end up with a great story to tell (or write!) someday. But you'll grow. You'll spread your wings. You'll learn that you are badass, invincible, that you rock your own world (as well as some others), and that you. Will. Survive. You'll learn to be <i>fearless</i>, which makes life so much easier. Take that chance. It's worth it, and so are you. Your brain will thank you.<br /><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_Fm0HU1I56Mc/SoDe5Xm5wnI/AAAAAAAAA7c/iuN2fSrh1hg/s1600-h/signature2.png"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5368535832996725362" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_Fm0HU1I56Mc/SoDe5Xm5wnI/AAAAAAAAA7c/iuN2fSrh1hg/s320/signature2.png" style="float: left; height: 36px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 121px;" /></a>Tamarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18043592847837359464noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6751182489417068121.post-4613256859805570982015-06-22T09:34:00.003-04:002015-06-22T09:36:05.652-04:00Nobody Puts Baby in the Corner<div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-rsOvmNFcN4U/VYgHZNWPZDI/AAAAAAAAEZM/W1KMp2QzU7c/s1600/babyinacorner.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-rsOvmNFcN4U/VYgHZNWPZDI/AAAAAAAAEZM/W1KMp2QzU7c/s320/babyinacorner.jpg" width="296" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">W</span>hen I am in crowded situations, such a restaurants, meetings, or receptions, there's a safe place for me--the corner. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">I</span>'m not sure how or why I decided that was safe, because I'm not a "goodfella" waiting for a mob hit, but it is what it is. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">I </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">could speculate. If I'm in the co</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">rner, here's what I avoid:</span></div>
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<ul>
<li><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">S</span>urprises. I will see everyone and everything and be prepared, thus preventing awkward social situations.</span></li>
</ul>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<ul>
<li><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">P</span>hysical contact from strangers and people I don't see coming. No chair bumping, nobody sneaking up on me, and above all, nobody putting their hands on my shoulders while they speak to the rest of the table. Aaack!</span></li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">M</span>issing something. From the corner, I can see the world but not be involved in it--people watching!</span></li>
</ul>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">B</span>ut here's the thing. I put <u>myself</u> in the corner, and the goal there is to blend in, to "wallflower" (if <a href="https://gr8johnl.wordpress.com/">John Langan</a> says it's a verb, it's a verb), to NOT interact. And it's MY choice.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">I</span>t's not okay for me to be put in the corner, either literally or metaphorically. If I choose to be involved, to interact, then let me. It means that I've decided you're important enough to me for me to come out of my comfort zone. It means that I think you're worth it. Sometimes I'm in the mood to make connections, to engage. And if my wings are fluttering and you try to shove me back in the corner, it's going to hurt me. My wings are fragile.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">S</span>o here's the thing. My wings are a little bent out of shape right now. I was fluttering along, in my own space, I might add, then rudely swatted back into my corner. Yeah, that's right. The one I no longer want to be in. The one from which I can only talk to and interact with certain people. The one that hides me from really being involved in the party. The one in which I am NOT comfortable anymore. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">I </span>am more than someone to carry your watermelon.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">I </span>am more than a stand-in dance partner.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">I</span> am more than a scared girl afraid to speak her mind and who is afraid of what people think.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">I</span> am more than someone who is always there for everyone else when it suits but who has no say in how her life plays out.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">I </span>am the girl who hopes the <i>Dirty Dancing</i> references are clear here, or all is lost.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">I</span> know, real people aren't Patrick Swayze, and nobody learns how to dance that fast. But Baby still wants out of the corner. And I'm an angry butterfly.</span></div>
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_Fm0HU1I56Mc/SoDe5Xm5wnI/AAAAAAAAA7c/iuN2fSrh1hg/s1600-h/signature2.png"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5368535832996725362" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_Fm0HU1I56Mc/SoDe5Xm5wnI/AAAAAAAAA7c/iuN2fSrh1hg/s320/signature2.png" style="float: left; height: 36px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; text-align: center; width: 121px;" /></a>Tamarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18043592847837359464noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6751182489417068121.post-89623428133369902252015-06-10T13:08:00.000-04:002015-06-10T13:08:02.270-04:00In a Cage, SingingGrowing pains happen at any age. When you're young, it's your bones and your joints that ache from the sudden lengthening and multiplying of cells in the marrow. When you're older, though, it's not an ache caused from getting taller or developing new physical features, but it's no less painful. The pain is in the spirit, the heart, and those aches aren't treated as easily.<br />
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Maya Angelou wrote once about the caged bird singing "with a fearful trill," and of the free bird "leaping onto the back of the wind." Maybe, definitely, she referred to something more societal, more literally imprisoning that what I'm speaking of, but the effect can be the same thing.<br />
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A cage can be comfortable. It has all the physical necessities of life--shelter, food, water, maybe even a cushion or a toy if you're lucky. But a cage is limiting by definition. The very word has such a negative connotation that we put our dogs in "crates" and not cages, although steel bars, locks--same thing. The view is the same day in and day out, no matter how many times you turn and look the other way, readjust your position. And at times, the need to stretch out full length and just fly or run can be overwhelming. It's maybe not the destination that's important, it's the act of flying itself, the ability to do so that drives us.<br />
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Pet store birds are happy, I think. They're also kind of stupid. Someone feeds them, people talk to them, occasionally take them out and pet them, or let them perch on a fake branch that the stupid birds don't even realize are facsimiles. But they don't KNOW any better. They think it's a treat to be out for a little while, then go right back to pecking at the birdseed delivered to them.<br />
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Free birds don't plan to fly. Watch them sometime. They don't sit and think about the ramifications of flying to the next tree or power line. They just go--and then they stop when they feel like it, or when the snack bugs look yummy. Birds would look ridiculous perched in a tree looking at all of the other trees and trying to speculate about pros and cons of each one. Imagine, the Overthinking, Indecisive Bird. Much of their beauty would be lost with the spontaneity, and I'm afraid they wouldn't enjoy their flights as much as they do, either. And that's me, sometimes. Scared to leave the branch that might as well be a cage, scared to leap onto the back of the wind. A ridiculous, overthinking, indecisive bird.<br />
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I think we should all learn to fly, in whatever way, shape, or form that turns out to be. As Michael Hutchence once sang, "'Cause we all have wings, but some of us don't know why-y-y-y-y-y-y." If you wait to figure out why, it might be too late. Learn to fly, early and often, so that when that cage door opens, you can fly through it instead of being stuck staring at a reflection of yourself that you're too caged to realize is just an image there to trick you into thinking you're not alone.<br />
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Flapping my wings...<br />
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_Fm0HU1I56Mc/SoDe5Xm5wnI/AAAAAAAAA7c/iuN2fSrh1hg/s1600-h/signature2.png"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5368535832996725362" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_Fm0HU1I56Mc/SoDe5Xm5wnI/AAAAAAAAA7c/iuN2fSrh1hg/s320/signature2.png" style="float: left; height: 36px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 121px;" /></a>Tamarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18043592847837359464noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6751182489417068121.post-45287248125754486732015-04-22T22:44:00.000-04:002015-04-22T22:44:23.664-04:00Everything is Fine...and Nobody is Happy<div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-30cfyISbBHM/VThRRPxvD5I/AAAAAAAAEYI/WEjg2Mc9qXI/s1600/happiness%2Bis%2Ba%2Bchoice.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-30cfyISbBHM/VThRRPxvD5I/AAAAAAAAEYI/WEjg2Mc9qXI/s1600/happiness%2Bis%2Ba%2Bchoice.jpg" height="133" width="200" /></a>I've been seeing a lot of internet memes lately with statements like "Happiness is a choice" or "If you don't like your circumstances, change them." And I call complete and total BS, because I've also seen a lot of people struggling lately, present company included. I don't know, maybe birds of a feather flock together, or haywire magnetic forces in the brain attract like-minded individuals, or the Spidey senses just become more attuned to those also going through shit...but I'm telling you, it's an epidemic, at least in my circles.</div>
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Without going into details, because you know, we "dysfunctional" people protect our own, there's rampant dysphoria wreaking havoc on those around us who smile through their days, kick ass at their jobs and hobbies, and raise smiling, healthy children. And in spite of all of those successes and asskickery, there is still misery to be had, and in some of the most surprising places. Trust me.</div>
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In the last few weeks, I've had the joy of finding kindred spirits and steadfast friends in the least expected of places, and it has had a profound effect on me. I'm not one to go seeking solace in others or crying on shoulders. I suck it up, put on a smile, or at the very least, the dreaded Resting Bitch Face, and go about my day. I didn't purposefully seek out these interactions...but they still happened, completely out of the blue. And I'm really grateful they did, for several reasons. One, it's always good to have someone to talk to. Two, it's reassuring to know that other people have less than perfect lives, no matter what it looks like on Facebook. (Don't get me started.) And third...well, there's just strength in numbers, and not in the building-an-army sense. </div>
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But the point is, I don't think happiness is a choice...because why the HELL wouldn't everyone just choose to be happy? It's not a light switch, and if it is, then mine shorted out somewhere along the line and only flickers when it wants to--sometimes, that connection is there...and other times...it's just not. And I'm not telling secrets here...it's going to come as no surprise to anyone that's known me longer than six days (OK, six MINUTES!) that I'm a moody bitch. And I'm beyond filters or really caring what people think, other than my kid and a few select others, so, here are my thoughts, in no particular order...</div>
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Happiness is temporary. Enjoy the HELL out of it when it happens, because the memory of it might just get you through a hard time.</div>
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You might have to lower your standards and expectations. Expectations lead to disappointment, and disappointment leads to sadness. I know, that sounded like Yoda. He was a smart little dude. </div>
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Do the things that make you happy more often. If it's sleep, take a nap. If it's singing, belt it out LOUD! If it's a huge glass (or TWO) of wine in bed with the dog, drink UP! </div>
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Rarely can you make yourself happy and not rock the boat or make waves or whatever euphemism you choose to use. If it makes you happy to jump in the water, just jump. Those that get splashed will dry off and deal with it. They might be pissed off temporarily, but if they truly care about your happiness, they'll be excited that you jumped. </div>
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Have backup plans. Stuff falls apart, all the time. And if you're left holding nothing when it all goes to hell, you're going to be unhappy. Have a backup plan to cushion the disappointment. </div>
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Don't be afraid to make your happiness out of whatever you choose. It might not look like someone else's...hell, it might not look like anyone else's. But that doesn't matter. Be you.</div>
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Iw0_Qrnp2Eo/VThbmNCzkkI/AAAAAAAAEYY/NxBU_-JvqY0/s1600/make%2Ba%2Blist.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Iw0_Qrnp2Eo/VThbmNCzkkI/AAAAAAAAEYY/NxBU_-JvqY0/s1600/make%2Ba%2Blist.jpg" height="200" width="200" /></a>Be prepared to take your own advice. Listen to your heart, your gut, your instincts, and don't be a chickenshit. Fear is more powerful than happiness and only gets in the way. <br /><br />Exercise. Even when you don't feel like it...especially then. And if a donut will help you survive the day, eat the damn thing without kicking yourself later. <br /><br />Stop comparing yourself. Stop comparing your body, your house, your car, your family...just stop. You're the only one that cares, and you shouldn't. They're all screwed up, too, I promise. <br /><br />Make your list. Do them. </div>
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Tamarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18043592847837359464noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6751182489417068121.post-83005265948949807062015-01-26T15:05:00.002-05:002015-01-26T15:06:02.801-05:00The Trouble with Optimism<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I have always considered myself to be a pessimist, a cynic. I actually work kind of hard at it. People suck, the world sucks, and shit happens. I've known that since I was about five, probably a little earlier than most kids figure it out, but oh well. I did most things way before I should have, truth be known, so that's no surprise.<br />
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But I'm rethinking things. I was told recently by someone who knows me well that he loves that I'm always able to find the bright side of things, that I expect the best outcomes, no matter what. I do? But, but...that's not possible! I had the nickname "Neggy" in 8th grade, teased to the point of tears by a cute boy in my science class on whom I had a major crush--the point being that he thought I was negative about everything. In 8th grade? The only thing I should have had to be negative about was the cafeteria food and that I hadn't seen Rick Springfield in concert yet. But apparently 8th grade Me was jaded and weary. Sounds familiar.<br />
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But here's the thing. Disappointments simply wreck me. I get upset when things don't go right, when people around me aren't happy, when there's injustice and shittiness in my little world and the bigger world that I have no control over. And when it's me? Watch out, devastation alert! Oh, I cover all of that up with smartass comments and a well-practiced Resting Bitch Face (look that up if you're not sure), so you'll never know, unless I want you to. Aren't you the privileged one? <br />
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I want to expect the worst and be pleasantly surprised when things pan out. I think there are people out there who just glide through life like they're coated with Teflon, and it pisses me off that I'm not one of them. I could sort them out randomly in an anonymous restaurant setting. Teflon people glance at the menu and just PICK something! What on earth? People like me, though...we sit and scour the options to make sure we've seen every page, every insert, every little thing so that we aren't surprised in any way, and then order the exact same thing we always order, just to be safe. No disappointments. <br />
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The trouble with optimism, then, is that it leads to continual disappointment when things, people, don't meet expectations. A pessimist would just settle, accept that things are suckish, no matter what, because that's how things are supposed to be. A cheery little optimist like me, though? She thinks she shouldn't settle for just tolerable, and she's not content with mediocre or ordinary, no matter how much she wants to be. She thinks, maybe unrealistically, that she is capable of more, worth more, has more to give and contribute. And maybe, just maybe, that a little bit of joy is better than a whole lot of "ehhhhhhh." Maybe a better title would be "The Trouble with Perfectionism," as it's taken me longer to write these last two sentences than it did the entire rest of the post, and it's still not good, disappointing, even.<br />
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_Fm0HU1I56Mc/SoDe5Xm5wnI/AAAAAAAAA7c/iuN2fSrh1hg/s1600-h/signature2.png"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_Fm0HU1I56Mc/SoDe5Xm5wnI/AAAAAAAAA7c/iuN2fSrh1hg/s320/signature2.png" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5368535832996725362" style="float: left; height: 36px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 121px;" /></a>Tamarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18043592847837359464noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6751182489417068121.post-61629579158538183992014-07-16T11:47:00.001-04:002014-07-16T13:31:52.591-04:00Mid-Summer Rant<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I don't often use this blog for my feelings on political issues. I have enough personal issues, typically, to fill it up, and I've pretty much come to accept that most people's minds can not be changed about things that they believe in, however misinformed and misguided those things may be. But as I read through the news and my various social media accounts this morning, while my son watches a movie from the comfort of his own living room over a bowl of Fruity Pebbles, I have some things on my mind. Read on from here at the risk of being offended.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Local news has not been good here in this small town the last few days. A young local boy, just a few months older than my own son, died tragically when a large toolbox being used as a dresser tipped over on him. A graduate of my alma mater, a young mother of small children, was murdered by her husband. A local "kid" is headed back to prison after trying to run over a cop--he's engaged to a former student of mine and will leave a young daughter behind (maybe to her benefit) when he's convicted. My Facebook newsfeed is awash with people decrying the plight of all of the children involved in these incidents, and rightly so. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">So how is it that some of these very same people, or even groups of people (at the risk of making generalizations) who are so terribly concerned for the tragedies in these children's lives can be so heartless and unsympathetic to the fate of other children, namely the thousands of immigrant children in the national news? In case you're unaware, thousands of children from Central American countries are fleeing their homelands and ending up here, in the good ol' U. S. of A. Many of these children travel alone and endure more than you and I could tolerate on their journeys here, which should tell you a LOT about what they're leaving behind. And they're KIDS. I won't let my own son cross a street without holding my hand, much to his macho chagrin, and these kids are hanging on to the tops of trains over thousands of miles to make it here--the land of the free and the home of the brave. Oh yeah, and apparently, the land of the concerned-only-about-our-own. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I'll be the first to agree that there are immigration issues that need to be faced, readdressed, fixed, what-have-you. I don't have those answers, and I confess to mixed emotions on that topic. As the grandchild of an immigrant, and as a human being...hell, maybe even as a woman, I fall prey to my sympathies. They're looking for something better, the American dream, a life for their children. Unfortunately, maybe some of them are looking for handouts and "entitlements," because God knows enough of our own people are trying to milk that system. But those are the adults, and how we handle that issue is different from this one. Or it should be, because these are KIDS. If they fled on their own, or were sent on their own, you can bet your ass they're leaving things that we would leave too, as we sit here fat, dumb, and happy and bitch and moan about how terrible the fireworks were this year. If they were brought here by a parent or guardian, they had no choice in the matter. It all amounts to the same thing, though. They. Are. Children. And we should take care of them. Period. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I'm not big on organized religion. I don't go to church, I don't read the Bible, and I don't post scripture on my Facebook. That doesn't mean that I don't believe in some of the tenets of the church and the teachings of Jesus, or for that matter, Muhammad, who said, "Do not turn away a poor man...even if all you can give is half a date..." (Al-T</span>irmidhi, Hadith 1376). However, I do love the current Pope, and I embrace many of the statements he has made during his brief tenure. He's exactly right on this count when he says, "This humanitarian emergency requires, as a first urgent measure, these children be welcomed and protected..." (<a href="http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2014/07/15/pope-francis-immigrant-children_n_5588442.html?utm_hp_ref=pope">The Huffington Post</a>).<br />
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I don't have the solution. If I did, I wouldn't be sitting here in my living room with my laptop. But what I do have is a heart, and I'm sorry--if the words "Send them back!" have occurred to you, you do not, and you have no business posting scripture or bragging about your mission trips or pretending to be good church-going folks. To the towns refusing to give these babies shelter while a solution is found--shame on you. To those bitching about diseases these children might carry, let's treat and vaccinate them instead of panicking--because you know your kids have had the chickenpox vaccine and have access to medical care. To those afraid--ask yourselves what you're afraid of, really. And really, with apologies for the trite saying and the theft of the slogan, it comes down to "What would Jesus do?" <br />
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_Fm0HU1I56Mc/SoDe5Xm5wnI/AAAAAAAAA7c/iuN2fSrh1hg/s1600-h/signature2.png"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_Fm0HU1I56Mc/SoDe5Xm5wnI/AAAAAAAAA7c/iuN2fSrh1hg/s320/signature2.png" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5368535832996725362" style="cursor: hand; float: left; height: 36px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 121px;" /></a>Tamarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18043592847837359464noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6751182489417068121.post-45329959367531622992014-05-12T21:02:00.006-04:002014-05-12T21:02:58.577-04:00Monday Mournings<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I wish I could write every day, or at least on some sort of a schedule. But the inspiration's gotta hit, so I wait for it. I silently acknowledged my grandmother's birthday last week (she would have been 108!) and Mother's Day yesterday, so maybe that's where this comes from. Maybe it's just from sitting still and quiet for a few minutes, which I don't do often enough. Regardless, here's some Monday night poetry.<br />
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<b><span style="font-size: large;"><i>"Monday Mournings"</i></span></b></h4>
In the room where my grandmother died,<br />
the quiet and the still<br />
are much like they were that morning<br />
as I waited with her for them.<br />
Tonight the piano keys were just silenced,<br />
the ivories ringing true with<br />
"Petite Minuet" and "Yankee Doodle;"<br />
And I sit on the sofa remembering,<br />
as in the other rooms, the water runs,<br />
the toy guns fire, the TV blares.<br />
Outside, the birds and the highway--<br />
that part remains here still.<br />
This is my room, my quiet, as the sun begins to set.<br />
Shadows of days gone past appear,<br />
but I smile, knowing I hear the same<br />
things she heard as she took her final breaths.<br />
And for that reason, she is with me still.<br />
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<br /><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_Fm0HU1I56Mc/SoDe5Xm5wnI/AAAAAAAAA7c/iuN2fSrh1hg/s1600-h/signature2.png"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_Fm0HU1I56Mc/SoDe5Xm5wnI/AAAAAAAAA7c/iuN2fSrh1hg/s320/signature2.png" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5368535832996725362" style="cursor: hand; float: left; height: 36px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 121px;" /></a>Tamarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18043592847837359464noreply@blogger.com0