tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-52539876800386168592024-03-13T11:41:55.117-04:00Just CuriousAnitahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08180243708565855383noreply@blogger.comBlogger198125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5253987680038616859.post-37985451597786449492019-05-02T14:13:00.002-04:002019-05-02T14:41:47.664-04:00Phase I - Three Down, Zero to Go<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEim7qoSkBGIdcY_2OcEw_-4Vi4v3nQRdKud9CF1JbEvCDL_Ko1aaTcCT5CIQJ4RpDTHmutSBXVEUhQ7KnpFzfYXo9bx-2U81GYeboe8YkTciJO2PlXw_wG4YyO4QFJBELDg1SR6bkNJls5p/s1600/IMG_0822.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1109" data-original-width="1600" height="441" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEim7qoSkBGIdcY_2OcEw_-4Vi4v3nQRdKud9CF1JbEvCDL_Ko1aaTcCT5CIQJ4RpDTHmutSBXVEUhQ7KnpFzfYXo9bx-2U81GYeboe8YkTciJO2PlXw_wG4YyO4QFJBELDg1SR6bkNJls5p/s640/IMG_0822.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
Girl #1, Me, Girl #3, Girl #2</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; clear: both; color: black; font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; orphans: 2; text-align: center; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;">
So I'm a little<b><span style="color: #005500;"> </span><span style="color: red;">LATE</span></b> with this post. Girl #3 graduated high school in <span style="color: red;"><b>June, 2018</b></span>!</div>
<div class="separator" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; clear: both; color: black; font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; orphans: 2; text-align: center; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;">
Have I felt the relief? <span style="color: red;"><b>YES!</b></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZCBupY_sXrttoRsdpuMhcABBIxIQxyFfx3dRnSSofl9NccvaRu2Sy_ngvovu4Oh4XuLWTEO-_WhNk9IA970Nj9i8OORaxNtPM2Kp__qKWRFI907c6a9IPOgd5wVnnnhs_1LyCNmeCPDAn/s1600/IMG_0856+%25282%2529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="color: red;"></span><b></b><br /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhR3QlwNXtRKkQ_NL2pxWD9DwRneW6nbFK-NSTtxcG1TPb-VnG3PfMxpIDTOGUmxmQlqn9Xp6kAIDAO3lwvq2FEsIwfozf2M-p2heqncJ2D__KFeb1tNRCNasKFBGINVT28JJP0hVyg8Hc_/s1600/IMG_0805.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1068" data-original-width="1600" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhR3QlwNXtRKkQ_NL2pxWD9DwRneW6nbFK-NSTtxcG1TPb-VnG3PfMxpIDTOGUmxmQlqn9Xp6kAIDAO3lwvq2FEsIwfozf2M-p2heqncJ2D__KFeb1tNRCNasKFBGINVT28JJP0hVyg8Hc_/s400/IMG_0805.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="color: red;"></span><br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;">
<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;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1052" data-original-width="1600" height="263" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZCBupY_sXrttoRsdpuMhcABBIxIQxyFfx3dRnSSofl9NccvaRu2Sy_ngvovu4Oh4XuLWTEO-_WhNk9IA970Nj9i8OORaxNtPM2Kp__qKWRFI907c6a9IPOgd5wVnnnhs_1LyCNmeCPDAn/s400/IMG_0856+%25282%2529.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="400" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>joined by the cousins</b></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
See where it all began <span style="color: red;"><a href="https://btdas.blogspot.com/2014/06/phase-i-one-down-two-to-go.html" target="_blank">HERE</a></span>, and where it continued <span style="color: red;"><a href="https://btdas.blogspot.com/2016/06/phase-i-two-down-one-to-go.html" target="_blank">HERE</a></span><span style="color: black;">.</span><span style="color: black;"><br /></span></div>
<span style="color: black;">
</span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: black;">What have I been doing?</span><br />
<br />
<b><span style="color: black;"><a href="https://postcardsandauthors.com/">Postcards and Authors</a></span></b><span style="color: red;"><u></u><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: blue;"><a href="https://www.instagram.com/postcardsandauthors/" target="_blank"><b></b><span style="color: red;"><span style="color: red;"></span><b></b><span style="color: red;"></span><b></b><b></b><span style="color: red;"></span><b></b><span style="color: black;">Instagram</span></span></a></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="https://www.facebook.com/postcardsandauthors/" target="_blank"><span style="color: black;">Facebook</span></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="https://twitter.com/anita_postcards" target="_blank"><span style="color: black;">Twitter</span></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: red;"></span><span style="color: black;"></span><span style="color: red;"></span><span style="color: blue;"></span><span style="color: black;"></span><br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Still trying to get back to <b><i><span style="color: red;">Just Curious</span></i></b>.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Anita</div>
<span style="color: black;">
</span><span style="color: red;"></span><span style="color: black;"></span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: right;">
<br /></div>
</div>
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZCBupY_sXrttoRsdpuMhcABBIxIQxyFfx3dRnSSofl9NccvaRu2Sy_ngvovu4Oh4XuLWTEO-_WhNk9IA970Nj9i8OORaxNtPM2Kp__qKWRFI907c6a9IPOgd5wVnnnhs_1LyCNmeCPDAn/s1600/IMG_0856+%25282%2529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; clear: right; color: #0066cc; float: right; font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; orphans: 2; text-align: center; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="color: #b00000;"></span><b></b><b></b></a><br />
<div>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZCBupY_sXrttoRsdpuMhcABBIxIQxyFfx3dRnSSofl9NccvaRu2Sy_ngvovu4Oh4XuLWTEO-_WhNk9IA970Nj9i8OORaxNtPM2Kp__qKWRFI907c6a9IPOgd5wVnnnhs_1LyCNmeCPDAn/s1600/IMG_0856+%25282%2529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; clear: right; color: #0066cc; float: right; font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; orphans: 2; text-align: center; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;"><br /></a></div>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZCBupY_sXrttoRsdpuMhcABBIxIQxyFfx3dRnSSofl9NccvaRu2Sy_ngvovu4Oh4XuLWTEO-_WhNk9IA970Nj9i8OORaxNtPM2Kp__qKWRFI907c6a9IPOgd5wVnnnhs_1LyCNmeCPDAn/s1600/IMG_0856+%25282%2529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; clear: right; color: #0066cc; float: right; font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; orphans: 2; text-align: center; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;">
</a><b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike><u></u><u></u><u></u><span style="color: black;"></span><u></u>
<br />
<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike><br />Anitahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08180243708565855383noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5253987680038616859.post-50960065705775525932017-03-26T18:22:00.000-04:002019-10-11T18:41:12.198-04:00Liberation<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZcyg8banh9QGfcnrXhbKtnwqvI59UitTWKDa0xIzZkZoJaPOan8bt3mnA0Dfwa9UCF__kGsTUSTkk9YRNobkjN80KSnbwds_x8-DlFOhHhoAufTL23pdHgJi9DYOgOZDe8Vu1-WR_W10E/s1600/flying+bird.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZcyg8banh9QGfcnrXhbKtnwqvI59UitTWKDa0xIzZkZoJaPOan8bt3mnA0Dfwa9UCF__kGsTUSTkk9YRNobkjN80KSnbwds_x8-DlFOhHhoAufTL23pdHgJi9DYOgOZDe8Vu1-WR_W10E/s1600/flying+bird.jpg" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>You’re a good
housekeeper, Anita.</i> Complimentary words for most women; stinging for others
- like me. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My dear friend smiled as she expressed her opinion of me (hopefully,
not her <i>primary</i> opinion) after I
described my new cleaning routine inspired by Marie Kondo, the organization
guru. Basically, Kondo categorizes an area to tackle and complete before moving
on to another. She advises her clients and readers to begin with clothes –
throughout the <i>entire</i> house. I <s>attempt
to</s> use the concept to clean, doing one type of weekly chore per day.
Monday is fairly easy – bathtubs and showers, including a sporadic drain
cleaning when necessary.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So I’m telling my friend, with a slight bit of enthusiasm,
talking myself into believing I enjoy my new discovery that makes cleaning not
so bad, and that’s when she says it. Ouch! I’ve been reduced to a housekeeper.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Did I lead her on with that slight bit of enthusiasm, subconsciously
seeking approval? <i>She</i> who has
cleaning help, who doesn’t need advice on how to lessen the drudgery of
cleaning shower stalls and toilets. It was not my intent. In my mind, I’d revised my mission statement
after reading Kondo’s book, outlined a strategic plan and was describing the analytical
process; proving I had the bandwidth to implement the optimization of housework
– a system I can apply to other life issues as well.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Well, no more! (A line stolen from an infomercial.)<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s now Monday morning. Havoc from the weekend exists. My
husband’s jackets are hung on the backs of kitchen chairs. His stack of work
papers are on the table, briefcase in the chair, various newspapers and
magazines strewn about. My daughter’s backpack and textbooks are in their
permanent residency, the window seat adjacent to the table, which is resting
place for markers, colored paper, a stapler, a laptop, and miscellaneous
supplies used for an assigned class project. Other household areas exhibit
similar embellishments.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In the past, I’d begin the straightening routine, a job that
was ingrained in my psyche throughout my life by my adoring-adorable mother and
practically every woman I’ve met. The subliminal message says: <i>It’s your job
and you are judged by the condition of your home’s interior</i>. Conversely,
Darling Husband (aka DH) is judged by the exterior.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I never contested this rule; especially when I married, left
corporate America, and worked on getting pregnant. The abode was tiny, my time
was flexible, and it was just us two. What’s a few dishes to put in the
dishwasher and a few loads of laundry to wash? I can do <i>that</i>, plus pay bills, make grocery runs, cook, go see the dentist
for my semiannual teeth cleaning… oh, and the gyno. Easy peasy. Well… there <i>was</i> that whole thing, <i>too</i>, of being disoriented while getting
acclimated to a new city and married life. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Anyway, Girl #1 didn’t take long at all to get here, but I
continued my modus operandi. And then we moved and the square footage
increased. And then we had Girl #2 and then Girl #3 two years later and moved
again and the square footage ballooned and so did the diapers and chores. And I
was almost six years older since the wedding; however, cleaning help (gift from
DH) entered the equation, so the surface dirt was removed every two weeks. Still,
my modus operandi remained on track, plus some.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
To speed up this story: the help lasted ten years, we got a
dog, the kids became tweens and teens, the activities increased, the mom taxi
became an SUV and then a van, and the husband began to travel more. The
presumed cleaning help from the able-bodied, on-the-go kids did not happen in
copious amounts. DH got a pass because he did, and still does, his manly job of
gardening and <s>easy job of</s> taking out the trash. Actually, he's known to
occasionally run the vacuum and pick up a sponge. AND, he takes his turn taking
out the dog! Mwah!<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We are now down to three residents, except when Girl #1 and
Girl #2 are home from college. Things still have to be cleaned so we don’t
acquire non-human residents and so the house doesn’t decay and fall apart.
I will <s>try to</s> stick to my cleaning routine; however, there will be
no exasperation over sheets that are due to be changed, shoes scattered
everywhere, my messy desk, junk mail and newspapers on multiple surfaces, and
sticky stuff on the refrigeration shelf.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
There’s something about being on the cusp of entering
another decade of life that calls for reassessment. Sixty is approaching. I’ve
paid my stay-at-home mom and housekeeper dues. I don’t owe any more. What I
give now is when and how I choose. Other things are upon the horizon.<o:p></o:p></div>
Anitahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08180243708565855383noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5253987680038616859.post-15756682069072454152017-01-17T14:34:00.000-05:002017-01-17T14:56:22.957-05:00Technology<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiivXfWw3geFC4IH0pAJCOp4dcy9Zhyphenhyphen04a5S8uYy9VENMUONLSyC4LDDH_tsyV7z12KjQcC0rBcjEXPz2JYqJO5mLeoU7yubO79aHwEvGaTof7hq4H28L3AsyDIkdQDjPJWPq8AgW9K5Vdz/s1600/Just+Curious+blog+%25283%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiivXfWw3geFC4IH0pAJCOp4dcy9Zhyphenhyphen04a5S8uYy9VENMUONLSyC4LDDH_tsyV7z12KjQcC0rBcjEXPz2JYqJO5mLeoU7yubO79aHwEvGaTof7hq4H28L3AsyDIkdQDjPJWPq8AgW9K5Vdz/s320/Just+Curious+blog+%25283%2529.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Cells phones, tablets, laptops, e-readers. <i>Instagram</i>, <i>Facebook</i>, <i>Snapchat</i>, <i>Pinterest</i>. On board? I am… well not on <i>all</i> of the above, but enough to be
dangerous.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A friend’s daughter opened a shop on <i>Etsy</i> to sell reproductions of her hand drawn stationery and
paintings. Somewhere in the midst of reading her email and looking at her <i>Etsy</i> shop, I stumbled upon her website,
and from there, her blog. Curious of course, I clicked my way through the site
and came upon paintings of normal sized naked women that reminded me of ancient
Greek art, though I had no idea of what they represented or the young woman’s creative
process. With her degree in art, I assume the subject matter was part of the
curriculum.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Anyway, there were all these little social media buttons at
the bottom of the blog post and, you guessed it, I clicked. I chose <i>Pinterest</i>, expecting to be connected to
her <i>Pinterest</i> page, account, or
whatever. I should have known that you just can’t hop into someone’s private
online space without being <i>friends</i> or
<i>followers</i>, but I found out. When
nothing happened after my click, I had an <i>Aha!</i>
moment, along with heat rising through my body. I dashed to my daughter’s room –
Girl #2 – to inquire into what just happened, though I was 99.99% certain. I’d
posted the naked woman onto my <i>Pinterest</i>
page… or would that be, <i>pinned to my
board?</i><o:p></o:p><br />
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
During my two second sprint, awkwardness changed to a fit of
laughter that lasted at least a minute as I tried to explain what I’d done. Between my tears, snorting, and doubling over, I managed to get the story
out. Girl #2 said, “Come on Mommy, let’s see what you’ve done and fix it."<o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Fortunately, I was able to locate my <i>Pinterest</i> username and password (one of 500 +/- usernames and passwords…
an exaggeration, but you get the point), and signed in; whereupon my daughter
and I found the naked woman. Because the account is seriously inactive with
only three followers, two being my daughters (Girl #2 and Girl #3), I didn’t
feel I would have to do any widespread social media damage control. Girl #2
showed me how to delete the image and that was it.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
By the way, my young friend’s painting is <i>Art</i>, and definitely <i>not</i> confused with pornography… or there would be no laughing; especially because my third follower is a minor.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I was reminded of this episode while dressing in my bathroom.
Our huge mirror over the double sink vanity is a daily poke of life’s
imperfections. Today, feeling confident, I was assessing the results of the Christmas
cookies. Not too bad, I thought. “Butttt…,” I continued to think, “What you see
in a mirror and on a photo is often different,” as I looked at my phone
charging near the sink. And then another thought – “Snap a picture to see if your
‘not too bad’ assessment is justified.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Next thought: “Are you STUPID!!!” Press a <i>wrong</i> button, end up in <i>the cloud</i>, and you’re fried!<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
<b>How do you feel about technology and social media? Any stories you care to share?</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<span style="font-size: x-small;">image found <a href="https://www.broadbandcloudsolutions.co.uk/whats-in-the-cloud-for-you/">here</a></span></div>
Anitahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08180243708565855383noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5253987680038616859.post-42221776896049411922017-01-11T14:37:00.000-05:002017-01-11T14:53:14.213-05:00Adult Coloring<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCicRyEsNx117iCmb_GuvTU7dZBYP71hDjRM0UMu0pEG7kUvjV3qAqum52dji_fbFdNnMydsvBI0dkJ2XASVA4Ltcxax2azMlmhbnikvqVgUY8EsI_cSKKunEkSDkWr8tTj3mU8jONiaSh/s1600/Just+Curious+blog.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCicRyEsNx117iCmb_GuvTU7dZBYP71hDjRM0UMu0pEG7kUvjV3qAqum52dji_fbFdNnMydsvBI0dkJ2XASVA4Ltcxax2azMlmhbnikvqVgUY8EsI_cSKKunEkSDkWr8tTj3mU8jONiaSh/s400/Just+Curious+blog.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It used to be a jigsaw puzzle. And I still like jigsaw
puzzles. But now it’s a coloring book.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s not the coloring book from my past that featured Barbie
or TV cartoon characters, but a newly branded <i>adult coloring book </i>with pictures of varied and abstract animals,
nature, geometric shapes, and more. With intricate delineations, it begs to be
respected by coloring, as we used to say<i>,
in the lines.</i><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Back then, the instrument of choice for applying color to
the page was a Crayola crayon; preferably from the 64 pack featuring colors
like periwinkle, goldenrod, apricot, mulberry, cadet blue, raw umber, and cornflower.
Most of these have continued to avoid forced retirement; however, raw umber and
mulberry have bitten the dust. The unlikely burnt sienna was saved and is still
with us.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My crayons have now stepped aside for the colored pencils - 50
of them - which make me stare and contemplate more than if I only have 8 or 16 to
choose from. And when I do choose a pencil, I also use another contrasting or
complimentary color because I like the look when coloring small adjacent spaces.
Watching the page slowly transform from black and white to vivid hues is like
watching the sun rise as life become visible.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So what’s the big deal? I don’t know, but it feels good.
Everyone who writes about it calls it a stress reliever; something that makes
them relax. For me, it feels more like a creative process - fun, slightly challenging,
and a quest for patience. It allows me to join the <i>real</i> artists of the world. As for the relaxation, yes, I’m pretty
relaxed, though sometimes when I want a bright picture, as opposed to one
that’s more pastel, I bear down with the pencil and that sometimes puts a tightness
in my aging arm and shoulder. But when that happens, I just ease up.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
During the Thanksgiving weekend I visited my parents and
took colored pencils and new dollar store coloring books. (After all, I didn’t
know if Mom would want to color or not, so no need to spend ten bucks on <i>one </i>book when I could present her with 3
for $3.00… right?) After we were all stuffed with dinner and dessert, the
coloring commenced. I was glad to see my teen-aged nephew grab one of the books
because some see this as a <i>girl thing</i>,
and it’s not. (<i>Google</i> it.) Pages were
torn from another book and shared by my daughters. Mom watched. It was our last
day there. We were going home in an hour. Before we left, she said, “Are you leaving
my coloring books?"<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Yes, I did leave her coloring books. And she’s been coloring
- a lot! Whenever she’s plagued with her health issues or trying to help with
my stepfather’s health issues and it gets to be time for a time out, she gets
the book and pencils. Or instead of giving in to the sofa while watching TV,
she sits at the table coloring while glimpsing at the TV. This is turning out
to be a nice discovery for both of us. My daughter gave me a nice quality coloring book
for Christmas and I can see its addiction potential; like my jigsaw puzzles. “I’ll do one more piece before I go to bed.” And then it’s 20
more pieces. With the coloring, it’s one more leaf, or the shoes, or the eyes...</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I sound like an expert, right? Ha! I’m only on my third
page.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But… the coloring book is a keeper. I might need it as
we board the next bus that begins our travels through 2017 and beyond. Hoping
the ride will be smooth so that I will stay <i>inside
the lines.</i><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>What do you do to
unwind? Have you tried coloring?<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><br /></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>My daughter, Girl #3, prefers coloring with markers. I'll try markers soon.</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><br /></b></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://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7UPkd_GZJCL1-XOvnXG-y8E_0FXhMcRz3cQ_UvS9XlQlYoGuzSGW3kr8VL8F_xf1a-Krvq71-C2mk_Qa9ooWRHveaz38YvqpVEbeLcgy1f8qR9dA3MuC6btkjyalTYu_zOCTBkpfrBC1l/s1600/Just+Curious+blog+%25282%2529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="281" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7UPkd_GZJCL1-XOvnXG-y8E_0FXhMcRz3cQ_UvS9XlQlYoGuzSGW3kr8VL8F_xf1a-Krvq71-C2mk_Qa9ooWRHveaz38YvqpVEbeLcgy1f8qR9dA3MuC6btkjyalTYu_zOCTBkpfrBC1l/s400/Just+Curious+blog+%25282%2529.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Art by Girl #3</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><br /></b></div>
Anitahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08180243708565855383noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5253987680038616859.post-44569887323622315402016-07-17T00:28:00.002-04:002016-11-26T21:23:16.258-05:00Just Me<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhn8gtI8CV_tMVUYzb1ohOyoM6xZrjQLPjfEAGqXJKW_GFxCMP11FQSC6wgbtfj5Fhz3gxmly9Pm6BNzuHcz_O3DrEL__t76WzApIBCq_xgCxRcNWM5Lhm3TwUR5qAepIEli3iWiHBWBjzP/s1600/IMG_0087.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhn8gtI8CV_tMVUYzb1ohOyoM6xZrjQLPjfEAGqXJKW_GFxCMP11FQSC6wgbtfj5Fhz3gxmly9Pm6BNzuHcz_O3DrEL__t76WzApIBCq_xgCxRcNWM5Lhm3TwUR5qAepIEli3iWiHBWBjzP/s400/IMG_0087.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Wednesday, June 22,
2016<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><br /></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s a sunny day in Nags Head, North Carolina – 86 degrees.
I’m back at the three-level rental house after spending a blissful morning and early
afternoon sitting on my little chair under my beach umbrella on the shore of
the Atlantic Ocean. While there, I read, completed a Sudoku puzzle, wrote in my
book journal, snacked, people-watched, and nodded off. The decompression had
started.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m here two more days; an unexpected treat. My daughter
and her friends are enjoying beach week at this house and wherever else they’re
hanging out. While planning a few months ago, they discovered they needed
an adult to rent the place and to be responsible for it. After a slew of emails
was dispersed among all the potential responsible adults, the six girls agreed
to give up one of the four bedrooms to a series of three moms, which was nicely
secluded on the third level; hence, my little treat. I’m responsible adult #2.
When I leave on Friday, responsible adult #3 will take over.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Anyway, the Decompression…<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
May and June… Will these months ever calm down?! After my
youngest child graduates from college – maybe? I won’t bore you with the list of things I have to do for my kids, other peoples’ kids (which is reciprocal), friends, my
husband, and my parents, but will just say that it happens in abundance in May
and June. And this year included two funerals.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Right… the Decompression…<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I am so relaxed and content. The beach girls and I are on
different schedules and don’t see much of each other, and that is perfectly
fine. I’m sure they feel the same.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The Quiet…<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I am relishing it. There is no one to take care of. At home,
even when everyone’s gone, my sweet little epileptic dog is there: needing a
pill five times a day, needing a potty break, needing a walk, needing the ball
thrown to her. Here, at the moment, I’m sitting on the bed with my cup of tea
on the night table, Ellen on the TV. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a complete
show of hers; and actually, not seeing it now because I’m writing this blog
post, reflecting on the quiet.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Ping!<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s a text from my friend back at home.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“What’cha doin’?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Sitting on the bed, relaxing,” I text to her.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
(Back and forth we text for a couple minutes; she asks, I
answer.) <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Are you going to shop, nap, or see a movie?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
(She has suggestions for each activity.)<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Ohhh, I might go to the shopping center that’s close by.
But you know I don’t like to shop, so it would be a short trip, just to see the
area.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Then she asks, “Does it feel strange to be alone?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
(I can tell that she doesn’t <i>get it.</i> Maybe you don’t either.)<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“No,” I text back, as I laugh out loud.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
(I feel that I need to explain my weirdness, so I send
another text.)<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I can be such a recluse sometimes,” with a smiley face
emoji.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
(Actually, I’m not weird. I simply enjoy solitude.)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When I worked for corporate America twenty-one years ago and
beyond, I joined my co-workers in taking personality tests and playing
personality games. One game had us walking around to each other to write on
paper that was attached to our backs; a word that we thought described the person’s
personality type. Once the fun chaos was over, we pulled the paper from our
backs to see what others in the group thought of us.<br />
<br />
Initially interesting, eventually
annoying, these tests were supposed to aid in improving our work environment,
career development, and company productivity. I understood the intent; however,
it always seemed to end with people sizing each other up. I learned to reject
labels on myself; too confining.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But recently, a <i>personality</i>
book caught my attention. It’s called, <i>Quiet:
The Power of Introverts in a World That Can’t Stop Talking </i>by Susan Cain. I liked the
inclusion of the words <i>power</i> and <i>quiet</i> in the title, along with <i>introvert</i>, a word that seems to have a
negative connotation. These words together and the contents of the book, made me
reconsider my ban on personality tests and literature. I doubt that I’ll ever
take another personality test; however the book is multifaceted and enlightening.
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I never thought <i>introvert </i>was a bad label, but I
didn’t readily embrace it. This trip and things that I’m reading in this
book, however, are telling me to <i>own it! </i>I’ve
confirmed that introvert and shy are not necessarily synonymous. And I’ve realized
that I don’t have to apologize for <i>not</i>
missing my husband or children if they’re away or if I’m away. (This little
trip might inspire me to pack my bags more often.)</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
I am an introvert… most of the time.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
Epilogue:<br />
<br />
In addition to beach time, I visited the sand dunes at <a href="http://www.jockeysridgestatepark.com/"><span style="color: blue;">Jockey's Ridge State Park</span></a>. Ever since I saw a picture of blog friend <a href="http://abbyabbydoo.blogspot.com/2012/08/camp-crocodile.html"><span style="color: blue;">Abby's trip to the Great Sand Dunes</span></a> in Colorado, I've kept the fascinating image in my mind. Who knew that I'd have the experience in North Carolina! I also spent time at the <a href="https://www.nps.gov/wrbr/index.htm"><span style="color: blue;">Wright Brothers National Memoria</span>l</a>, another nature-girl thing to do.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6WWHdedViQD80sr3-CMrhHye5gULLjpy57emQtfOwqAa9ccFnsQ9yHv_iQZHvp3cTO0ME7c0M-yvlVUWGyZuS7ZlsHDZUZEetF9h-JY6cyNojbVP0r-O7wU6-gvRPue4szvUp7hgsOpQ1/s1600/IMG_0128.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6WWHdedViQD80sr3-CMrhHye5gULLjpy57emQtfOwqAa9ccFnsQ9yHv_iQZHvp3cTO0ME7c0M-yvlVUWGyZuS7ZlsHDZUZEetF9h-JY6cyNojbVP0r-O7wU6-gvRPue4szvUp7hgsOpQ1/s320/IMG_0128.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTWJF-sndu7_aW3kbSJCJM1KOM_Dqkov9nc9IqMLC0-Dq8DyB4enOcMBfEhP2hfz9qSB6gLwnc8dltgIThUd4kh2yUbgNu0pmyLMH1s44mbN1pq5jeEv1RtkwLSWTxEvC2BMZfzN7i_jCP/s1600/IMG_0125.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTWJF-sndu7_aW3kbSJCJM1KOM_Dqkov9nc9IqMLC0-Dq8DyB4enOcMBfEhP2hfz9qSB6gLwnc8dltgIThUd4kh2yUbgNu0pmyLMH1s44mbN1pq5jeEv1RtkwLSWTxEvC2BMZfzN7i_jCP/s320/IMG_0125.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
Sand Dunes at Jockey's Ridge State Park</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieDMTQwaXSi8IBw1L9C8ST7eNcecve4_RjDGp0BbghFUROn9reL-lV1Ys2cub7jccEsEnDipnzLZGbs99FbYeKeeqhMviWCOJjOPNbRSTtT9TAeCwW7wCa57ju9EPg7ZEH4sTCHCHLe-NZ/s1600/IMG_0212.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieDMTQwaXSi8IBw1L9C8ST7eNcecve4_RjDGp0BbghFUROn9reL-lV1Ys2cub7jccEsEnDipnzLZGbs99FbYeKeeqhMviWCOJjOPNbRSTtT9TAeCwW7wCa57ju9EPg7ZEH4sTCHCHLe-NZ/s320/IMG_0212.JPG" width="213" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi622-KNC9EIxAi51mV0bjoHwBHp4J6TS-5eEL1qKT_sRqsw1_Ey5DFxYuJ2cbByxzCfKma1bp_WgShwvCvwVKhS1PvnTTmGONTAyftZ1IHLrn3_upGvAXGRYXM6Xw9fxoCKCqo0VcnZCv_/s1600/IMG_0170.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi622-KNC9EIxAi51mV0bjoHwBHp4J6TS-5eEL1qKT_sRqsw1_Ey5DFxYuJ2cbByxzCfKma1bp_WgShwvCvwVKhS1PvnTTmGONTAyftZ1IHLrn3_upGvAXGRYXM6Xw9fxoCKCqo0VcnZCv_/s320/IMG_0170.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
Wright Brothers National Memorial</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<b>Care to share things about your personality or temperament? Do you spend time alone?</b></div>
Anitahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08180243708565855383noreply@blogger.com29tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5253987680038616859.post-38260396946526232512016-06-20T01:00:00.001-04:002019-05-02T14:42:47.079-04:00Phase I - Two Down, One to Go<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBXnK9oekpn3Bh1Ji5fSJrhRBk59U9ixtwb31vNytuy_aEPjpB56ajpTJivPZHy7_3FBJP1XCERbQ0oKOtj8sXn6ILOn8t0viFnqM9vvX48yHl7iP4nggsePi8-M5P23PqWLftot5GAoYS/s1600/hkm1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBXnK9oekpn3Bh1Ji5fSJrhRBk59U9ixtwb31vNytuy_aEPjpB56ajpTJivPZHy7_3FBJP1XCERbQ0oKOtj8sXn6ILOn8t0viFnqM9vvX48yHl7iP4nggsePi8-M5P23PqWLftot5GAoYS/s400/hkm1.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilVBYsy_oxEIqog0rRZ3V2nN7_7giAKOtt6G5blVlc2xuMylNyQFp51_l-Hl3RvLx0ZV0kA0GTWBAHth5EepSlcFedA94gc5L1kfDymtCZgR9NiHNvN4W2XyyyELgMir3er6kw0xu8g-8l/s1600/hkm2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilVBYsy_oxEIqog0rRZ3V2nN7_7giAKOtt6G5blVlc2xuMylNyQFp51_l-Hl3RvLx0ZV0kA0GTWBAHth5EepSlcFedA94gc5L1kfDymtCZgR9NiHNvN4W2XyyyELgMir3er6kw0xu8g-8l/s400/hkm2.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Girl #1, Me, Girl # 2, Girl #3</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Girl #2 graduated high school on June 17.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Life has been busy... <a href="http://btdas.blogspot.com/2014/06/phase-i-one-down-two-to-go.html"><span style="color: blue;">again</span></a> <span style="font-size: xx-small;">(click on "again")</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
I miss you all. Be back soon.</div>
Anitahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08180243708565855383noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5253987680038616859.post-89243260021969357032016-04-29T18:38:00.000-04:002016-04-29T22:16:40.247-04:00Beyond Celebritydom<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiurKlQJTs_W8pC-KhyDTYm1sitx7I6hxuKIbhQsSO75maUK9zOdyAIhVybYBrWVLCBSpCZCw-nRXM31rmS1tgYTtxigLUTVatgRTK08_oyBrrxPknlUymduPHA_7800In_acmSsApD2EYE/s1600/GMA.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="215" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiurKlQJTs_W8pC-KhyDTYm1sitx7I6hxuKIbhQsSO75maUK9zOdyAIhVybYBrWVLCBSpCZCw-nRXM31rmS1tgYTtxigLUTVatgRTK08_oyBrrxPknlUymduPHA_7800In_acmSsApD2EYE/s320/GMA.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Kelly and Michael. If you don’t recognize these paired
names, then you are not a Celebritydom visitor. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
One of my visits happen at 10 a.m. two or three times a
week. I sit at my kitchen high chair, sideways to the counter, with my 15 inch
TV in front of me as I eat my breakfast. I don’t usually stay for the entire
show – unless the kitchen needs major cleaning - but I always make it through
the host chat.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Like a lot of people, I bought the chemistry between the two
of them; the “TV wife” that Michael referred to her as, and how he called her “my
lady” while telling her to cover her coffee mug before they shook their confetti
sticks. When I heard that he’s leaving, I
gasped with disappointed surprise. <i>Why?</i>
His position, which was likely approved by Kelly, a job that catapulted him
into the big league, beyond the “already successful” status that he was
enjoying before <i>Live</i>… <i>Why?</i> Doesn’t he
owe more than four years?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>D</i><i>oes he?</i> Or is it
my selfish desire to be entertained while I eat my cereal and fruit, or on a ravenous
day, my bacon, eggs, and toast? Yes… that’s what it is. My charming and
personable breakfast companion is leaving me.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As the days passed and each gossip TV show added more to the
debacle (the snubbing of Kelly from the powers that be), my thoughts and
interest grew along with them; especially during the highly anticipated re-entry
of Kelly to the show after a few steam-filled days off. She’d be back on Tuesday,
everyone was saying… which just happened to be the morning of my mammogram.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Umph! I’ll have to
record it!</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Funny… I never did watch it; didn’t have to. Every time the
TV was on, someone was showing a clip of Kelly’s angry, yet composed, speech.
Between her and <i>Prince</i>, I sacrificed <i>Wheel of Fortune</i> and <i>Jeopardy</i> to watch <i>ET</i> and <i>Inside Edition</i>.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Anyway… As I watched, I sensed a vulnerability in this woman
who reportedly earns $15 or $20 million a year. And then it hit me… <i>All that money, and her power is limited.</i>
She’s at the mercy of the men at the top of the pyramid; the men who took one
of theirs – fellow male specie, Michael – and placed him in a position where
they presume he’ll make more money for them. And I’m sure they paid him a boatload
to do so.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So yes, this goes beyond celebritydom. This is business;
real life. How did this happen to, I assume, the smart and savvy Kelly? I can’t
help but see her in another light now – still confident and funny, however different. It may sound
like I’m blaming the victim, but I’m not. Quite the opposite, actually. Someone
else’s disrespect has cast a shadow on her; albeit, temporarily, I’m sure. But
Kelly, like regular worker bees, has to watch her back from now on. And Michael
– aside from the money – I understand why he’s moving on. He has an opportunity
to move beyond his sports job and his play job to <i>GMA</i>, where his proximity to serious issues and a different kind of
production will add another dimension to his career. Best wishes to both of
them.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Always be prepared for your next act.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
Anitahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08180243708565855383noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5253987680038616859.post-16269791516146884242016-04-11T00:01:00.000-04:002016-04-11T00:01:12.582-04:00Body Shaming<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s not what you think.
Well, maybe it is. I had my first overt experience with it a few days
ago; this newly coined phrase that defines messages used to tell people that
his or her body is not what it should look like. Based on my brief encounters
with media explanations, i.e. Internet, TV, and tabloid magazines while
standing in the grocery store line, the majority of the <i>opinions</i> express disgust with a person’s weight; what they feel is
an abundance of it. But I’ve also heard body parts being honed in on, like
height, breast and/or butt size, facial features, and hair. On rare occasions,
I hear or read of a thin person getting a lashing. And it <i>seems</i> that the recipients are mostly women.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I love food. Currently, I’m having an affair with avocados
and <i>Tostito</i> corn chips. It’s my overly snacked snack of the day, times 3.
Another soul mate is buttery shortbread cookies. It’s the dessert of the day - a
treat after lunch. I decide how many I’m having, eat them (2), and then return
for more. Both of these pleasures surely don’t appeal to everyone, but I’ll
bet you have something that you love experiencing on the taste buds of your
tongue, too!<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So I get it… the hardship of resisting something that makes
us happy, if only for a few minutes, that may have unwanted consequences. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Those of you who know me are saying, “What are you talking
about, Anita!” And those of you who don’t, are either sympathizing with me or
formulating your opinion or feedback. So this is what happened:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My dog has a sore on her belly. I take her to the vet and
like humans, the first thing done is the weigh-in. Little Layla steps onto the
scale and the vet announces, “21 pounds.” (I always wonder if they translate the kilograms correctly, but that’s beside the point.) I say, “She’s
plump,” to which the vet responds in an austere tone, “She’s <i>plump-ER</i>. She was 20 pounds the last
time she was here.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
What can I say? I was hoping Layla would have been less
weight or at least the same, but I know the vet is right. I let
the comment go. <o:p></o:p>(Maybe I shouldn’t refer to her as <i>Little </i>Layla.)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
After shaving around the wound, cleaning and lancing it, the
vet decides to staple the quarter sized sore. Tool in hand, assistant standing
by to help, she squeezes Layla’s skin, but it won’t come together enough for
the narrow-width tool to clamp over it.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I'm thinking that she's putting on the demonstration purposely, knowing
that it won't fit, just so she can (and does) say, “Her belly is too big to
stretch the skin any more than it already is.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Gotcha, you horrible
dog abuser! How dare you overfeed her and put her in this shape.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
No she didn’t say that, but in my mind, that’s what I hear, so
I whine my explanation:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Ever since she had to take prednisone, her appetite has
been so big. She seems hungry all the time. She bangs on the pantry door and it
drives us crazy! Do you think the meds she takes now make her hungry?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That garners a little sympathy from the vet:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“With her neurological issues,” she says as she gestures the
cuckoo sign near Layla’s head, “she might be begging as a habit, or she’s
confused. Or possibly, she has thyroid issues. She’s going to need blood work
soon.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Tired after sitting in the waiting room over a half hour in
a place that causes me mental anguish, my thought is, “Whatever.” I’ve been here
so many times over the last fourteen months… but that’s another blog post.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Anyway, I gather up my sweet little porker, pay the 200 plus
bucks, and proceed home to begin her treatment of antibiotics, ear drops (oh
yeah, she has ear infections), ear flush, and pain pills (that she doesn’t
need.)<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Did the body shaming work? For right now, yes. We’ve started
the diet for the tenth time. I’m measuring her food, substituting green beans
for snacks, and trying to limit my trips to the kitchen which is Layla’s signal
to ask (paw my ankles) for food. Wish us luck!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Thoughts? regarding people, animals, or both</b></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOoTs5LOdwfZOVstUDeHgaOahI-8L2O_ZxhOmfIsaf1cBAgR5aFzpOU00Ne4r0eaTCyrD520lg2uX8n-Sq6rdgLKLb_gp0ln-cVmjA37w9zkPUNiyZaEQ2_vqzID7X1isos8GA8J4yx-4T/s1600/squiggly.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOoTs5LOdwfZOVstUDeHgaOahI-8L2O_ZxhOmfIsaf1cBAgR5aFzpOU00Ne4r0eaTCyrD520lg2uX8n-Sq6rdgLKLb_gp0ln-cVmjA37w9zkPUNiyZaEQ2_vqzID7X1isos8GA8J4yx-4T/s320/squiggly.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
Fill in the hole with more squiggly hairs and it is a replica of what Layla ate during one of her prednisone induced hunger attacks about a year ago. My friend and I took our dogs on their poopy walk and parts of this, color included, exited Layla's rear. After our initial Ewwww, we came to the conclusion that worms are not lime green.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;">image found <a href="http://playtherapysupply.com/">here</a></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<b><br /></b></div>
Anitahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08180243708565855383noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5253987680038616859.post-22111478766305993952016-03-31T21:48:00.000-04:002016-03-31T21:48:52.153-04:00The Mommy Wars... Dare I?<div class="MsoNormal">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLb6MhJawubGr1zbXBSfyLClkzSYyTVMMk1bgXZ20n5tR5BfVD6-k6otXF-fP98Cq4JG8Ha1Od79hiFM00ehMTOdNfhCI4-wvlx36fLrSPPl5OWETgQzmgIda_8_BX7LMFmFkIdZvewS6I/s1600/opposite.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLb6MhJawubGr1zbXBSfyLClkzSYyTVMMk1bgXZ20n5tR5BfVD6-k6otXF-fP98Cq4JG8Ha1Od79hiFM00ehMTOdNfhCI4-wvlx36fLrSPPl5OWETgQzmgIda_8_BX7LMFmFkIdZvewS6I/s1600/opposite.jpg" /></a></div>
The inspiration for this post comes from 7:20 a.m.
basketball shooting on my neighbor’s driveway. The dad and his three elementary
school kids, two girls and a boy, dressed for work and school, shoot ball after
ball in the great arrival of spring weather; waiting for the yellow bus to arrive
as I walk by with Layla the dog. I think, “What a great way to start the
day.”<o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My thoughts continue to flow, taking me back to <i>my </i>kids’
elementary school days which are not that much in the distant past. I was a <i>stay-at-home mom</i>, a title thrust upon
me when my first child was born; a supposed upgrade from <i>housewife</i> and <i>homemaker</i>.
I wore the label nonchalantly, as I was not so much into the semantics then;
however, very much into what it meant to be a stay-at-home mom. I bought it; the whole package: the <i>joy</i> of taking care
of my newborn and toddlers throughout the day - diapers, crying, bathing, playing,
feeding <i>(breast feeding really was a joy,
for that was when I sat on the couch with my metaphorical bonbons and watched
TV)</i>; in addition to sparse house cleaning, answering phone calls, bill
paying, meal prep, etc. No, it wasn’t all joy, but I felt proud and triumphant,
as well as blessed. I was doing this! I was given this opportunity to not have
to <i>work <span style="font-size: x-small;">(cough, cough)</span></i>, as well as my
kids not having to be bundled up and rushed out to another location. I wondered
how the <i>other</i> moms did it.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
At play group, the <i>discussion</i>
would come up here and there with varying degrees of pompous attitudes.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i> I just
can’t leave my baby with someone else.<o:p></o:p></i><br />
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<i> We
make it on one income; they can do it too if they give up the new cars<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<i> and
vacations.</i><br />
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<i> I
feel sorry for them missing out on all the things that the babysitter gets to<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<i> experience.</i><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I need not go on. All mothers know the dialog, as well as
the dialog on the other side of the coin where <i>9
to 5 mom</i> wonders how <i>stay-at-home mom</i>
can give up her career to <i>stay home</i>…
things like that.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Before I continue – Is this still a topic? Hold on for a
minute. I’m going over to <i>Google</i> to
see.<o:p></o:p><br />
.<br />
.<br />
.<br />
.<br />
Yep, it is. However, it appears that the war now encompasses
other parenting choices, too, like breast-feeding, the right/wrong age for
pregnancy, the family bed, homeschooling, etc.; but back to <i>how and where she works.</i><br />
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I can hardly scratch the surface of this topic and it is not
my intention to do so; one reason being that I don’t believe that there is any
objective right or wrong answer. Women around the globe have babies; across
cultural, economic, racial, and religious boundaries. Are we all supposed to
spend the exact amount of time with them? Feed them the same amount of breast
milk? Supply them with the same amount of monetary privileges?<o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Impossible.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And yet, the women of the world have managed to produce and
raise some pretty amazing people who have managed to keep this world going;
women who are Amish, women who are doctors, evangelical Christians, teachers,
and farmers; women who marry and have kids young or when older; single moms, factory
workers, those pursuing degrees, world leaders or women married to world leaders - all
different and raising their children as best they know how.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As a card carrying AARP member, I’ve progressed to a place
of contentment when it comes to other people’s kids. Mine are not perfect and neither
are theirs, but as long as they are loved, respected, and taught positive
values, they’ll all have equal chances to have healthy minds and lives.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
So when I see the kids <i>happily</i>
playing basketball on the driveway with Dad in the morning and with the nanny
in the afternoon, I figure, relatively speaking, all is well.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">image found<a href="http://blogs.gartner.com/"> here</a></span></div>
Anitahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08180243708565855383noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5253987680038616859.post-8555457130370157182016-02-19T10:25:00.000-05:002016-02-19T10:25:48.591-05:00Taken for Granted<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3i0FQEkrzdeCi60xP3RJxG4u73QD95HAlW0eQH402dmAa1RYdgd73B1PsoKLhFUbYvBllhGR_Yz4yuOMDzc2GeWdxgXbmKUApnvXuWa8Vd8CYclXlZvCA0JAL4kegAU4-KfqWKVS_yDbt/s1600/We-often-take-for-granted-the-very-things.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="151" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3i0FQEkrzdeCi60xP3RJxG4u73QD95HAlW0eQH402dmAa1RYdgd73B1PsoKLhFUbYvBllhGR_Yz4yuOMDzc2GeWdxgXbmKUApnvXuWa8Vd8CYclXlZvCA0JAL4kegAU4-KfqWKVS_yDbt/s200/We-often-take-for-granted-the-very-things.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Coincidentally, each of my daughters and I have had a
conversation this week about situations involving people being taken for
granted which prompted me to give it further thought. Independent soul I am, I
tend to notice when actions or feelings are not balanced between two
individuals; not that everything has to be tit for tat, but it shouldn’t have
the proportions of Person A giving 95% and Person B giving 5%.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’ve avoided the obligatory, reciprocal acts by doing things
on my own or by explaining to people in my life that there are certain things I rarely do – like having a big party at my home. Family and close friends
are as much as I can handle, and even that’s because my husband does the
planning, shopping, and cooking! I could never be in a supper club where, let’s
say, five couples have a meal together once a month, rotating homes and cooking
duties; sometimes, the host doing all the cooking and buying all the booze. Or the
other kind of dinner club where mothers of young children trade nights to serve
each other dinner, giving nights off from cooking. I knew a group of women who
did this. On Monday, Mary would cook for Jane, Linda, and Marsha’s families;
plus delivery. Then she’d have three nights of dinners delivered to her family
from Jane on Tuesday, Linda on Wednesday, and Marsha on Thursday.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Not my thing, but I see the advantages of sharing. It’s a win-win
for all involved when no one in the group is taking the others for granted.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So if people know that I don’t host big parties, I’m fine if
I don’t get invited to theirs; or they can invite me if they’d like. (We
usually show up with something in hand.)<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The Conversations:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
One of my daughters has noticed that her printer is being
“borrowed” by her college housemates at a growing rate, resulting in increasing
ink and paper expense. And let’s not forget wear and tear. Nice girls, they
are: they ask, but they don’t offer – money, that is.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Girl #2 has noticed that having a car to drive means “chauffeuring.”
Fortunately, her closest friends have access to family vehicles and they take
turns at being the driver; however, she sees other situations at school where
the balance is lacking. Some cases can’t be helped (they’re teens), but an
offer of helping with gas is always an option.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Girl #3 isn’t behind the wheel yet and has to rely on parent
chauffeurs – my husband and me or friends’ parents. I’ll admit it – when
another parent drives, it’s a treat for me; however, I’ve had to explain to
darling daughter that the carpooling has to be shared and that she needs to ask
us so that we can figure out if it’s our turn or not. Don’t want to be known as
the slacker parents who take the others for granted!<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Bottom line: In all their conversations, the solution
advised was good ol’ communication, as awkward as it can be. If I’m taking
someone for granted, I want to hear it... <i>Really</i>. My feelings might get hurt, I may be
embarrassed, or even annoyed, but if it’s true…
*sigh* I’ll do some something about it. And likewise, if someone’s using
me, or you, knowingly or not, it needs some thought and maybe some action.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<b>The conversations
with my girls pertain to kid stuff, but adults have the same issues… right?<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<b>Thoughts?</b><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<b><br /></b></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Image credit is written on the image</span></div>
Anitahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08180243708565855383noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5253987680038616859.post-20965513863507597252016-01-30T22:20:00.001-05:002016-01-31T08:24:42.697-05:00The Letter<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi69COkZq5IQ-5l1Nu5XBV7USeGIK0Qy0lvQMYTfuB_eiXJlhmlLXcEsYhzCeOQsXal29hEvxQgs_gIORjOPsMKUO33Ha-FSIG-cT8lIY1Jw01GLe0CyfzLshs65h-tq7twkNjd3IIa_yua/s1600/woman-of-letters.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="153" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi69COkZq5IQ-5l1Nu5XBV7USeGIK0Qy0lvQMYTfuB_eiXJlhmlLXcEsYhzCeOQsXal29hEvxQgs_gIORjOPsMKUO33Ha-FSIG-cT8lIY1Jw01GLe0CyfzLshs65h-tq7twkNjd3IIa_yua/s200/woman-of-letters.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I suppose all of us have had a relationship with someone and
lost touch. College roommates, co-workers, girlfriends/boyfriends, relatives, and friends - we are reminded of them at any given time. Looking at a book on a shelf
can pop the conversation with Mary into your mind. You’re driving past the restaurant at 5<sup>th</sup>
and Main when you remember the meal you shared with John. What’s Mary doing
nowadays? And John?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Generally, I think of her or him as living a normal life, as
I am. I don’t perceive any horrible situations because somehow the grapevine
would have done its job and passed along the info; and sad but true, bad news
travels faster than good news.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I don’t envision anything grand either. Most of us don’t
change vastly from who we were ten or twenty years ago. Our trajectories seem
predetermined. A dynamic go-getter as a young person is probably still that
person, excelling with money and all its perks. Those who have long practiced
their faith, I assume, still have peace with their beliefs and are encouraging
others. The talented and creative should be deeply entrenched in their
passions. The givers are still giving; the haters are still hating… Unless that
horrible or sublime thing has happened, deeming someone not recognizable as the
person of years past.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The majority - traveling through life on a general path - we’re
progressing along at average pace, having our ups and downs, alternating
between “one step forward and two back” and “two steps forward and one step
back ;” hopefully more of the latter, as it is a pace that allows us to move in a long term positive direction.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Once these old acquaintances enter our minds, we delve into
the reasons for our renewed curiosity. Maybe we liked them a lot and wonder why
we didn’t stay in touch. We’re lonely and/or bored, perhaps; or simply, our
lives have freed up and we have time to renew the relationship. One of my
girlfriends is seeing a man who was at college with us after her long marriage
that ended a couple years ago. How did they reconnect – <i>facebook</i>, through friends, phone call, text, email, a letter?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Ahhh… you say; <i>a
letter</i>. We used to do that.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Letters: I’m told that you’re good at it or you’re not. I’m
good at it. The eye-pleasing stationery and the pen that connects to it with
ease, the quiet space needed for thinking, transferring my message to the paper…
I like that.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Emails: Not the same. Quick thoughts, rapid movement of the
fingers, SEND, BAM, it’s gone! Was the intent of the message accurately relayed? After getting an email from a businessperson and
discussing its content with my friend Denise, I told her that it didn’t answer
my concerns, though all the concise wording was there. Denise reminded me that
writing, especially an email, is not the best form of communication for some, including herself.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I prefer to talk on the phone,” she said. And as I speak
with her often on the phone, I get it. Her honesty and patience are palpable.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Me… I tend to eject every uncontrollable, incomplete thought
or sentence from my mouth, possibly sending the wrong message; so…</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m gearing up to write <i>a
letter</i> to a friend from the past. When we met, we were excited to have each
other in our lives, chatting incessantly about the things we had in common
and opining about life. We spent time together with our kids and introduced our
spouses; it was the honeymoon phase.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And then the conversation and outings became less frequent. We
began to see our differences, though nothing disturbed me about her. She was an
inspiration – intelligent, organized, good at domesticity, etc. I envied her,
which evoked a pinch of self-consciousness here and there.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In hindsight, I wonder why? Maybe it was… the pending menopause. Ha! (Gotta blame it on something.)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That was nine years ago. Since then, I’ve seen her a couple
times; both of us hurried with errands, but stopping to give the quick update,
mostly on our kids, and then saying the pleasant good-bye.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Should I write <i>the
letter</i> to her, asking what happened? It was a worthwhile friendship. I’m
reminded of her occasionally and I’m curious about her life and family. Not seeking
a gal-pal relationship; just a dissipation of the cloud of wondering.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><br /></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Hmmm... What do you think?</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>Any old acquaintances that you're curious about?</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><br /></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: x-small;">image found<span style="color: blue;"><a href="http://tricyclereaders.com/2014/12/19/write-stuff/"> here</a></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
Anitahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08180243708565855383noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5253987680038616859.post-79686561393394646522015-10-14T18:10:00.000-04:002015-10-14T18:10:00.777-04:00We're Pregnant!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCz3hfHlHLAEsXQ9RqLGWGbsq4bSYi-AY4hYGfR7ShI7fWMHKHXccnS38ZFPp82yQNq_lNLgN_l-MluGteJ-O5rkvqdwA51003pKurTs_4TkLRhb5dIaDf1wTIgCmP0C_XlYIQuTISBIlS/s1600/we%2527re+pregnant.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCz3hfHlHLAEsXQ9RqLGWGbsq4bSYi-AY4hYGfR7ShI7fWMHKHXccnS38ZFPp82yQNq_lNLgN_l-MluGteJ-O5rkvqdwA51003pKurTs_4TkLRhb5dIaDf1wTIgCmP0C_XlYIQuTISBIlS/s200/we%2527re+pregnant.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">So I’m walking through my house with my cleaning caddy, having
just finished the toilets. </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I call this routine
Toilet Tuesday.</span></i><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> My sick, out of school daughter is lying on the family room
sofa watching Kathie Lee and Hoda, when I glance over to the TV and there’s
this big phrase, “We’re Pregnant!” spread across the screen. Kathie Lee and Hoda
are opining about Chrissy Teigen and John Legend’s impending life change, I
guess… I’m not sure because my mind was, once again, thinking about how ridiculous
this politically correct phrase is. My attempt to get a reaction from my fifteen
year old daughter </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">(Why do they say that?
Your daddy wasn’t pregnant – I was!)</span></i><span style="font-family: Calibri;">, who usually makes a joke or rolls her
eyes when I say anything that could remotely be related to what she thinks of
as feminism, was met with a brief look at me and silence, as if to say, “I’m
not going there, Mommy.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I know… you’re either thinking about your own opinion of, “We’re
pregnant,” or you’re saying, “Here’s Anita again! Blogging out of the blue!”
Yes, my last post was in January. Eventually, I’ll whine about why I haven’t
posted lately or visited your blogs; but today, back to “We’re Pregnant.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">When did this start? Is it here to stay? Dictionary dot com
defines pregnant as… well, you know what it says.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Why do I notice it? Am I annoyed by it? Why does it
matter?</span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Will I evolve to the state of </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">not</span></i><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> noticing it and begin to say it,
too? When my daughter marries and gets pregnant (in that order), maybe I’ll
excitedly announce to my friends, “My daughter and her husband are pregnant!”
Or, “They’re pregnant! I’m going to be a grandma!” </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Where did this come from and who started it? A woman who
wanted to give her husband or significant other more credit beyond being the
fertilizer? </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: Calibri;">A man who needs more of a
connection to the gestation period? I say, “</span><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><i>Men</i>, if you need more validation, </span></span><span style="font-family: Calibri;">brag on how much more house cleaning you’re doing because </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Your Wife</span></i><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> is pregnant and needs help… only
if you </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">are</span></i><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> cleaning more.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I wonder who else has this fixation on semantics regarding this
topic. After I post, I’ll head over to </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Google</span></i><span style="font-family: Calibri;">
to find answers to my 10 questions.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span>
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Thoughts?</span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span></b><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Congratulations Chrissy & John!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: xx-small;">image found <a href="https://www.etsy.com/listing/166409965/pregnant-mom-and-dad-baby-shower-cake">here</a></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span></div>
<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike>Anitahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08180243708565855383noreply@blogger.com26tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5253987680038616859.post-47569414697795262552015-01-24T21:52:00.000-05:002015-11-27T08:02:07.396-05:00Holiday Remnants<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8l_qYlWJgk-PGGCcRqs_2L2CGp1bvrCdprZ_PnKHd1sxuepl5JZP91C_FfK_BiBLtVjMZ2OHvldUx5L_KJuSDYzx9i8teIhEgDUsU2JUrX4uhl-9brmlT3Oj3lmTR1PY2wMHllX25PnQx/s1600/Christmas+tree.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8l_qYlWJgk-PGGCcRqs_2L2CGp1bvrCdprZ_PnKHd1sxuepl5JZP91C_FfK_BiBLtVjMZ2OHvldUx5L_KJuSDYzx9i8teIhEgDUsU2JUrX4uhl-9brmlT3Oj3lmTR1PY2wMHllX25PnQx/s1600/Christmas+tree.JPG" width="133" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Most of us have moved on from Christmas and other holidays
that were celebrated during the last couple of months. I'm trying, but <s>procrastination</s>
the busyness of life still leaves me with a naked Christmas tree in my living
room, waiting to be disassembled and stored alongside her sister who temporarily resided in
the family room. Whose idea was it to have two trees?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My husband and three children love Christmas. My feelings
about it necessitate another blog post. Basically, sometimes I feel that I can
skip it or do it biennially; at other times, the joy of the season creeps
through the frenzy and I'm smiling and happy to be giving and celebrating my
blessings. Either way, the actual day is always fun.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This past Christmas, the blessings included dinner with my
husband, kids, and dog. My sister-in-law and her family came and so did my
brother-in-law – my husband's other sibling. Darling Husband cooked a scrumptious
meal that was partially worked off at the ping pong table in the basement
before putting it back on with the Jesus cake dessert. The next day we traveled to my parents'
home where another traditional dinner was waiting. The girls were glad to see
their Uncle Joey, too, complete with checks in hand to their delight.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Another holiday blessing is the reconnecting. A whole year
can go by without talking to a family member or friend, but when December rolls
around, I always make or receive a call or two… or three. Most of the time, it
seems that people are progressing along on the same path. For others, incidents
have dictated that they rediscover life in a different way.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Before I digress any further, I have a question for you.
What do you do with those family photo Christmas and holiday cards that everyone (except me) seems to be sending out these days? During my annual summer beach
trip, I see families all dressed in white, posing against the vast blue ocean for the perfect shot before sunset. "They're getting the card ready," I say.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Every year, there's an increase in the family photo cards we
receive, but the Christian, winter, and Santa themed Hallmark (or equivalent)
cards are still holding their own. As much as I like the traditional, artsy,
professional cards, created by talented artists, designers, and writers, I have to admit that the "choose-your-template, do-it-yourself" cards are
getting more viewing time from me. Some of this year's crop include a bride
and groom, happy people in pajamas, happy people eating in restaurants, and
happy people on family vacations at the Grand Canyon and at one of those huge national
parks. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We get the new baby photo cards, the photos where the pet steals
the attention, the little kids who've grown another three inches since last
year's card, the coordinated sweater shots, the three or four generation family
group shot, the sailing, the skiing…<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A couple families did what I did one year (my one and only
year of attempting to keep up with the Christmas photo-card Joneses): they sent a card
with a 4x6 family photo slipped inside. It was relatively easy the year that
I did it because we just happened to have a family photo from a summer outing –
you know, the one where a stranger volunteers to take the "whole
family" because he or she sees you taking pictures of each other in partial
combinations. Yes, that one. Anyway, I printed several copies of that shot for the
several cards that I intended to send out. Somewhere in a drawer, several
copies never left the CVS envelope. Oh well… I tried.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Before I move on, I <i>must</i>
mention the 5x7, 4-sided glossy card featuring a preppy family of four in jackets,
pearls, and ties… worthy of a portrait in the library of their probable mansion. The
inside contained the annual letter and the card back had a picture of the sons
tubing in Greece. This card came from one of my husband's rich friends. My
friends aren't rich. Hmmm… actually, some are.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Years ago, when I received photo cards, <i> </i>I placed them in an album –
the kind where you peel back the clear protector page and place the photo on
the sticky page and then press the protector page back on it. (Remember
those?) Surely, I couldn't throw away "a picture" of someone!<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It took about three years to fill it. I don't think it would
take three years to fill an album nowadays. So what do you do with the photos?
Admire, display, and toss? Ours have been accumulating, along with the traditional cards,
in a couple of festive baskets. It used to be one basket. One day I had the
bright idea of scanning them into a picture file on my computer. <i>One day</i>, I scanned a few. There will be
no more scanning.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So the photo cards, in addition to the cookie tins, etc, have to go... eventually. I'll never achieve my semi-minimalist (dream on Anita) status if DH and I continue to keep all the special greetings and gifts that come through our door. However, my sentimental nature lives on. Continue to send us your traditional cards, photo cards, notes, letters, fruit, candy, and cookies. We love it, and we love you.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Do you send Christmas or holiday photo cards, traditional cards, or letters?</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><br /></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Are there any special joys and/or particular challenges you face during the holiday season?</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><br /></b></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1fDSiUCUZjLMavlCcieKz3Zn_rt6hg2IjnXjWh_S6TbXoRNuuwnI_LBvmNrDGVZIQbEwnVqrotNyaJGXuB4mAO-WFqCh1zQQ8iu1W5JLSwuJF2kSlG0QhaFJDL9li_46ad1JatLtCvxnQ/s1600/btdas.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1fDSiUCUZjLMavlCcieKz3Zn_rt6hg2IjnXjWh_S6TbXoRNuuwnI_LBvmNrDGVZIQbEwnVqrotNyaJGXuB4mAO-WFqCh1zQQ8iu1W5JLSwuJF2kSlG0QhaFJDL9li_46ad1JatLtCvxnQ/s1600/btdas.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><br /></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
Anitahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08180243708565855383noreply@blogger.com23tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5253987680038616859.post-73224806006792567772014-11-17T15:38:00.000-05:002015-02-13T22:32:42.890-05:00Car Shopping<div class="MsoNormal">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOWlgW5RTA2if8PqmJA0k_yvyOvps2z1y5WZtA7uGS_lrYRaQVHX3Vv5_nr1w-eQ8RUmN94Ioanox2IDdQxNcKmRfUNjE9vzYv_aWWlTOcS0ZV16RStwga3bMovEglj_CtKjTp0DYiKJtD/s1600/car+shopping.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOWlgW5RTA2if8PqmJA0k_yvyOvps2z1y5WZtA7uGS_lrYRaQVHX3Vv5_nr1w-eQ8RUmN94Ioanox2IDdQxNcKmRfUNjE9vzYv_aWWlTOcS0ZV16RStwga3bMovEglj_CtKjTp0DYiKJtD/s1600/car+shopping.jpg" height="220" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSqGBZ43-3nspiE_UZvp-HX5uIdggFJayC-hLvNj7WhM2yCLUBCED3EHPQDjGIr8wz5hmjHXwVw33qp7io_xTq_qBZNZyoAvukf3Q94Fjf5eUlYEALygJyqJItPoFwl_DzTgr87bzUIE77/s1600/car+shopping-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSqGBZ43-3nspiE_UZvp-HX5uIdggFJayC-hLvNj7WhM2yCLUBCED3EHPQDjGIr8wz5hmjHXwVw33qp7io_xTq_qBZNZyoAvukf3Q94Fjf5eUlYEALygJyqJItPoFwl_DzTgr87bzUIE77/s1600/car+shopping-2.jpg" height="212" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
I'm on my fifth car. The first was bought in 1978, and the current, in 2012 - 36 years of car ownership. I'd say my track record is good; though "good" for some people is buying a new or different car every 2 to 3 years; and for others, owning a car 10 to 20 years. The former are what I call "car people;" giving priority to numerous factors beyond practicality.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
Because I'm not a "car person" (until I need one), I'm not an authority on what those factors are. Someone might say, "Niiice car," to someone driving a convertible or a sporty car. Or it could be a conservative, sleek, high-end vehicle; or a truck. I seldom ask people why they chose what they drive.<br />
<br />
However, I've had friends throughout the years who have brought up the "new car" conversation and volunteered the rationale for, um, <i>their</i> choices. I'll bet you're not surprised that <i>at least half</i> of the women let their husbands choose or are influenced by another significant male figure in their lives. Mostly, the reasons I hear are: 1) I don't know anything about cars. 2) I don't care what it looks like; I just need something to drive that has air conditioning, heat, and music. 3) My husband loves cars, so I'll let him have fun choosing it. That's what they tell me. I express my congratulations and we move on to the next topic.<br />
<br />
Except this one time, B. tells me that her husband surprised her with a new car. Yep – just drove up in a sparkling, navy blue crossover and handed her the keys. She and I had met at the mall (her choice) to walk and talk. When we left, I got a glimpse of the shiny new car; a stand out in the parking lot. At that time, crossovers were the newest trend in vehicles, so I had a few questions for her. She went from faking happiness to moaning about how part of her rear view was blocked by some part of the car that I can't remember; basically, because of the shape of the car. What could I say? I think I just said, "Awww." What I didn't say, was, "You're stuck with a car that you don't like."<br />
<br />
Of my five vehicles, only one eased its way into my possession without the benefit of my choice. Darling Husband fell in love with a mid-sized SUV and went down his list of reasons why we should have it. 1) His very old car was not going to last much longer. 2) It's a well-built vehicle with a good safety record. 3) It's used. 4) It's a niiice car! 5) "You'll look good in it." <i>Flattery.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
My response: "We already have an SUV <i><span style="font-size: 9pt; line-height: 13.8000011444092px;">(that I chose)</span></i> and I'm used to driving it. I don't need another car yet. Why don't you get a car that YOU'D like to drive." And that's what he did.<br />
<br />
Not too much time later though, I found <i>myself</i> driving it. Somehow, he began driving the big "old" SUV that was mine; and because I don't like switching cars every other day, I began driving the newer one… until one day, my (now his) huge, chunky, lovable SUV met her demise. <span style="font-size: 9pt; line-height: 13.8000011444092px;">(Click <a href="http://btdas.blogspot.com/2012/03/mommy-van-oh-no.html"><span style="color: blue;">HERE</span></a> and scroll down to the end of the other post if you want to see it.) </span>It was now my turn, again, to make the new car choice. Because we had two cars, I was able to take my time scoping the traffic; seeing what everyone was driving. My decision was months later.<br />
<br />
Darling Husband wasn't feeling a van, but… that's what I wanted and that's what I got. Still in the midst of motherhood, it is serving me well – and the rest of the crew, too. When a road trip comes up, everyone insists that we drive the <i>mommy van</i> and is elated to hop in.<br />
<br />
How long I'll drive the van? I don't know… probably a while; it's just under 3 years old. I'm still glad to have it, and glad DH has his SUV back again… for the second time. The first time, he intentionally gave it up for me. The second time, he reluctantly gave it up for Girl #1 during her senior year of high school. At that time, he was forced to pull his toy car out of the garage. She went away to college and toy car is back in the garage. Not for long though! Girl #2 is lobbying hard for exclusive rights to the SUV.<br />
<br />
I digress. Basically, I like choosing the car that I will drive.<br />
<br />
<b>What about you? How was ownership of your vehicle decided upon and is your name on the registration? Does it matter?</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Images found </span><a href="http://gawker.com/women-be-shopping-for-cars-1492203031" style="font-size: small;">here</a><span style="font-size: x-small;"> and </span><a href="http://www.autocreditexpress.com/blog/2013/02/26/buying-cars-with-really-bad-credit-improves/" style="font-size: small;">here</a><span style="font-size: x-small;">.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div>
<b><br /></b></div>
</div>
Anitahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08180243708565855383noreply@blogger.com25tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5253987680038616859.post-21096031876268511202014-10-05T21:34:00.000-04:002020-04-11T22:40:08.723-04:00au naturel<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgu1ymGttpsKaFl4EAsGsMoV4p0OfK9gi-B2wLG70dFLZ86-ZasZlqNj47Df4lbTgk1jjJU8763N8O1jwYpVm6qwRaOMlQ9cGNllwtppnzxQD0WhiK1O7uLmL-2MUUwYbnfGR13OWDVJEJk/s1600/Greek+Discus+Thrower.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgu1ymGttpsKaFl4EAsGsMoV4p0OfK9gi-B2wLG70dFLZ86-ZasZlqNj47Df4lbTgk1jjJU8763N8O1jwYpVm6qwRaOMlQ9cGNllwtppnzxQD0WhiK1O7uLmL-2MUUwYbnfGR13OWDVJEJk/s1600/Greek+Discus+Thrower.jpg" height="200" width="150" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In the days when my husband's company retreat included the
spouses, I'd join the enthusiastic group. One of the places we went to was a 200+ year old, award winning resort. As corporate guests, we were given a list of leisure
activities from which we could choose - a freebie. Golf was on the list,
a spa treatment, and other things that escape my memory. I chose the spa
treatment. Why not? I was away from
home - from motherhood, dish washing, bill paying, and laundry. I couldn't remember the last time I'd been to
a spa. Had I <i>ever</i> been to one? Maybe
it was just a hodgepodge of steam rooms and hot tubs at YMCAs and hotel pools. <i>This</i> was the real deal. It <i>had</i> to be worth my time. It <i>had</i> to be a feel-good, relaxing
experience.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
I showed up at my appointed time and was greeted by a
smiling and pleasant woman who verified what my <i>pampering</i> would be and then passed me on to the next attendant who
led me to my hot sulfur water bath, complete with the scent of my chosen
botanical.<br />
<br />
The bath… not fabulous, but nice. I guess it's all about
attitude. Anyway…<br />
<br />
As this was over 12 years ago, I can't remember if I went
into the sauna - I don't think so, though I have a vision of passing by it.
Perhaps my memory of all the particulars was usurped by the next step of my
treatment.<br />
<br />
Attendant number 2 passed me on to attendant number 3 who
was waiting for me in a super-sized swiss shower room. Shower heads and hoses were staring at me
from every direction, though only one hose was on and pointed directly at
me - the one held and blasted upon me by a woman I'd just met. Somehow, I had
found myself without my white, soft, thick, secure and comfy robe, standing <i>naked</i>, 10 feet away and facing this
plain faced woman as she directed water over everything from my shoulders down…
well, <i>almost</i> everything. It was like
she was power washing her deck.<br />
<br />
Little did I know then, that I was having a <i>Scotch Spray</i>.<br />
<br />
"Okayyy, Hmmm…" I thought. "Step outside of
your comfort zone. Be sophisticated."<br />
<br />
After I convinced myself that this was normal, I relaxed…
well, not really. Where was I supposed to look? Facing her, I had to <i>see her</i>. She was 30ish, short, white, average
sized, had short brown hair, and wore khaki pants and shirt. What was she
thinking? Seems like a very monotonous job.<br />
<br />
"Maybe she's a lesbian; that would probably make it
more interesting for her."<br />
<br />
"Maybe she's <i>not</i>
a lesbian, and that she's having big fun on the job; inwardly laughing
hysterically at all the paranoid, <i>Scotch
Spray</i> novices who come through; in addition to myriad physical flaws in all
shapes, sizes, and colors.<br />
<br />
Soon I relaxed… really. I rotated, stood with my asset
facing her and thought, "Bring it on!"<br />
<br />
Surely the spa staff must get a bit of entertainment from
their clients; but that's okay, because when the <i>spa</i> conversation came up at my table during the company dinner, we got the best laughs, too. As for where to look, one woman said she kept her eyes
closed.<br />
<br />
Recently, I was back at the resort which resurfaced the
memory of the "hose me down" experience. (By the way, supposedly it
"breaks up toxins and cellular blockage in preparation for a
massage.") It made me think about
other times when my naked body is on display; when things are drooping and
bulging; when nooks and crannies are in the spotlight. The gyno, the mammo tech,
the colonoscopy guy, my husband, my children: they've seen it all and it
doesn't faze me in the least. However, there's something about casually walking
naked through a locker room that is not in my span of comfort. Over the years, I've seen many women do it.
Must be nice to be that confident.<br />
<br />
<b>Are</b><b> you one of the
"confident" people or lean toward modesty?</b></div>
Anitahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08180243708565855383noreply@blogger.com32tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5253987680038616859.post-86349486407209007122014-06-18T15:25:00.000-04:002015-02-14T06:55:49.105-05:00Phase I - One Down, Two to Go<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZEAEsFieSkOsZJxuRgdYUnhVLSK4OTMpdLBurEpS3zZrRIwNAhT9lGHfxTzsJCRa3PUnN3_1vMXcA2Nx1i5r77xLYbxlElu1p1d8p0GCnesKobAiIGboMDsEyGKJrOm4IIApmgOa-hwHK/s1600/graduation+excitement.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZEAEsFieSkOsZJxuRgdYUnhVLSK4OTMpdLBurEpS3zZrRIwNAhT9lGHfxTzsJCRa3PUnN3_1vMXcA2Nx1i5r77xLYbxlElu1p1d8p0GCnesKobAiIGboMDsEyGKJrOm4IIApmgOa-hwHK/s1600/graduation+excitement.JPG" height="268" width="400" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Girl #1, Girl #3, me, Girl #2</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Girl #1 graduated high school on June 14. Girl #3 graduated middle school on May 30. Life has been busy.<br />
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
I miss you all. Be back soon.</div>
Anitahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08180243708565855383noreply@blogger.com31tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5253987680038616859.post-15603640289723557982014-05-16T13:22:00.000-04:002015-02-14T06:55:22.146-05:00The Medicine<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6WKDNmumvjLSL8t1eeWAt_VsKn1zJXfEftrSpf9EE5xuj1HwfAt8vA7Xc8aqvQzMGN9-D0_efbWQ-0jzVk0qpPpjYQSSzPnCHVLgy_hTk9blxnUsCQfGXcqxmIfb0zVZjcWdeyEYRdXW2/s1600/medicine+symbol.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6WKDNmumvjLSL8t1eeWAt_VsKn1zJXfEftrSpf9EE5xuj1HwfAt8vA7Xc8aqvQzMGN9-D0_efbWQ-0jzVk0qpPpjYQSSzPnCHVLgy_hTk9blxnUsCQfGXcqxmIfb0zVZjcWdeyEYRdXW2/s1600/medicine+symbol.png" height="200" width="168" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">He called it, "my medicine." Hot burning liquid in
a wide flat bottle, slightly concave on one side; it was easy to grip, then pour,
and drink. Often, it sat on the kitchen countertop beside the small shot glass,
accessible for scheduled times of day. Sometimes I'd see him. I remember the
sound of the top being unscrewed and the plop while pouring. He'd stand with
one arm akimbo, bring the glass to his mouth with the other hand, throw back his
head, swallow, and exhale through his mouth with a simultaneous,
"Ahhhh."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Years later, Mom laughed as she told my brother how he
imitated Dad's ritual, proclaiming, "This is how you drink liquor."
My brother was a young boy then. I thought it was funny, too.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Dad also drank coffee, though I can't remember seeing him
make or drink it during those early childhood days. How I know is because of
the small, metal percolator that was on top of the stove. There was a </span><i style="font-family: Calibri;">basket</i><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> inside and a glass knob on the
top; a contraption hardly used nowadays. Mom said she never drank coffee, so
Dad had to be the one using it.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">What would Dad have been like without his coffee and his </span><i style="font-family: Calibri;">medicine</i><span style="font-family: Calibri;">? A World War II veteran born in
1921, he married at 31, later than most of his peers. As a husband and father,
he fit in with all the other dads in the neighborhood; working hard during the
weekdays to take care of his family, mowing the lawn on Saturday, and going to
church on Sunday – </span><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span><span style="font-family: Calibri;">a typical family
life.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Was the shot of whiskey typical, too? The </span><i style="font-family: Calibri;">Kent</i><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> cigarettes? When did it begin? As a
poor teenaged boy in Norfolk, Virginia? As a young soldier in the Philippines?
Re-entering segregated civilian life in the United States? When did it become
his medicine?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">My thoughts about "feel good" substances didn't
start with Dad. Instead, I began with the grateful feeling I had on a dark,
rainy day as I held a cup of English Tea in my hand; drinking and relishing the
heat that traveled from my mouth to my stomach, warming my body as I
anticipated the effects of the caffeine – a mind cleared of cobwebs and a boost
of energy. Ahhh Yes… love that late morning cup of tea – </span><i style="font-family: Calibri;">my </i><span style="font-family: Calibri;">medicine.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">When did it begin, my love of tea? I don't remember;
probably like most people who don't remember when their love and dependence on
coffee began - America's favorite morning beverage. If coffee didn't give me jitters,
I'd be drinking it, too. My teenaged kids drink it. </span><i style="font-family: Calibri;">Starbucks</i><span style="font-family: Calibri;">, the drive-thru at </span><i style="font-family: Calibri;">McDonald's</i><span style="font-family: Calibri;">,
the </span><i style="font-family: Calibri;">Keurig</i><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> brewer – all have
contributed to the inception of coffee in their lives, along with the influence
of their parents. If my husband treats himself to a coffee, he'll ask the girls
if they want one, too, which is usually a foo foo type.</span><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I, on the other
hand, have contributed to the </span><i style="font-family: Calibri;">normalcy</i><span style="font-family: Calibri;">
of other substances.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">"You're still working on that project? Drink a cup of
tea; that might help you to stay awake."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">"Here's a </span><i style="font-family: Calibri;">Benadryl</i><span style="font-family: Calibri;">.
It'll help with your allergies and stuffy nose. You'll sleep all night."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">"You're feeling tense? Drink some hot Chamomile tea."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span>
<i style="font-family: Calibri;">They</i><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> are the next
generation of </span><i style="font-family: Calibri;">medicine takers</i><span style="font-family: Calibri;">.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Everyone seems to have their </span><i style="font-family: Calibri;">medicines</i><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> that range from mild to destructive. We have our coffee
and tea to get us going; our 4 </span><i style="font-family: Calibri;">diet Cokes</i><span style="font-family: Calibri;">
during the day, our beer after work,</span><i style="font-family: Calibri;"> </i><span style="font-family: Calibri;">our
wine for dinner. We eat our sweets, fats, and chips. According to recent news
reports, a handful of moms are swiping the kids' ADD medicine that they claim
aids in getting through the long list of things to do.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">On the other side of the same coin, we take 15 vitamins and
herb supplements a day, we run until we run </span><i style="font-family: Calibri;">it</i><span style="font-family: Calibri;">
out, hit the gyms, and do other exercises or sports to the point of obsession.
Many say that these are better choices.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The illegal stuff – I don't know much about it and it speaks
for itself.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">While surfing the NET, I came across a woman who refuted
everyone's need for stimuli and/or sedatives. She recalled the life of her
grandmother; how she worked hard, ate well, and loved her family and friends,
and that that's all she needed. She suggested that we do the same.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span>
<b><span style="font-family: Calibri;">What's your
"medicine;" if you care or dare to share?</span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span></b>
<b><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Other thoughts?</span></b>Anitahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08180243708565855383noreply@blogger.com26tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5253987680038616859.post-58004719264644315192014-04-23T10:41:00.000-04:002015-02-14T06:54:52.888-05:00Don't Take the Kids<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEit-irwrOJWaCLBHf8AEJJUbX46JAq6sD6aFvI9snGy_4DFuIxkqHACkBloqtQt1aqnJoyJJRpKlRmIZfq3shWYLyzFCGX7dOepiKDzGNs5bs8JaWfb-z_lEv9ARl3REb7UQjxXca9ESjzS/s1600/kids+at+wedding.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEit-irwrOJWaCLBHf8AEJJUbX46JAq6sD6aFvI9snGy_4DFuIxkqHACkBloqtQt1aqnJoyJJRpKlRmIZfq3shWYLyzFCGX7dOepiKDzGNs5bs8JaWfb-z_lEv9ARl3REb7UQjxXca9ESjzS/s1600/kids+at+wedding.jpg" height="212" width="320" /></a></div>
Running on the long, winding road that stretches from one end of my subdivision to the other, I passed the home of "Jan" and "Steve." Fifteen years ago, they invited Darling Husband and me to a party. At the time, we were parents of a three year old and a one year old and chose not to go because we were tired or because we had another commitment or because we didn't feel like going through the hassle of finding a babysitter. I forget.<br />
<br />
DH knew Jan and Steve through friends that they had in common. They were, and still are, professionals with interesting careers (who do not have children); people who I would have enjoyed talking to; however, I blew it. When they invited us to their home again, I RSVP'd on their voice mail with a <strike>hint</strike> request to bring my children.<br />
<br />
Mistake. Not good.<br />
<br />
We did not hear back from them; nor did they ever invite us again.<br />
<br />
It was <em>summer</em>. I envisioned a back yard grill with hot dogs and hamburgers. We had taken the kids along to parties before and it worked out. Cling-ons and lap babies who were satisfied to have a cracker or a juice cup in their mouths while people watching, they never disturbed anyone...<br />
<br />
Or did they?<br />
<br />
There was an occasion where another couple invited us to their cookout; a couple who knew we had babies and who welcomed them. I seem to recall that there were a few other children there, too. Anyway, the wife of the host couple wanted to hold one of my girls and enjoyed doing so, and the kids were quiet as usual. But... I wonder how the other guests felt.<br />
<br />
(By the way, that couple invited us back to next year's cookout and somehow got the message to me that it was for adults only. I appreciated her honesty.)<br />
<br />
When I was a new parent, it took a few years for me to figure out that most people prefer that kids be left home; even when it is a casual, outdoor, neighborhood party. They feel that getting away from their own kids and then having to look at some else's, puts a damper on the atmosphere. Others are empty nesters who've gotten away from frequent contact with kids. Also, there are the party goers who want to drink to no end and act accordingly, which includes dropping a few f-bombs.<br />
<br />
On a visit to the outskirts of Chicago eight years ago, friends of ours had a party at their home to welcome us, which included the kids. The other guests brought their kids, too, but it was obvious that "the kids" were expected to play outside or in another room and that "the adults" were given free range of the party room - complete with a stone enclosed fireplace, a long table with a feast on it, and a full bar. One of my three daughters, Girl #1, had no interest in playing with the kids and would not be separated from her parents. A male guest seemed to purposely make his point that she was not welcome with constant and overt cursing. A woman noticed "the child" being in "the wrong room," too, and told me that she thought it was good of me to be patient with my daughter by letting her eat with me while I was having conversation with adults.<br />
<br />
I think that was her way of saying that she felt sorry for me because I was stuck with my child.<br />
<br />
Jogging past Jan and Steve's house often stirs up memories of having young children and the specific challenges they presented. When they come into the world, the metaphorical helicopter begins to fly around them and parents tend to lose perspective.<br />
<br />
I don't know if Darling Husband and I were wrong or not in taking our young children to, presumably, adult parties. They were like appendages and we didn't give it much thought; maybe because it wasn't often and because it was typically a "shorts and tee-shirt" setting. Also, other party throwers insisted that we "bring the kids" because they knew the effort and expense of hiring a sitter.<br />
<br />
I'm not a "gotta go to the party" person and neither is my husband; though his work lands him at quite a few. When we go, we start with, "We'll go and stay for a short time." Most of the time, we stay much longer and are almost the last to leave. Whether the kids are there or not doesn't seem to matter. If we are there for the pleasure of the conversation (and food) with friends, it seems to work.<br />
<br />
<b>Some parties are obviously not meant for children to attend; however, if there is a fine line, do you mind kids being there or would you rather not see any?</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Image found at </span><a href="http://www.callunaevents.com/" style="font-size: small;">www.callunaevents.com</a>Anitahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08180243708565855383noreply@blogger.com25tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5253987680038616859.post-35622409903330252022014-04-09T11:50:00.001-04:002015-02-13T22:23:44.762-05:00Tradition<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi636YBLUcjoObYmaMZ7GLGtZorV0WhMeo85YL-eM7qu_sUK0GLbbk6gMJl1jeZ0VhMJgzpyeYctpwAa-EyhT14lT7_u48KUumdatUe1w916QtDRkNmsOMxo9Msa7JXfpTsYNRAvIJArEv2/s1600/tradition.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi636YBLUcjoObYmaMZ7GLGtZorV0WhMeo85YL-eM7qu_sUK0GLbbk6gMJl1jeZ0VhMJgzpyeYctpwAa-EyhT14lT7_u48KUumdatUe1w916QtDRkNmsOMxo9Msa7JXfpTsYNRAvIJArEv2/s1600/tradition.jpg" height="200" width="200" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<i>Ah-Choo! Ah-Choo!</i></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
In the waiting area of the doctor's office, a man sitting with his wife and daughter, 20 feet away, says to me, "God bless you."</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<i>Thank you.</i></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
At home in the kitchen: <i>Ah-Choo!</i></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
Watching TV in the family room, Darling Husband says to me, "Bless you."</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<i>Thank you.</i></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<i>Ah-Choo!</i></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
DH again: "Bless you."</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<i>Thank you.</i></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
Susceptible to springtime allergies since forever ago, my sneeze follows me around for a month or two; getting the attention of a family member, friend, or stranger who promptly says, "Bless you," "God bless you," or an occasional "Gesundheit."</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
When I was a child at home with my parents, I rarely got those responses. More likely, I heard, "Woo, that was a big one!" "Cover you mouth," or Turn your head"...not that Mom didn't want God to bless me. After all, my heart was dangerously stopping and missing a beat each time I sneezed... according to the belief of many.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
Always a smidgen of a non-conformist, it occurred to me that I don't have to say "Bless you" every time someone sneezes; though I think it's a kind and personable act. With no expectation of a reprimand, I tried it (silence) when my daughter, Girl#1, who likes attention, sneezed.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
"You didn't say anything," she said.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<i>Oh. Bless you.</i></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
"Thank you," she responded with a smile of satisfaction.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<i><a href="http://dictionary.reference.com/"><span style="color: #674ea7;">Dictionary dot com</span></a></i> defines <i>tradition</i> as "the handing down of statements, beliefs, legends, customs, information, etc., from generation to generation, especially by word of mouth or by practice." <i>Bless you </i>seems to fit.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
I began to wonder about other traditions. For instance... When we name a child after a relative - an honor to the deceased or to family unity - do we really like the name? And godparents... When I was little, I was told that a godparent took responsibility of a godchild if something happened to the parents. My children don't have godparents. Hmmm... (I'm counting on DH and I staying alive for awhile.)</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
I finished another book recently - <i><a href="http://jonathantropper.com/books/this-is-where-i-leave-you/synopsis/"><span style="color: #674ea7;">This Is Where I Leave You</span></a></i> by Jonathan Tropper. A Jewish father dies. His wife and children <i><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Shiva_%28Judaism%29"><span style="color: #674ea7;">sit shiva</span></a></i>, a tradition of grieving together for seven days. The family in this R rated novel is probably not a good representation of sitting shiva, yet the characters learned some of life's lessons and benefited from it by forming stronger bonds.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
Do we benefit from the traditions we follow? Do acts of tradition maintain order, as similar to laws?</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
Hmmm...</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<b>Are you a traditional person?</b></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<b><br /></b></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<b>(Rhetorically speaking: Does the bride have to wear white? Does the man have to be the breadwinner? Does the family have to spend holidays and vacations at the same place each year?)</b></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<b><br /></b></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<a href="http://www.cookinglight.com/entertaining/holidays-occasions/invent-new-family-tradition-00412000079520/" style="font-size: small;">Illustration by Michael Whitte for Cooking Light</a></div>
<br />Anitahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08180243708565855383noreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5253987680038616859.post-16763216436310828242014-03-13T19:45:00.000-04:002015-02-14T06:54:06.706-05:00Living in the Present<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCFBViLFkz3RAki4XQAihibiwc4_0vI-FDdccygs5kj5l6IeJh7G_Uz0yZCnNXyr5eU1gWtmac0zcSIbT-5xCnfsFcri4hxCUVU-AJQBdNONALJLebXveyWXMJuLp6pQ1_3gg2p05wXnC3/s1600/fastcocreate-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCFBViLFkz3RAki4XQAihibiwc4_0vI-FDdccygs5kj5l6IeJh7G_Uz0yZCnNXyr5eU1gWtmac0zcSIbT-5xCnfsFcri4hxCUVU-AJQBdNONALJLebXveyWXMJuLp6pQ1_3gg2p05wXnC3/s1600/fastcocreate-2.jpg" height="225" width="400" /></a></div>
<b><br /></b>
<b>Balance.</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
Lately, it's the word that often enters my mind when making decisions that seem to have no concrete right or wrong answer. I've entered a phase of my life, the sixth decade, where it has become apparent that I simplify my routine, minimize my belongings, stop sweating the small stuff, and absorb as much of the beauty of life as I can.<br />
<br />
No, I'm not ready for the retirement condo home.<br />
<br />
Yes, I have three kids at home.<br />
<br />
In other words, I'm still very much in the mix of a busy, obligation filled life; however, the gradual change has begun. It is my way of incorporating the balance.<br />
<br />
<b>Photography.</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
"What?" You may ask.<br />
<br />
<b>A Quick Story.</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
I had a journal as a teenager; just for a year. And like many who write, I also had a camera (110 film); freezing the times of my life in words and in pictures. Moments, thoughts, faces, events - I treasured it all. When I wanted to retrieve it to reminiscence or to supply my kids pictures for their Student of the Week posters, I could.<br />
<br />
As the number of years increased, so did the number of journals. (I have a teen journal, adult journals, journals for my children, faith journals, a gratitude journal and letters.) And so did the number of photo albums - so, so many.<br />
<br />
A large portion of those albums contain pictures of my children from film, as I did not jump on the digital bandwagon until 2007. For three kids, I've captured every birthday, every first day of school, every dance recital, every piano recital, several dips in the pool and the ocean, the first bike rides, award ceremonies, field days, every holiday, etc. And like most of the other parents, I've also squeezed my camera view between the heads of people sitting in front of me to get a shot of my kid performing on stage.<br />
<br />
A few months ago, my daughter, <i>Girl #3</i>, said to me, "Mrs. R gets frustrated when the parents are snapping away or videoing instead of watching and enjoying the production." (Mrs. R used to be her theater teacher.)<br />
<br />
"She should be," I responded. "She's very passionate and puts together a good show for us. And yes, sometimes I'm getting the shot instead of getting the show."<br />
<br />
<b>The Gradual, Energy-Saving Light-bulb comes on.</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
I'd already begun toning down my photography even before hearing about Mrs. R's frustrations, though she is a catalyst. Three reasons:<br />
<ul>
<li>On vacation, I'm the only one lugging the camera and video recorder around to get pictures for the family history.</li>
<li>At extended family dinners - again - I'm taking pictures, feeling like the hired photographer, and having to ask one of my kids to get me into a shot or two.</li>
<li>Clutter. After joining my life with my husband's, our photo and photo album stock became massive. We also inherited albums from a deceased parent. Oh, and let's not forget the envelopes galore of pictures that were never put into albums. Remember the "duplicate" craze phase?</li>
</ul>
<div>
<b>Implementation.</b></div>
<div>
<b><br /></b></div>
<div>
I ask myself if I <i>really</i> need to take my camera with me and if I so, do I <i>really</i> need to take pictures beyond the two or three that gives me a memory. After all - how often do I spend time looking through albums or picture files on my computer?</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
To convince myself, I think of Mrs. R. I also think about a "Quality" training session at a company that I worked for in the 1980s. It was there that I learned the concept, "Be Here Now," to focus on the task or pleasure at hand. Managing that concept means I'm not constantly living in the past. I'm also learning to see the whole of things; to peruse instead of skim; to slow down and absorb. It's a good thing.<br />
<br />
<b>Exception.</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
When photography "is" the activity. One of many subjects being nature.<br />
<br />
<b>Do you ever miss part of the sports game, play, etc. because you're getting the shot or video? or miss the total enjoyment of an event?</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>Any general thoughts about "living in the present?"</b></div>
<div>
<b><br /></b></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh99_rQNc5px4WMjQ3ei8fe123PmvZoWZhmJkdh49KbWl2rMMxG-VrLuWSY9hi6wwTBXmXwji1RolA5pvT3rNeO1YvvjqpZBLTvGtRC5WMhc-NVucnqja7atdfQDefxEdJQulJuMcXQkOxv/s1600/fastcocreate-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh99_rQNc5px4WMjQ3ei8fe123PmvZoWZhmJkdh49KbWl2rMMxG-VrLuWSY9hi6wwTBXmXwji1RolA5pvT3rNeO1YvvjqpZBLTvGtRC5WMhc-NVucnqja7atdfQDefxEdJQulJuMcXQkOxv/s1600/fastcocreate-1.jpg" height="179" width="320" /></a></div>
<div>
<b><br /></b></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><a href="http://www.fastcocreate.com/1683655/windows-phone-ad-takes-the-mobile-battle-to-the-school-play">Images found at www.fastcocreate.com</a></span></div>
Anitahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08180243708565855383noreply@blogger.com28tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5253987680038616859.post-35097489680140992142014-02-25T13:49:00.000-05:002015-02-14T06:52:07.135-05:00Think It (If You Must), But Don't Say It<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjY2wfh_fSq5YKWBKMD7NvutrDz5CKZC9pzoTMsv17e8a-dP02ulqm4YQJELKacXHSqeTS-6o2Jeki6JQVnFOCp9dLlk7TweCRI3LzJfP_b5b7wIOS10iO-FENT_QVeW9JJZUVzGZg5Mp5O/s1600/words+have+power.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjY2wfh_fSq5YKWBKMD7NvutrDz5CKZC9pzoTMsv17e8a-dP02ulqm4YQJELKacXHSqeTS-6o2Jeki6JQVnFOCp9dLlk7TweCRI3LzJfP_b5b7wIOS10iO-FENT_QVeW9JJZUVzGZg5Mp5O/s1600/words+have+power.jpg" height="133" width="200" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Three days ago, I finished reading <i>The Book Thief</i>, in which an
ongoing theme is the power of <i>words</i>. </span><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The protagonist is Liesel, who is nine years old when the story begins. It is 1939
and she quickly realizes that the <i>words </i>of Hitler contained enough power to
rule Germany and a vast area of surrounding countries, ultimately sending
millions of innocent people to their deaths.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">While history, both distant and recent, has shown me the
same or similar atrocities as </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Liesel</i><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> witnessed,
it is the little, common, day to day words that I hear that can pack a big
punch—a punch that has a lifelong gradual effect. Much of the time, the speaker
doesn't even realize his or her power.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Ironically, the punch is often delivered to children from
their loving parents.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">In a perfect world, we'd all be smart, talented, and good looking—among
the obvious traits of being loving and giving. I can't imagine that world; it
sounds like heaven. But while we're here, it would be great if we could improve
upon the delivery of our opinions.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">When I was eight years old, my brother began to tease me
about a certain body part. I doubt that the teasing lasted more than a few days,
but during one episode, my mother laughed. That was all it took for the indelible
mark to be formed. It took a couple years of maturing to realize that the body
feature was normal. Fortunately, I've never been overly self-conscious,
allowing my imperfections to dictate the course of my life… well, maybe. I
wonder about others.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Numerous times, I've heard children being told:</span><br />
<ul>
<li><span style="font-family: Calibri;">You're too short</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Your hair is too curly or kinky</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Calibri;">That class is for smart people</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Calibri;">You need some more muscles</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Get out of the sun - you're dark enough</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Calibri;">You need some sun - you're too white</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Your feet look like boats</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Calibri;">You have elephant legs</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Calibri;">You have chicken legs</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Etc. Etc. Etc.</span></li>
</ul>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Or, if not directed toward the </span><s style="font-family: Calibri;">victim</s><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> child,
another child (often a sibling) </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">in his or
her presence </i><span style="font-family: Calibri;">will be complimented:</span></div>
<ul>
<li><span style="font-family: Calibri;">You're so nice and talll...</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Calibri;">You're so smart</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Calibri;">You're only 14! You're so big and muscular</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I love your blonde hair and blue eyes</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Calibri;">You look good in everything you wear</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Calibri;">You're so pretty</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Calibri;">You're so handsome</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Calibri;">You have your dad's good looks</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Calibri;">You have your mom's brains</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Etc. Etc. Etc.</span></li>
</ul>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Albeit, fairly mild stuff. (This is not about abusive situations.)</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">A lesson I learned from my mother came from a story she told
me. When my brother and I were toddlers, an aunt said to Mom, "He's so
cute," to which Mom replied, "Both of my children are cute." (My
brother had more of the physical characteristics of what was—and still
is—considered a good-looking black person.) History repeated itself when a
shopper told my two year old how pretty she looked in her pretty dress as my
four year old stood by. My older daughter probably paid no attention to the woman;
however, I said to her, "Your dress is pretty, too." The embarrassed
woman apologized as I kept walking. It was no big deal, but maybe a lesson for
her - the shopper.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I look at my kids and I don't see physical perfection
(whatever that is); sometimes, not even close. Nor are they candidates for </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Mensa, </i><span style="font-family: Calibri;">embellished with extraordinary
personalities. All three have tease-worthy characteristics, but I refrain… </span><s style="font-family: Calibri;">most
of the time</s><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> some of the time. In other words, I try to think before I talk;
to choose </span><i style="font-family: Calibri;">words </i><span style="font-family: Calibri;">that will promote balance and confidence instead of insecurity,
but not holding back so much that results in a fragile child. On the other hand,
overdoing it with non-stop compliments might create a sense of superiority. Cliché,
but kids don't come with an instruction manual.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Of course, kids are not the only recipients of the
life-changing </span><i style="font-family: Calibri;">words </i><span style="font-family: Calibri;">that have the power to shape us and mold us throughout our
existence. Should we just man-up and take it? Or, should we embrace our
wimpiness? Or, should we punch back?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I digress.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">In a nutshell… The examples I cited above seem superficial,
but are they really? "Are they" the impetus for a life thrown off
course?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span>
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Did any negative <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">words </i>change the course of your life?
Positive <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">words?</i></span></b><br />
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><br /></i></span></b>
<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: xx-small;">Image found </span><a href="https://itsnas.com/" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: x-small;">here</a></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Image found </span><a href="https://www.itsnas.com/" style="font-family: Calibri;">here</a></div>
Anitahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08180243708565855383noreply@blogger.com23tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5253987680038616859.post-70376059886164118372014-02-16T12:56:00.000-05:002015-02-13T22:14:23.642-05:00Gifts... Especially, Books<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDGn0dWD7HC_alCxieQzyO-RWQcBGbOZI3y47UBNvCRDWKxHGwzWrwST5od3vgC7PGWr3BMP3aefH_khLxX2ohN9UH9ShDJgfQKGLeeeCcoUQFifIQ8Osfgi8R3fbf7ACnCHJy-GFhSyWN/s1600/leather+bound+classic+books.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDGn0dWD7HC_alCxieQzyO-RWQcBGbOZI3y47UBNvCRDWKxHGwzWrwST5od3vgC7PGWr3BMP3aefH_khLxX2ohN9UH9ShDJgfQKGLeeeCcoUQFifIQ8Osfgi8R3fbf7ACnCHJy-GFhSyWN/s1600/leather+bound+classic+books.JPG" height="266" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
I started collecting classics in the mid 1980s. Every month, a beautiful, gilded, faux leather bound book would arrive at my home. Eagerly, but carefully, I'd open the box from the <em>Franklin Library</em>, to see what the title would be and what color it would be and what gold letterings and designs it would have on its cover. After savoring the smell and fanning the crisp new pages, I'd give it a home on my book shelf.<br />
<br />
It was over two years before I stopped collecting the books that, at the time, were surprisingly inexpensive. Titles included, <em>My Antonia</em>, <em>Gulliver's Travels</em>, and <em>The Portrait of a Lady</em>. About thirty books were in my library, yet I read only six or so. Single at the time, I could have/should have read more. (Okay, so I had a TV and a life.)<br />
<br />
Years later, I subscribed to another book collection - from the <em>Eastern Press</em> - and this time, the books were "genuine leather," a selling point on the advertisement. I read another six or so.<br />
<br />
You may be able to tell that I <strike>have</strike> had a slight addiction to books. All of the above is not even intended to be what this post is about. Somehow, when I began writing, I found myself reminiscing and stopping to browse the shelves of pretty (yes I said pretty) and mostly unread books. Thank you for indulging me.<br />
<br />
However, there are two other areas in the house that are filled with books that I <em>have</em> read. People in my life know that reading is one of my pleasures, which results in an occasional book as a gift. Many are from my husband and children, but also from other relatives and friends. How thoughtful they are.<br />
<br />
The reality...<br />
<br />
I can't read every book that I own. I'd like to, but I can't.<br />
<br />
I was reminded of this when Cousin Bee asked if I'd read the book she gave to me for Christmas.<br />
<br />
"No," I admitted. "I skimmed a few pages though. I'm going to put it on my night table," I continued, "that way, I'll remember to read it."<br />
<br />
Does she really care if I read it or not? Isn't the gift her way of saying that she likes me and that the book says she thought about my interests?<br />
<br />
I think so... or maybe she thought, "I don't know what to get her. I'll go with a book."<br />
<br />
A gift to someone is somewhat presumptuous; a book seeming to be more of a message than a vase or a shirt. The title and content says, "You need to know this" or "This will make you laugh" or "This will help you cope;" or simply, "The reviews on this book are good, so I hope you'll enjoy it."<br />
<br />
A book feeds you. Whether you like its story/message or not, it presumes what your mind wants to absorb.<br />
<br />
A shirt says, "I think you'll like this" or "You'll look good in this" or "You need this." Whichever, it's all external.<br />
<br />
The vase: I was at a friend's home when she showed me hers that was a present. I couldn't help but laugh when she said, "I need this vase like I need a hole in my head."<br />
<br />
At least it can be stored away and brought out in the spring for fresh flowers; unlike the wedding present my husband and I received almost twenty years ago - a framed art print.<br />
<br />
Hmmm...<br />
<br />
The giver had never been to our new home together and had never asked what type of art we liked. Fortunately, she never visited and asked where it was hanging.<br />
<br />
I'm all for books as gifts and fine with receiving more. Which ones I'll read, "Who knows?" Just when I decided my next book to read, I looked over and saw Cousin Bee's gift on the night table, picked it up, and began to read. It's a good book.<br />
<br />
<strong>Do you give books as gifts? How do you feel about books you receive as a gift?</strong><br />
<strong><br /></strong>
<strong>Other thoughts?</strong><br />
<strong><br /></strong>
By the way, since I started blogging, I've read at least 2 books written by bloggers. <em><a href="http://www.conceivewriting.blogspot.com/"><span style="color: #351c75;">Day Laughs, Night Cries: Fifteen</span></a></em> by Peaches Ledwidge and <em><a href="http://www.joannedemaio.com/"><span style="color: #351c75;">Whole Latte Life</span></a></em> by Joanne Demaio. (Joanne doesn't appear to be making the blogging rounds anymore.) I've also read a book that I won by entering a blog giveaway. All were good reads.Anitahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08180243708565855383noreply@blogger.com24tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5253987680038616859.post-15629626123183769412014-02-03T11:04:00.000-05:002015-02-13T22:12:13.900-05:00Aging<i>You haven't changed a bit!</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
(Other versions: <i>You haven't changed at all! </i>and <i>You still look the same!</i>)<br />
<br />
How many times did I hear this <strike>lie</strike> greeting at my husband's high school reunion! The former classmates were so excited to see each other that I think they actually believed what they were saying, and believed hearing it when the <strike>lie</strike> compliment was directed to them.<br />
<br />
What does the phrase really mean? Does it mean that, even though you're older, you're still attractive? Or maybe it just means that you still... uh... have the same <i>look</i>?<br />
<br />
If it's been several years since I've seen someone, I don't say that phrase. First of all, I'm not good at recognizing people who I don't see often. Very much a "live in the present" person, it's a wonder that I, at least, know you're <i>someone </i>I've known, even though I can't exactly pin you down. And if I do recognize you, I see that - <i>you've changed</i>.<br />
<br />
Remember that adage, "If you don't have anything nice to say, then don't say anything at all." So if after 30 or 40 years, I can't say, "Oh, you're still so cute... or handsome... or fashionable" etc, then I stick with, "It's good to see you again!" which is better than saying nothing at all.<br />
<br />
At Darling Husband's class reunion, after the third time hearing "the lie," I thought, "I <i>hope</i> he's <span style="font-size: x-small;">(random person)</span> changed, because if he looked like that as a senior in high school... well... hmmm..."<br />
<br />
I don't know anyone - let's say over 40 - who looks the same as when 18, 21, or even 25 years old.<br />
<br />
People age. For that matter, everything ages... I think. (Any scientists out there?)<br />
<br />
Anyway...<br />
<br />
Hair gets thin. Hair loss occurs. Hair color changes. Skin wrinkles. Skin sags. Skin spots. Skin cracks. Chins disappear. Backs bend. Heights lessen. Teeth shift. Hair grows in new places. Waists thicken. Bellies protrude. Hips spread. Cellulite gives you dimples. Under eye dark circles or bags increase. Crow's feet widen. Eyelids droop. Other body parts droop. Bat wings jiggle. Muscles atrophy. Fat accumulates. "And so forth and so on," as people in the south say... old people, that is.<br />
<br />
So maybe you're lucky and most of these things don't happen to you.<br />
<br />
You still don't look the same! Get over it! It's okay! You're breathing!<br />
<b>.</b><br />
<b>.</b><br />
<b>.</b><br />
<b>.</b><br />
<b>.</b><br />
...however, keep that plastic surgeon's number handy.<br />
<br />
Happy Monday!<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDBs44mfqmGhcOg09O28uuJTKmAqHkYRJ5TgQ5uE1wM5ZPWXujLS67mJN_Zon3ZDv_oEggsLCkgWIPvAFQsFL_bqnHf5O0dJ_oyNGzSGXGxSBsPqUvsMZs4IYQo559kHYX_K8yOrj3b-r5/s1600/www.btdas.blogspot.com.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDBs44mfqmGhcOg09O28uuJTKmAqHkYRJ5TgQ5uE1wM5ZPWXujLS67mJN_Zon3ZDv_oEggsLCkgWIPvAFQsFL_bqnHf5O0dJ_oyNGzSGXGxSBsPqUvsMZs4IYQo559kHYX_K8yOrj3b-r5/s1600/www.btdas.blogspot.com.jpg" height="133" width="200" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Who's that girl?<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<b>How are you handling the exterior effects of aging? ...unless of course, you look the same as you did in high school.</b></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<b><br /></b></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<b>(What's going on inside the body is a whole <i>'nother</i> blog post.)</b></div>
</div>
Anitahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08180243708565855383noreply@blogger.com26tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5253987680038616859.post-5795566747077034862014-01-18T20:55:00.000-05:002015-02-13T22:09:22.425-05:00Handshakes<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsqa1xh6Ox2D5Xww5McrOU2mKlF5K4xqBxfPe9PkZRoULZVKNS14WtNYBUSHnWojEk5z4ne7uJLbUu0KF4ZoF4zlx54nNC5p9bpu6m8DK1yuQmIkf6WaWk-Sm2YlokUUjGKXpbLVSPAaf9/s1600/handshake.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsqa1xh6Ox2D5Xww5McrOU2mKlF5K4xqBxfPe9PkZRoULZVKNS14WtNYBUSHnWojEk5z4ne7uJLbUu0KF4ZoF4zlx54nNC5p9bpu6m8DK1yuQmIkf6WaWk-Sm2YlokUUjGKXpbLVSPAaf9/s1600/handshake.jpg" height="171" width="320" /></a></div>
Is a handshake different for a man than it is for a woman? For me, it is. Not because I want it to be; it just is. If I were still working for corporate America and in a position to be shaking hands on a frequent basis, then maybe I wouldn't notice a male-female difference.<br />
<br />
I don't remember much handshaking as a child or as a teenager. What little I did, I'm sure it was weak and awkward. Looking back, they should have taught us in school how to properly shake someone's hand, and why; though I'm sure my parents mentioned it somewhere along the way.<br />
<br />
Interviewing for jobs as a twenty-one year old adult is when it became something that I <i>needed</i> to do. I'm sure that I hit-and-missed with the quality of it. If I walked into a building with confidence and greeted a person who looked like they were interested in talking to me, then the handshake went well. If not, it may have been loose and reduced to protocol.<br />
<br />
Men seem to have ownership of the handshake. I notice my husband shaking hands with another man at least twice during the encounter - upon greeting and when saying good-bye; and sometimes in between. If I'm part of their conversation, most of the time, I have to initiate the handshake because the man seems unsure of whether to shake my hand or not. However, I won't limit this to a male thing. A lot of women who I am introduced to will not initiate the handshake either. Sometimes when I <i>surprise </i>someone (male or female) by holding out my hand to shake theirs, it ends up being a bit wimpy - soft and missing the whole palm to palm, web to web effect because the person is still <i>surprised</i>. But when it urns out to be a good, firm shake, I see the look on the <strike>person's</strike> man's face; he is impressed.<br />
<br />
Handshaking among men has been around for centuries. It's as natural as wearing a tie, watching sports, leaving the lights on around the house, and dropping socks on the floor... generally speaking.<br />
<br />
For women - not so... generally speaking.<br />
<br />
When I meet a woman for the first time, usually, I shake her hand. The second meeting - I don't. Instead, it's immediate conversation.<br />
<br />
<i>Nice to see you again.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>How are you?</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Hi! I like your dress!</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
Etc.<br />
<br />
Anything that suggests familiarity... because we've already met before.<br />
<br />
By the third visit, it could be a hug (if our second visit was chummy). Future meetings don't require any physical contact, though huggers will likely hug, depending on the occasion.<br />
<br />
I wonder if women will ever shake hands as much as men do. Hmmm...<br />
<br />
Another aspect of hand shaking is the growing fear of germs. I've seen at least three TV news stories admonishing us to "wash our hands!" because it's "cold and flu season!" And then they show examples of transferring those pesky little germs, like: touching door knobs, eating from the same snack bowls... and good ol' handshaking.<br />
<br />
I'm not against handshaking, but it can be inconvenient at social functions; trying to remember to eat my hors d'oeuvres with my left hand, or a fork, and saving the right hand for handshaking.<br />
<br />
And then there's my lotion. I really don't like to shake hands right after I've beautified my hands with lotion that hasn't completely absorbed into my skin.<br />
<br />
Is the handshake on its way out? Many people abhor the socially expected ritual, and celebrities who feel the same are helping their cause by refusing to shake hands, in effect, leading the common folk to comfortably withhold their hands, too. There's even a web site named <i>Stop Hand Shaking</i> that posts other ways of greeting; like the fist bump, high fives, and nodding. They even sell "no hand shaking" lapel pins, which I assume is a major reason for the site.<br />
<br />
(I laugh when I picture business people fist bumping.)<br />
<br />
The world is forever changing.<br />
<br />
<b>So what do you think about handshaking, i.e. quality, male/female, etc?</b><br />
<b>And what about the germ factor?</b><br />
<br />Anitahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08180243708565855383noreply@blogger.com28tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5253987680038616859.post-51741874600121259582014-01-02T16:08:00.000-05:002015-02-13T22:06:44.144-05:00PDA<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBfMMIGsF3bMnUTkum-04gJxyuOgwyl5oPhBI7mbGLEuJsLVUPprOwUV6TCAv2yzgac8hvmlVB6-Ss9MpV9ypEdQZKUiYxhbWx5ten6llXS1X9bxZvB_JRU3UZqP9Xs1s_7APcHTT8m-Fw/s1600/PDA.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBfMMIGsF3bMnUTkum-04gJxyuOgwyl5oPhBI7mbGLEuJsLVUPprOwUV6TCAv2yzgac8hvmlVB6-Ss9MpV9ypEdQZKUiYxhbWx5ten6llXS1X9bxZvB_JRU3UZqP9Xs1s_7APcHTT8m-Fw/s1600/PDA.jpg" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In case you don’t know, PDA is an abbreviation for Public
Display of Affection; i.e. holding hands with someone, kissing, touching,
rubbing, massaging, etc. in the presence of other people. I’ve seen various
degrees of it my entire life, and have been a participant, too; albeit, minor.
Darling Husband and I (pre children) could be seen holding hands or sitting
very close to each other on someone’s sofa. Nowadays, a peck of a kiss on the
lips to say hello or good-bye is the extent of our PDA.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
Young people and the newly married seem to have a monopoly
on PDA. While sitting in Starbucks during my summer vacation, a couple
appearing to be in their twenties could hardly contain themselves while waiting
in line to order. Arms wrapped around each other, bodies pressed together, big
smiles and little giggles—it was a definite distraction to me and the other
customers. Nothing bad, though; we all peeked, made our assumptions, and got
back to our coffee.<br />
<br />
However, in church, I am distracted by PDA a little more. Yes,
I said church. Often, I see a husband with his arm resting on the back of the
chair that his wife is sitting in, gently caressing her shoulder. Sometimes,
she leans into him, her head on his body.<br />
<br />
“How sweet,” I think.<br />
<br />
Again, no big deal.<br />
<br />
But one couple (that I used to see) took my mind off the
pastor and his lesson longer than the typical five second distraction. Sitting
only a few rows behind them, I had a clear view of the husband fingering
through his wife’s corn silk hair as it fanned between his fingers and fell
back in place. He’d add a little massage to her neck here and there, too, as
she sat relaxed and still and attentive to what the pastor was teaching.<br />
<br />
Or was she?<br />
<br />
I’d find myself wondering if the hair play really felt good
to her; that she didn’t care that others around her were surely noticing. Or,
did she really want to tell her husband, “Leave my hair alone!” but too meek to
interrupt his show.<br />
<br />
(I don’t see them anymore. I wonder what happened to them.)<br />
<br />
And then there is the massager—a man who rubs his wife’s
back—a lot. He makes a circular motion as she leans slightly forward. Then he
goes up to the neck and gives a little squeeze before resuming the circular
motion—kind of like the kid waxing the car in <i>The Karate Kid</i> movie.<br />
<br />
They are less distracting than the other couple was. Is it
because they are older and heavier and have gray hair? In other words, he seems
to be giving his wife comfort for a back issue, whereas the other couple
appeared sensual.<br />
<br />
And why does this take my attention from the pastor’s
teaching on <i>The Sermon on the Mount</i>
or some other encouraging or disciplinary message that I probably need to hear?
What is it about PDA that gets a reaction out of us?<br />
<br />
A <a href="http://www.washingtonpost.com/lifestyle/style/miss-manners-public-display-of-affection-is-no-fun-to-watch/2013/10/22/062a2234-31e0-11e3-9c68-1cf643210300_story.html"><span style="color: blue;">letter to MissManners</span></a> in the <i>Washington Post </i>expressed
a woman’s annoyance with her brother-in-law’s constant PDA with his wife. She
said she’s not “a prude,” but that the couple is driving her “bonkers.” And
these people are in their late twenties and early thirties.<br />
<br />
Like most situations in life, we all have our own way of
responding. Public displays of affection aren’t major on my list of
distractions; unless we’re talking about pure exhibitionists like the <s>pimp</s>
man strolling down the street with two scantily clad <s>prostitutes</s> women
on each of his arms that my family and I shared a sidewalk with while in Puerto
Rico. On second thought, that wasn’t PDA; that was business.<br />
<br />
Lately, I’ve noticed a few of my older/empty nest friends
and neighbors holding hands while taking a leisurely walk. That goes into the
“how sweet” category; hardly, the “get a room” category. Maybe Darling Husband
and I will get back to it when we become empty nesters.<br />
<br />
<b>How do you feel about public displays of affection (PDA)?</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<span style="font-size: x-small;">image found </span><a href="http://www.dailymail.co.uk/sciencetech/article-1356873/Public-display-affection-Prairie-dogs-kiss-cuddle-watched.html" style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: blue;">here</span></a></div>
Anitahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08180243708565855383noreply@blogger.com28