tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-77251732175337564832024-02-06T19:18:56.417-07:00The Crooked ClotheslineAiring my laundry for all the neighbors to see.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02127177435320546422noreply@blogger.comBlogger37125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7725173217533756483.post-66458281101191868252016-12-24T20:02:00.001-07:002016-12-25T00:31:08.610-07:00How to Feel All Christmasy on an "I Quit My Job" Budget<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">There are pros and cons when it comes to quitting your job in the hopes of carving out a different kind of life for yourself. Until you've got your new career nicely settled, the holiday season, with the expectations it can bring of spending, splurging and indulging in special treats, can definitely accentuate the cons. I have had to find new ways to enjoy the festive mood of the holidays even though I'm not rolling in the dough.</span><br />
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</span> <span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">To help others who might be in my same or a similar position, I've compiled a short list of short-on-cash methods for stretching those Christmasy feelings.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: x-large;">1. Have an annoying cat. </span></h3>
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</span> <span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Nothing says "It's Christmas time" like decorating the tree. You can relive that moment again and again when you have an annoying cat in the house. In fact, you can relive that moment sixteen times a day, every time you stoop down to replace the tree skirt that has been dragged across the floor and left in a wadded, wrinkled heap in the hallway or every time you detach your cat and her clinging razor claws from the top wire branches of your fake tree. Just be sure to leave your Nat King Cole Christmas cd playing on a constant loop to drown out your wicked thoughts of dropping the cat off at a local shelter.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: x-large;">2. Refuse to turn on the heat.</span></h2>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I live in the desert. This time of year, I can still soften the butter by leaving it out on the counter, even without the use of central heating. Yeah, yeah, we've got some beautiful winter weather here in Phoenix but it's not very festive nor reminiscent of my beloved, snowy childhood Christmases in Indiana. For now, an airline ticket to snow country is out of the question. That is why each day I look forward to evening when the sun will go down and take those beautiful temperatures with it! At night, it gets chilly enough to at least pretend that there's a risk the water pipes might freeze overnight or on the morrow a voice on the radio might issue a stern warning against driving to work. For a few brief hours it's not too hot to wear a pair of socks. I can even break out my long-sleeved pajamas. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Now, there are certain people residing in my home who might prefer that I turn the heat on at night and, yes, I can afford to do so. However, sleeping in long-sleeved pajamas <i>and</i> turning on the heat would mean that covering up with a simple bedsheet would be sufficient. In December? That's ludicrous! I deserve to snuggle up under a cozy quilt and pretend that I live in a snow-drifted wood one lousy month out of the year!</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">In addition, I relish the thought of next month's air-conditioner and heater free electric bill.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Whenever someone in my house comments, "It's cold in here," I walk by shivering, draped in a blanket, and say, "I know! And I love it!"</span></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">**Extra tip - If you have hardwood floors or tile, you can further immerse yourself in the "snowed in" fantasy. Just remove any rugs from beside your bed. Force yourself, first thing in the morning, to walk barefooted across the chilled floor and imagine you're Christmasing at a Swiss ski chalet.</span></i></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: x-large;">3. Listen to the audiobook version of Thomas Hardy's <i>The Return of the Native</i> read by Alan Rickman.</span></h3>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I'm barely on the fourth cd of thirteen, so no spoilers from me. I will say, though, that I have already learned the hard way of Hardy's cruel penchant for torturing readers with heartrending conclusions to his novels. However -- trust me on this one -- it matters not.</span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">If there existed a Youtube channel that </span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">featured him reading tax documents...<br />
I would subscribe to such a channel.</span></i></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Even when Hardy rambles on for paragraphs about the topography of the English heath with long, confusing sentences filled with antiquated vocabulary until I feel I must have the comprehension of a two-year-old --</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">it matters not.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">It's read by Alan Rickman, for Pete's sake! Rickman's voice IS a blazing yule fire! Warm, compelling, dangerous -- basically, hot stuff.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Uttered in his British pronunciation, words leap like surprising, bright sparks -- issue becomes issyoo, figure becomes figga -- from the already spellbinding flames of his seductive tones.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">And it's free at the Scottsdale library! </span></div>
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</span> <span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">If Rickman isn't your cup of steamy Earl Grey, see your doctor immediately. Then try this Christmasy alternative: a fake fireplace.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b>Andrea's Two-Step Method For Creating a Yuletide Blaze </b> </span></h2>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7vmpD_SPKJCbp_SRHN_pGyJeXvwUx6FV-9NyB7TRPTaNLgJkFW3bUOkSDl_BFxbIT3MXw3Zl_XYpqYGX_xnFMyihlyuJ0ObsAkYEMQ9BPo3Un3Hsk5LMu7NOTJDVaUGDCNBaYwaD-Y6c/s1600/c+2+steps.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="246" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7vmpD_SPKJCbp_SRHN_pGyJeXvwUx6FV-9NyB7TRPTaNLgJkFW3bUOkSDl_BFxbIT3MXw3Zl_XYpqYGX_xnFMyihlyuJ0ObsAkYEMQ9BPo3Un3Hsk5LMu7NOTJDVaUGDCNBaYwaD-Y6c/s400/c+2+steps.png" width="400" /></span></a></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: x-large;">4. Watch Facebook videos on how to spoil your cats.</span></b></h2>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">You may not have the money to spoil yourself or your human loved ones but all it takes to spoil your cats are a couple of crummy old packing boxes from the garage. Add last year's wrapping paper scraps, apply some strategic planning and you will have a fun, exciting Christmas project for yourself that's entertaining enough to risk being late for your new job. Once it's put together, you'll have hours of enjoyment thinking about how much the cats would've loved crawling up in there if they weren't overfed and, thus, too fat for the little holes you made.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSgAUC1i2beDvZUjPMdwZd10t5OymgZjn8ZVKZiqI-L7FSeW1AMdDfxx2TKi1wq_lOt898o9fVjSXkpkYgtY3KXoX3Ppfzu01ahGFzClI1yCcNbV1_2qj-OZBUCgLOlmrIX09PXwgltqQ/s1600/c+cat+house.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSgAUC1i2beDvZUjPMdwZd10t5OymgZjn8ZVKZiqI-L7FSeW1AMdDfxx2TKi1wq_lOt898o9fVjSXkpkYgtY3KXoX3Ppfzu01ahGFzClI1yCcNbV1_2qj-OZBUCgLOlmrIX09PXwgltqQ/s640/c+cat+house.jpg" width="256" /></span></a></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbowU8ofccfLSl8S4j3-yg6nSnw0EQ9k6pZCBlJqodJYjUcP6XDXKvbWbldnP61DWw-kjbK6TtLuCvKLG97tpcAMwGmrVKiHbuX06wKRAdg3vfGl9f64qbb5Ic-abk12c3g_pbw0QepoU/s1600/c+cat.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbowU8ofccfLSl8S4j3-yg6nSnw0EQ9k6pZCBlJqodJYjUcP6XDXKvbWbldnP61DWw-kjbK6TtLuCvKLG97tpcAMwGmrVKiHbuX06wKRAdg3vfGl9f64qbb5Ic-abk12c3g_pbw0QepoU/s400/c+cat.JPG" width="400" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Apparently, this little stinker, Rey, is the only one who fits.</span></td></tr>
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</span><span style="font-size: x-large;">5. Read Ann Voskamp's <i>The Greatest Gift</i>.</span></span></h2>
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<span class="text Hab-3-17" style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 16px; position: relative;">Right now, all I gotta' do is read the news to realize I'm living like a member of some sort of aristocracy. But feeling rich isn't the same as knowing I'm loved. Ann Voskamp's book, <i>The Greatest Gift,</i> reminds us of how much we're loved by God in a way that makes me feel like it's a cozy, gift-filled Christmas Day every day of the year. </span><br />
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</span> <span class="text Hab-3-17" style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; font-size: 16px; position: relative;">In her gentle, poetic style, she encourages us to be like the Old Testament prophet, Habakkuk, saying, </span></span><br />
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</span><span class="text Hab-3-17" id="en-NIV-22786" style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; font-size: 16px; position: relative;"> Though the fig tree does not bud</span></span><br />
<span class="indent-1" style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 16px;"><span class="indent-1-breaks" style="box-sizing: border-box; font-size: 0.42em; line-height: 0;"> </span><span class="text Hab-3-17" style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; box-sizing: border-box; position: relative;">and there are no grapes on the vines,</span></span><br />
<span class="text Hab-3-17" style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 16px; position: relative;"> though the olive crop fails</span><br />
<span class="indent-1" style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 16px;"><span class="indent-1-breaks" style="box-sizing: border-box; font-size: 0.42em; line-height: 0;"> </span><span class="text Hab-3-17" style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; box-sizing: border-box; position: relative;">and the fields produce no food,<span class="crossreference" data-cr="#cen-NIV-22786A" data-link="(<a href="#cen-NIV-22786A" title="See cross-reference A">A</a>)" style="box-sizing: border-box; font-size: 0.625em; line-height: 22px; position: relative; top: 0px; vertical-align: top;"></span></span></span><br />
<span class="text Hab-3-17" style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 16px; position: relative;"> though there are no sheep in the pen</span><br />
<span class="indent-1" style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 16px;"><span class="indent-1-breaks" style="box-sizing: border-box; font-size: 0.42em; line-height: 0;"> </span><span class="text Hab-3-17" style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; box-sizing: border-box; position: relative;">and no cattle in the stalls,<span class="crossreference" data-cr="#cen-NIV-22786B" data-link="(<a href="#cen-NIV-22786B" title="See cross-reference B">B</a>)" style="box-sizing: border-box; font-size: 0.625em; line-height: 22px; position: relative; top: 0px; vertical-align: top;"></span></span></span><br />
<span class="text Hab-3-18" id="en-NIV-22787" style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 16px; position: relative;"><span class="versenum" style="box-sizing: border-box; display: block; font-size: 12px; font-weight: bold; left: -4.4em; line-height: 22px; position: absolute; top: 0px; vertical-align: top;">18 </span> yet I will rejoice in the <span class="small-caps" style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; box-sizing: border-box; font-variant-caps: small-caps; font-variant-numeric: normal;">Lord</span>,<span class="crossreference" data-cr="#cen-NIV-22787C" data-link="(<a href="#cen-NIV-22787C" title="See cross-reference C">C</a>)" style="box-sizing: border-box; font-size: 0.625em; line-height: 22px; position: relative; top: 0px; vertical-align: top;"></span></span><br />
<span class="indent-1" style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 16px;"><span class="indent-1-breaks" style="box-sizing: border-box; font-size: 0.42em; line-height: 0;"> </span><span class="text Hab-3-18" style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; box-sizing: border-box; position: relative;">I will be joyful in God my Savior.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="indent-1" style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; font-size: 16px;"><span class="text Hab-3-18" style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; box-sizing: border-box; position: relative;"> (</span></span>Habakkuk 3:17-18)</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br />
</span> <span class="indent-1" style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; font-size: 16px;"><span class="text Hab-3-18" style="box-sizing: border-box; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; position: relative;">This is a bible verse I sometimes repeat to myself, paraphrased just a little and often through clenched teeth.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="indent-1" style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; font-size: 16px;"><span class="text Hab-3-18" style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; box-sizing: border-box; position: relative;"><br />
</span></span><span class="indent-1" style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; font-size: 16px;"><span class="text Hab-3-18" style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; box-sizing: border-box; position: relative;"> Though the gas tank is on empty</span></span></span><br />
<span class="indent-1" style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; font-size: 16px;"><span class="text Hab-3-18" style="box-sizing: border-box; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; position: relative;"> and there ain't nothing good in the pantry,</span></span><br />
<span class="indent-1" style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; font-size: 16px;"><span class="text Hab-3-18" style="box-sizing: border-box; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; position: relative;"> though the wine cellar is...</span></span><br />
<span class="indent-1" style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; font-size: 16px;"><span class="text Hab-3-18" style="box-sizing: border-box; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; position: relative;"> well, heck, there ain't no wine cellar!</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span class="indent-1" style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; font-size: 16px;"><span class="text Hab-3-18" style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; box-sizing: border-box; position: relative;"><br />
</span></span> <span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "verdana" , "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white;">That kind of thing, usually. </span></span>But Ann reminds us that we don't need to make anything, do anything, have any material Christmas thing to be dazzled by the ever-present gift of God's love. I definitely could use that reminder when I'm trying for the eighteenth time with mounting fury to wrench a frenzied feline from the branches of my artificial Christmas tree. This book takes my focus off the eye-candy of a yummy Pinterest Christmas and puts it on the more satisfying Prince of Peace. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I hope these tips will serve you well as you enjoy your holidays with friends and family. I am being called away to attend to a reported Christmas tree calamity. My adult children are saying the lower branches look broken. I wonder why. </span></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02127177435320546422noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7725173217533756483.post-49290958427009402692016-10-19T21:04:00.000-07:002016-10-19T21:06:47.463-07:00Welcome to New View Apartments<i> Here's a short fiction I wrote for a class and just found buried in the files of my laptop. Perhaps it will serve as a brief respite from the stresses of the current presidential camPAIgNs.</i><br />
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> “There are </span><span style="color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; font-style: italic; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">two</span><span style="color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> creepy guys at my apartment complex.” </span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">It was a slow morning at the office. Lyndsay figured her coworkers would appreciate hearing about her adventures as a nineteen-year-old in her first apartment. The other two women were pretty old...early thirties with babies to diaper and lawns to mow...obviously in need of a little excitement in their lives.</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“You found them already?” Janice said, “I’m impressed.” She winked at the hygienist, Isabel, who was handing a file over the counter.</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“You can’t miss them!” Lyndsay insisted, “One of them constantly hangs out at the pool fully dressed even in August. He actually looks kind of normal. Like, he’s cute and stuff, even though he’s kind of old.”</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Ew, gross,” teased Isabel, “like twenty-eight?”</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“You know what I mean. Older than me.”</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“So what makes him creepy?”</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“He just stares at me all the time when I’m at the pool. It’s so unnerving!”</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Janice winked at Isabel again.</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“You like it.”</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“What? No, I don’t!”</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Then why are you blushing?”</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“I’m not!”</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Lyndsay swiveled back to her computer, clacking away violently on the keyboard. Janice stifled a laugh and tried to make amends.</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“You said there were two creeps?”</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Lyndsay whirled back around.</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Yeah, the other one lives below me. With his mom. I think his name is Manuel. He seems to be, like, my age but I think he’s retarded or something.”</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Isabel frowned. </span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“You mean he has Down syndrome?”</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Yeah, that’s it.”</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“What’s he done that’s creepy?”</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Well, hello, he’s just weird. And every time I come home, he runs out to tell me about a new video game or his karate class or blah, blah, blah. AND he smiles constantly. It’s annoying.”</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Janice rolled her eyes but Isabel spoke up.</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“He sounds sweet. You’d better be nice to him, Lyndsay, or I’m going to kick your butt.”</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Whatever!” Lyndsay laughed, “I’m always nice. I smile...as I hurry past.”</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Lyndsay made it up the stairs to her small apartment undetected by that kid, Manuel. Maybe he was at his little karate lessons, she thought as she struggled to turn the key in the lock. The stupid thing was getting harder to open in this humidity. Once inside she pushed against the door, trying to turn the deadbolt. The door was too swollen. Drained by the heat, she gave up, tossing her keys and shoulder bag onto the breakfast bar by the entryway. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; text-indent: 36pt; white-space: pre-wrap;"> She would call the office about the door after she peeled off her sweaty scrubs. Just inside the threshold of her bedroom, she kicked off her shoes. Before she could even pull off her socks, a strange feeling prickled across her skin. Not a throw pillow was out of place, not a hairbrush was askew but she knew someone had been there. She turned around. On the wall, beside the light switch was a note, penciled right onto the dingy paint, “I like you.”</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Fighting down the sick, scared feeling that churned in her gut, she decided to be furious instead. She would march straight to the office. Who cared if that creep did have Down syndrome? He should know better than to invade someone’s home. </span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Pounding across the floor into the living room, she stopped short. The tall, narrow window beside the front door was filled with a figure silhouetted by the late afternoon sun. Her immediate instinct was to yell that she had seen his sick, little note and that he was in big trouble. Then she realized the shape in the window was not the short, round figure of the boy from downstairs. The silhouette shifted its weight, blocking the sun. In the second it took her eyes to adjust, she realized the man from the pool was peering in, his hands cupped around his eyes, forehead pressed to the glass. </span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">She remembered that the door was unlocked. He probably just wanted to ask her out but she slipped quickly to the door and, pushing against it, fought to turn the deadbolt. To her horror, the door began to slowly push back. She tried to plant her feet on the tile entryway but as he pushed harder, her socks slid across the smooth surface. </span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Hey, stop!” she heard herself yelling. </span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">With a final thrust, the door was thrown open and she was knocked against the breakfast bar. He took one step in and leaned back against the doorframe, smiling.</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Hi. Are you busy?”</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“What do you think you’re doing?” she shrieked, “Get out of here or I’m calling the cops!” She grabbed her purse from the breakfast bar and began to dig for her cell phone. He gripped her wrist with one hand and wrenched the purse away with the other. He tossed it out the door. He had her by both wrists now and dragged her closer. Her eyes were at the same level of the red stitching on his sky-blue work shirt, </span><span style="color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; font-style: italic; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">New View Apartments.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; text-indent: 36pt; white-space: pre-wrap;"><i> </i>“Didn’t you read my note? I said I like you,” he breathed. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; text-indent: 36pt; white-space: pre-wrap;"> She could smell his words, minty fresh but vile. She turned her face away but not before noticing his perfectly straight, white teeth. It occurred to her to knee him in the groin but her shaking legs were too weak to hold up her own body let alone inflict pain on a grown man. </span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Lyndsay suddenly saw her own purse swinging into view, catching the man in the temple, knocking him off balance and revealing behind him the boy from downstairs. Manuel went through a series of whistling-sharp arm movements before he flew at Lyndsay’s assailant with pummeling fists and a few precisely aimed kicks. When the man fell unconscious to the ground, Lyndsay and Manuel stared at each other. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; text-indent: 36pt; white-space: pre-wrap;"> She grabbed her phone from her bag and dialed 911.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; text-indent: 36pt; white-space: pre-wrap;"> “Please, don’t leave until they get here. Um... you’re, like, my hero. Thank goodness you take those karate lessons.”</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“I teach them, too.” he beamed, “You should come to my class.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Sign me up.”</span></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02127177435320546422noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7725173217533756483.post-54531353069586227892016-09-30T13:06:00.000-07:002016-10-04T08:02:10.163-07:00True Reparations Begin in the Heart<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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My brother and I were discussing reparations for slavery the other day. He was saying he believed that maybe, yes, in theory the U.S. should pay reparations for slavery but went on to name all the difficulties. "Who is going to pay for it?" he asked. The taxpayers? Did any of today's taxpayers own slaves? Who is going to receive the money? He felt that only black Americans whose families can be traced back to ancestors who were enslaved should be paid. While I tried to splutter out a response, I had no answer for overcoming all these sticky issues.</div>
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I do think reparations are important and shouldn't be entirely dismissed. Ultimately though, they will do nothing toward really healing our nation's racial divide. I believe that true healing will start with white Americans deeply examining our past and feeling real regret. I don't mean flippantly tossing out, "hey, I'm sorry black people were enslaved, I really am, but that was over 150 years ago. We need to move on."<br />
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Yes, absolutely, we need to move on but we can't until we white Americans truly, deeply feel remorse for our country's past injustices, even though we weren't there and are not responsible for what happened.<br />
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Everyone wants to point out how far we've come and it's true on one level. In the 150 years since slavery, we have come a long, long way from literally treating human beings worse than we treated our farm animals. But the progress has happened slowly, slowly, inch by inch. Somehow, over this long span of time, the magnitude of the horror and degradation black Americans have dealt with in past decades has faded in the minds of white Americans to the point that many want to dismiss it as irrelevant to our lives today. I don't believe this reaction is necessarily out of meanness. I believe that many of us, myself included, have just lost touch with other people's reality.<br />
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Not too long ago, I listened to a <a href="http://www.theliturgists.com/podcast/2016/3/29/episode-34-black-and-white-racism-in-america" target="_blank">super informative podcast</a> that spoke about the misunderstanding held by white people who had grown up in the 70's, 80's and 90's. It said that those people had grown up with a few black kids in their neighborhood. They saw their black friends with the same quality of house and car as themselves and believed African Americans lived that way all over the country, completely unaware that there were pockets of extreme poverty.<br />
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I recognized myself with some shock. In the 1970's, as a kid in Muncie, Indiana, living with my family on a college campus in married student housing, every one of the many black adults I knew either attended college or worked as college staff. By the time I became an adult, I had come to believe that we all have truly equal opportunities. But the truth is, policies and practices put in place decades ago, such as <a href="http://www.blackpast.org/aah/redlining-1937" target="_blank">redlining</a> for just one example, have made it harder for many black Americans to gain equal footing.<br />
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I'm harping on Facebook comments again but I am reading things like, "Yeah, but what about black on black crime? What about the violent, hateful lyrics of hip hop? What about black people who abuse the welfare system?" (By the by, white people abuse the welfare system, too.) Of course, these are all issues that need to be addressed. But are we really going to repair society's problems with angry retorts of, "Yeah, but what about YOUR flaws?"<br />
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I'm not a sociologist but my guess would be no.<br />
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I believe we each have to start with ourselves. Don't wait for "the other side" to go first (in my mind, much of the other side has already gone first by continuing to be cordial to us.) We white Americans need to really come to grips with our nation's past.<br />
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I feel like we have this protective wall built around our hearts. I don't know why. It's like we think that if we really realize the magnitude of the damage our country has wreaked on the lives of African Americans through slavery and Jim Crow, and we say, "my god, what have we done?" it's tantamount to taking the blame, to being personally responsible for the atrocities that occurred. Of course, we today are not responsible for the actions of people who came before us. No, I did not sell or buy human beings. You did not scream threats at black children seeking an education at your neighborhood school. We do not need to sit around feeling guilty. Yet, I do believe we need to be responsible enough to face full on what happened in the past and cry, "my god, what have we done?<br />
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Somewhere in the Bible, maybe I'll look it up before I'm finished here, but somewhere in the Bible it says the sins of the father are visited upon the sons for generations. I always thought, "Well, that's not fair, God. Why would you punish kids for what their parents did???" But I think what it really means is the natural consequences of one generation's sin will have repercussions that will negatively affect future generations. If I choose to go around lying and stealing in front of my young children, that's certainly going to negatively affect them and, depending on their response, their children as well. As a friend said to me the other day, our nation is currently suffering from the repercussions of the sins of our predecessors. We can be the generation that takes responsibility and <i>really</i> makes progress.<br />
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I say <i>really</i> because, think about it, all those slow, inch-by-inch steps toward progress were tolerated begrudgingly by most white Americans. Black Americans, with the help of some white Americans, had to fight and fight and fight for each tiny step. What if they didn't have to fight for it any more? What if love and understanding flowed freely from our hearts?<br />
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But love and understanding aren't going to flow when the heart is encased in a wall built to keep out the discomfort of any sense of responsibility. For me, tearing down that wall and taking on responsibility means giving up my conviction that I can't be any more enlightened. I need to swallow my pride and stop thinking, "but not <i>me</i>. I don't benefit from white privilege." I need to take a moment, maybe repeatedly, to really let the shame and horror of what our ancestors did to Africans and to African Americans soak into my heart. I need to feel terrible about it. Maybe let myself cry about it. I need to be ashamed of not noticing that systemic racism is still affecting people all around me today. Although I do need to recognize that the media is manipulating us and playing us for fools, I also need to stop reducing a large group of individual human beings to statistics that I see plastered on Facebook memes as proof that the other side is wrong and dismissible, proof that I don't need to do an ounce of changing myself. I need to stop being so quick to judge and take either side over the other.<br />
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I know my life is far too full of Facebook but I have to mention another meme I've seen. This meme is very well-intentioned, featuring kids of different skin colors and text saying something like "love is natural; hate has to be taught." I do appreciate the sentiment but I think I disagree. I think hate and fear tend to be our go-to responses toward people who seem different from ourselves. I think love and understanding and empathy have to be carefully modeled, taught and encouraged. Here's our chance.<br />
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02127177435320546422noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7725173217533756483.post-1303036663416339992016-09-10T23:51:00.000-07:002016-09-12T20:41:33.303-07:00Our Country Needs You to Show That You Care<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Oh, I know! I went twenty-four hours without yammering on about something on Facebook! You probably worried (or perhaps hoped) that Mark Zuckerman himself had barred me from posting anything <i>anywhere</i> near your newsfeed ever again. That is not the case. The truth is, I've been busy here under The Crooked Clothesline, tryin' to untangle my knotted underdrawers which have been snappin' and flappin' in the gale-force winds of social injustice.<br />
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Yes, I said social injustice. This is not going to be my funniest blog post ever. But it will be my most passionate one.<br />
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I have been saddened, frustrated and even outraged by some of the posts and comments I've come across out on the Internet, dismissing, shaming or blasting anything to do with the slogan "Black lives matter" or Colin Kaepernick or anyone voicing the need for change in our country. The sentiments that confuse me the most are the ones that come across my newsfeed from people I know to be fellow Christians.<br />
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I have read more than one comment posted by African-Americans saying, "Stop trying to explain to white people what we're going through. It's not that they don't understand. It's that they <i>just</i> <i>don't</i> <i>care</i>."<br />
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Can this be true? Some of us don't care that black Americans are hurting? From what I have seen on the Internet, I am scared to death that it is true.<br />
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First, I want to say that it is a little difficult for me to speak up on any subject. I am sometimes embarrassed by the fact that I appear to be a bit of a "yes-man." However, my bad habit of readily yielding to another person's opinion is not as much from a desire to win his or her approval as it is due to a lack of confidence. I will back down in any conversation, disagreement, debate, etc. because I assume EVERYONE is wiser and more knowledgeable than I. But on this one subject I feel extremely confident in my opinion: Black Americans still have many reasons to be dissatisfied with the way they are treated in this country and white Christians are failing them.<br />
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I am speaking to white Christians because, for the most part, it's only my non-Christian white friends that I see supporting black Americans on any issue. I've known many of my non-Christian friends for a long time so I am not at all surprised to see this proof of their love and concern for people. What surprises me is the heated anger I see out on the Internet coming from people who also post memes about following Jesus Christ.<br />
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I hope that the anger and dismissal I see from white Christians is not from a lack of concern for the unequal treatment black Americans receive but rather from a lack of understanding that such treatment is still happening. And, in addition, maybe from a lack of understanding that the consequences of past injustices still reach through the generations to affect us all still today.<br />
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I commonly read comments on the Internet written by white people saying things like, "I am sick to death of hearing about slavery. The first slave owner in America was black!"<br />
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"Oh, yeah, blame whitey for all your problems. Africans sold their own people into slavery."<br />
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Let me be clear! None of my personal Facebook friends have said anything insensitive like this. But I wonder if my friends realize that people are out there saying these crazy things about and to our brothers and sisters. If we do know, then being silently disgusted by it is not enough. We need to speak up!<br />
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It needs to be said that while most cultures in the world have at some point sold and/or enslaved other human beings, this fact serves to back up the Bible's claim that all men fall short of the glory of God, rather than to excuse our country's past or current sins with a shrug of the shoulders.<br />
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Another comment I recently lifted directly from a stranger on Facebook read, "I refuse to feel guilty about slavery. It happened over a hundred years ago."<br />
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First of all, 150-some years isn't all that much time! We need to acknowledge that recovering from over 200 years of something as traumatic as slavery is going to take more than a couple handfuls of generations -- even if racism had been magically eradicated the minute Abe Lincoln signed the Emancipation Proclamation. And we all know that didn't happen. Recovery has been seriously impeded by Jim Crow laws, lynchings, denial of education, and general unwarranted hatred.<br />
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Secondly, maybe none of us today need to feel guilty about our nation's history of slavery. Sitting around feeling guilty isn't productive. (Although, personally, I think if you haven't thought about slavery and Jim Crow until you feel a little bit sick, you haven't thought about it enough.) Maybe, though, we need to consider that we are all sort of victims of slavery in a way. Frederick Douglass said in his autobiography that slavery was harmful to both the enslaved person and the slaveholder. I believe that the repercussions of slavery still affect our nation today; it still affects the hearts of white Christians today.<br />
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If you still have the lingering thought anywhere in the back of your mind that, in general, black people tend to be less intelligent, less capable, less trustworthy, less productive, you are still being influenced by the lies of white supremacy perpetuated by the legislators of Jim Crow laws.<br />
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And if you can point to a particular case in which this thought appears to be true, I would again point to slavery and Jim Crow laws as contributing factors. This isn't an excuse for bad behavior but when people are consistently held back and denied job opportunities, denied education, denied basic dignity for generations, there will be some who are not going to behave, who were maybe not set up to behave, in the same ways as white people who've been told, either overtly or subliminally, that white people are smarter, harder-working, more law-abiding, etc.<br />
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Additionally, I believe it is important to stop and think about what our personal attitudes would've been had we been a part of American society sixty years ago or 160 years ago. Today, I like to think I have just the right attitude regarding race relations and that I'm always on the right side of an issue. But then I wonder what my opinions would've been if I'd been a young person in the 1950's living in a neighborhood being forced to integrate. Would I have been adamant that expecting white kids to sit side by side with black kids was just too much? Quite possibly. So, if I could've been on the wrong side of an issue back then, what makes me think I am unfailingly on the right side today? It is my opinion that all of us who call ourselves by the name of Jesus Christ need to stop measuring ourselves against our embarrassing ancestors, thinking we're much more enlightened than they were, and start measuring ourselves against the Creator of all human beings. Would he be pleased with the scathing comment we posted on Facebook today belittling Colin Kaepernick for attempting to support people who don't have the blessings he has and who are suffering from discrimination?<br />
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The Bible tells us to weep with those who weep. It doesn't say to post snarky memes insisting that they have neither the right nor a reason to weep.<br />
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Along those same lines -- and this is just my opinion but -- posting Tomi Lahren's angry, arrogant, foam-flecked video rant on Facebook is a surefire way to advertise to any of your African-American friends that you don't think their complaints are worth considering, that you believe they should just be grateful they aren't in chains anymore, and that you think just s<i>aying</i> we believe in justice for all is plenty good enough so there's no need to back the idea up with, say, equitable jail sentences.<br />
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I am not suggesting that black Americans are always right on every single issue. They are just as riddled with flaws and weaknesses as the rest of us. I'm not trying to promote political correctness. I'm not saying that we shouldn't state on Facebook what we perceive to be the truth for fear we might appear racist or might offend people of color. I'm just saying that as representatives of Christ, as Americans who claim to be patriotic and proud of our nation's strides in Civil Rights, when we state our truth, we should do so with a little more respect for the experiences of people from a different background, with a little more effort to understand their point of view and with a little less anger. I know what you're thinking...because I've thought it myself: <i>of course I have respect for my black friends; of course I understand, I'm not a racist.</i> But we need to move beyond just convincing ourselves that we respect all lives and actually demonstrate that respect by listening to what black Americans have to say about their experiences, by acknowledging that we can't possibly understand what it's like to be black in America and by offering sincere love, concern and support instead of posting a video by that ONE black guy whose rant supports our position.<br />
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We also need to remember that our black friends or even the black people we encounter on the Internet don't have control over every other African-American person in the country. One black woman had added a comment on a thread about police brutality and a livid white guy retorted, "What about all the black on black killings in Chicago and Detroit? Guess black lives don't matter unless they're being killed by whites!" The logistical problem I see here is that this woman he was answering probably isn't running around a Chicago neighborhood with an illegal firearm stuffed in her waistband. More than likely she had just kicked off her shoes after teaching third-graders or treating patients all day. She has no more control over the bad behaviors of gang members in the inner city than I do over the bad behaviors of Donald Trump or Hillary Clinton. So is she not allowed to have an opinion on police brutality until she singlehandedly gets gang violence under control? How was it productive for this livid white guy to throw Chicago and Detroit in her face? He has no idea how much pain these shooting statistics might cause her.<br />
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Ultimately, as followers of Christ, the pain experienced by our African-American brothers and sisters should be of far more concern to us than our traditions or our pride or our desire to see ourselves as guilt-free or our perceived position at the top of the totem pole. Are we really as concerned about the suffering of our fellow human beings as we are called to be or are we more bent on being right? We need to take a good, long look at ourselves. God already knows every ugly, secret ethnocentric thought in our hearts and he still loves us. So we don't have to be afraid of discovering those ugly thoughts for ourselves, examining them, confessing them to him and asking him to change us where he sees fit. If you are a follower of Christ, you know he will bless you and make you more like him in the process. And we all have room for more of that! The presence of people who humble themselves and ask God for listening, loving, Christ-like hearts is what will make our divided country truly great.<br />
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<i>My son said that it would be helpful if white people could enter a simulator to experience how a person with dark skin is treated on a daily basis. I think that would be a great benefit to our entire nation! But until such a simulator exists, there are books! Below are a few of the books that have shaped my understanding. If you have read any books concerning the black American experience that have influenced you, I would love it if you'd post about them in the comments below.</i><br />
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02127177435320546422noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7725173217533756483.post-53570678355193518142016-05-25T23:20:00.000-07:002016-05-25T23:36:16.598-07:00Leading Authority Issues Warning: Middle-Aged Women Exposed to Wit and Charm May Exhibit Foolishness<div class="MsoNormal">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQHX008J9j1xL8SCfOR22i8Q7Upp6dF5Q0fQ4PDhyphenhyphenFO_HYnlafK4_I-TmbFvIsq3V5CvlBzqQ632oNWuQBkLmO-9mp4G0zYHKBKBjIm8Qm44Jjd6aZKxRuo2o5yyhvOawdKgJxCSBvbq0/s1600/age+defying+lotion.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQHX008J9j1xL8SCfOR22i8Q7Upp6dF5Q0fQ4PDhyphenhyphenFO_HYnlafK4_I-TmbFvIsq3V5CvlBzqQ632oNWuQBkLmO-9mp4G0zYHKBKBjIm8Qm44Jjd6aZKxRuo2o5yyhvOawdKgJxCSBvbq0/s320/age+defying+lotion.jpg" width="217" /></a></div>
I have recently become well educated regarding brief, meaningless flirtation and the middle-aged lady brain. That's right,<i> I </i>am the "leading authority" referenced in the catchy headline above. As such, I assure you this post will be 100% scientific with empirical evidence based on my own highly-charged emotions.</div>
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My emotions and I became involved in a scientific research project quite by accident. It began when a cute guy started paying me some dubious compliments. Curious scientific thinker that I am, I posed a question – ‘What will happen if…?” Turned out, I got a big ol’ kick out of Cute Guy’s attention. A kick in the <i>head</i>, seems like. I discovered, through my own trial and error after error after error, that meaningless flirtation has powerful effects on the brain. Sure, some of the effects were actually great and had me wondering, “How can I get a lifetime supply of this?” Others had me wishing that lobotomies were still in vogue with mental health experts.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Of course, I’m not suggesting that middle-aged ladies put a permanent ban on harmless flirting from relative strangers. <i>That</i> wouldn’t be any fun. Just know that clever and entertaining innuendo, when left unchecked, will wreak havoc on your brain and, subsequently, your body.<o:p></o:p></div>
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In this dissertation, I will calmly and without passion, state the unbiased facts so that you, the thinking reader, may decide for yourself how to proceed should you encounter unexpected charm.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b><span style="font-size: 24.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Pros </span></b><b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">or “Does This Come in Time-Release Capsules?” </span></b><b><span style="font-size: 24.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b><u>Scientific Fact: You will burn more fat and crave less.<o:p></o:p></u></b></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj16FFqbar8gox1EKJEsF7ptuqsJmAlSU2juilumfdD9w90Nz3kNqhRvCGafLTGpBQi0joMmqTDFLrTgRIpfo4nGmIInFsJtTBfsjq3CBcMOr6cJFsowX3H6nGUiDFVan1mAh4SoJbroWE/s1600/text+message.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj16FFqbar8gox1EKJEsF7ptuqsJmAlSU2juilumfdD9w90Nz3kNqhRvCGafLTGpBQi0joMmqTDFLrTgRIpfo4nGmIInFsJtTBfsjq3CBcMOr6cJFsowX3H6nGUiDFVan1mAh4SoJbroWE/s320/text+message.jpg" width="251" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>That's some hot stuff right there.</i></td></tr>
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Wondering when you’re going to get that next fix of flattery will make you antsy. No need to <i>force</i> yourself to get up and exercise - you won’t be able to sit still with all that dopamine ricocheting through your veins. With that new spring in your step, the walk around the neighborhood that previously took you an hour to complete will suddenly take only 40 minutes. Your favorite fattening treats will be entirely unappealing. You will require only your romantic daydreams to sustain you. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Some of you might be thinking, “Sounds great! Who can <i>I</i> get to send <i>me</i> flirty, inappropriate text messages while I’m at work?” Well, I’m with you! This is what we all need to keep the unwanted pounds at bay! That’s why I’m offering a new motivational service called FlirtFit. For a low price of $30 a month - that’s just one measly dollar a day to look amazing - I’ll send you a daily text message that will make you giggle like a schoolgirl and occasionally blush. I’m going to send some to myself, too.</div>
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<b><u>Scientific Fact: Money concerns will magically “disappear.”<o:p></o:p></u></b></div>
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If your bills are piling up and life is starting to depress you, the company of a man exuding boyish charm may be just the thing to take your mind off your worries. The laughs will transport you back to your high school days of hilarious boys and few responsibilities. There, your frazzled brain will enjoy an impromptu vacation from the pressures of life. In fact, your brain may never want to return to the drudgery of adulthood. I must caution you, however. A holiday from financial responsibility sounds great but those carefree days are gone, sister! Such feelings of nostalgia are to be indulged only in brief, bite-sized moments. Snap out of it and pay the darn bills before your water gets shut off!<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b><u>Scientific Fact: You will care more about your appearance.<o:p></o:p></u></b></div>
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While engaging in witty repartee, you will want to look your best! Your typical attitude of “This is how I look, world. If you don’t like it, you can stuff it” will suddenly dissipate. Every morning, you will perform an elaborate new toilette, plucking and exfoliating and conditioning, as if you were one of Solomon’s wives anticipating a rare summons to appear before the king. Your application of lotion will become downright maniacal. And you’ll feel fabulous! <b><u><o:p></o:p></u></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-size: 24.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Cons</span></b><b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;"> or “Does My Insurance Plan Cover Shock Therapy?”<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b><u>Scientific Fact: You will <i>REEEALLY</i> care more about your appearance.</u></b></div>
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Previously, as a mature woman who knows her worth, you were too spiritually in tune to concern yourself with signs of aging and other imperfections. However, at the indication someone is looking in your direction, some haggard old crone you’ve never laid eyes on will barge uninvited into your bathroom mirror. You will enter a mourning period, grieving the loss of your skin’s elasticity. You will be particularly distressed at the state of your eyelids which are so creased they look like they spent the last seven months squashed at the bottom of a full laundry hamper. You might even be tempted to spend an irresponsible amount of money on some fancy lotion and you’ll have to talk yourself off that ledge by reminding yourself that you have all those wrinkles because you’ve led a very happy life and have enjoyed maybe more than your fair share of belly-laughing with friends and family.</div>
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<u style="font-weight: bold;">Scientific Fact: You will become a mindless idiot.</u> </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Just kidding. These aren't mine.</td></tr>
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You know how you typically keep a stack of books beside your bed? And how you read a little bit from a couple of them every night, enjoying a wide variety of genres? Well, if you choose to encourage a little flirtation rather than shutting that operation right down, be prepared to completely lose your ability to decipher those strange, black symbols strewn across the pages of a novel. They will become meaningless despite your repeated attempts to trudge through the same lousy paragraph. Nothing, <i>nothing</i> in print<i> </i>will be within your realm of understanding. Even celebrity bios will suddenly be far too high-brow for you to ingest. So, you will lower your expectations, “just for now,” and open that children’s book you’ve been wanting to read only to see nothing but gibberish printed on every page.</div>
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This phenomenon may be related to the myth of multi-tasking. It may actually be impossible to read while entertaining unwholesome thoughts. Studies are inconclusive at this time.</div>
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<b><u>Scientific Fact: You will become delusional.</u></b></div>
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It’s not your fault, though. It’s all because your traitorous brain is spewing dopamine unabated. Again with the dopamine! In case you didn’t know, that stuff is the most dangerous chemical known to Man. It will lie right in your face without blinking. It will tell you that you are a kid again. It will convince you that you are as supple and springy as you were at seventeen. While you are preparing for your Storytime duties at the library, it will slyly whisper real close in your ear, “look how big and spacious this empty Storytime room is. Someone should do a <i>cartwheel</i> in all this glorious, wide open space! It should be <i>YOU</i>. You’re just as cool and fun as you ever were. Go ahead! Do it!”</div>
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And because dopamine is a sociopathic manipulator, you will fall for its load of hooey. Two months later, while working on your blog, you will <i>still</i> be nursing that sprained butt muscle. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">PhD - Worthy Conclusion<o:p></o:p></span></b><br />
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Are all middle-aged ladies susceptible to this descent into foolishness when tempted by a brief dalliance? Heck, I don’t know. This study didn’t allow for differences in intellect, personality or past experiences. The important thing is to ask yourself, “is the risk of actin’ a fool worth the brief moments of fun?” I conferred with my emotions and I have to confess that we all waffled back and forth on the subject. Sure, the distraction from literary pursuits, the sheepish journal entries about how dumb we were, the literal pain in the butt after that ill-advised cartwheel were all very disconcerting at fifty-two years of age. Ultimately, however, we have decided that we <i>deserved</i> a brief vacation from money woes, we <i>needed</i> that extra slathering of lotion and, yes, we <i>do</i> “look good in those pants.” So, although Cute Guy and I both realized that neither one of us is what the other wants, I appreciated the fun. Additionally, I will be taking my elaborate new toilette into the future with me. Thanks, Cute Guy. I wish you all the best.<br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02127177435320546422noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7725173217533756483.post-26384302146510360842016-05-19T15:16:00.001-07:002016-05-20T12:33:58.987-07:00It Was Foretold in Legend: Whether In Middle Ages or Middle Age, Encouraging Flirtation Brings Consequences<div class="MsoNormal">
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<span style="font-size: large;">About eight years or so ago, I decided I didn’t want to date anymore. I made that choice for a few reasons. For practically a decade, I have been super happy with this decision. It has been a very pleasant and drama-free era in my life. However, there was an unfortunate side-effect to my self-imposed isolation. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Remember how Guinevere hid out in a convent because she was afraid of Mordred and too ashamed to face King Arthur? Well, if avoiding men was the lady's goal, she could just as easily have fled to an elementary school. Sequestered amongst six-year-olds and exhausted teachers, she would have pretty much been guaranteed to never see another man again. Unfortunately, after a few years of being hidden away, she would've also eventually lost the will to shave her legs, grooming herself only two or three times a year for parent/teacher conferences. As time crept on, it would have one day made sense to try cutting her own hair rather than pay good money for someone else to do it because, “hey, it ain’t like Lancelot’s gonna’ see me!”</span><o:p></o:p><br />
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<b style="font-size: 12.8px;"><span style="font-size: small;"> Medieval Groomin'</span></b><span style="font-size: 12.8px;"> </span><i style="font-size: 12.8px;"><span style="font-size: small;">(for optimum comic effect, </span></i></div>
<i><span style="font-size: small;"> imagine Jeff Lynne singing.)</span></i></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: large;">I know that this would have happened to Guinevere because it happened to me…and I’m pretty sure she was an Aries, too. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">So there I was, not giving much of a doo-doo about my appearance. Then I got a job at a library. In this new setting, I felt I should dress as if I were no longer spending half of my day sitting or kneeling on a classroom floor. <i>And</i> there were guys around. That was a bit of a shock to my system. Yet, a strange compulsion came over me, like the natural instinct of a cockatiel to preen its feathers – “Oh, yeah, ladies shave their legs.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Then something completely unexpected happened. Maybe this little bit of sprucing up was an improvement or maybe my inner confidence in who I am was shining through. Or maybe my poor eyesight serves me well…’cause here’s an embarrassing fact: no matter how fat, old or worn out I get, I still see my 20-year-old self in the mirror and I walk around as if that’s exactly how I look. That’s why I’m never going to get Lasik surgery, thank you very much. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Whatever the reason, I was shocked to find myself the subject of some male attention. Now, don’t get all excited, Reader. It was fun but after a few hilarious, potentially blog-worthy “dates”, he and I have both already moved on. The only reason that I am sharing this experience of unexpected attention is that during my bout of reckless, mid-life flirtation, I noted both benefits and drawbacks to the subsequent romantic high that affected my day-to-day behaviors. As a blogger, I felt it my duty to share these pros and cons with my more mature, single, female readers so they can carefully weigh the positive and negative consequences of shaving their legs and not suppressing their charming personality. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">If you feel you are in danger of inadvertently attracting the attentions of a shamelessly flirtatious man, meet me here at The Crooked Clothesline next Thursday. You might learn a thing or two from my pile of dirty laundry that needs a good airing.</span><o:p></o:p><script>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02127177435320546422noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7725173217533756483.post-21871652926762938942015-10-11T15:35:00.000-07:002016-05-09T17:05:24.088-07:00Storytelling by the Seat of the Pants: Doris Speck Excerpt<i>It's storytime once again at </i>The Crooked Clothesline<i>. While preparing to take part in this year's National Novel Writing Month in November, I indulged myself by reading the results of my previous years of participation. After reading the following, written entirely on the fly, I thought, "Hey, this might actually be a good blog post for the easily amused." I know I liked it! Please enjoy this excerpt from </i>Doris Speck.<br />
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<i style="font-size: 12.8px;"> Not only do the administrators of </i><span style="font-size: 12.8px;">NaNoWriMo</span><i style="font-size: 12.8px;"> </i><br />
<i style="font-size: 12.8px;"><i style="font-size: 12.8px;"> challenge participants to write 50,000 words </i></i></div>
<i style="font-size: 12.8px; text-align: left;"><i style="font-size: 12.8px;"> in 30 days, they also encourage grown adults to </i></i><i></i><br />
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<i><i style="font-size: 12.8px;"> create covers for their yet-to-be-written novels.</i></i></div>
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<b>Synopsis:</b> <span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.6px;">It's 1960. Doris Speck plans to cash in on her good looks to be a Broadway actor, not for love of the craft but to prove wrong her cruel foster parents' dismal predictions concerning her future. Her plans go awry and Doris must contend with negative reviews, a mean beatnik roommate, answering phones at the funeral parlor, her employer's pet parrot, and an all-girl loanshark motorcycle gang before landing in the Australian outback as field assistant to Agatha Lovelost, an animal behaviorist living amongst the duck-billed platypuses.</span><br />
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One evening, as there were no viewings on schedule, Mr. and Mrs. Ochman were preparing to head home at 6:00, leaving their nephew to finish an embalming. Sometimes, when living customers were out of the building for the evening, Mrs. Ochman would open Motyl’s cage and let him fly around the foyer for a few minutes of freedom. Doris found this appalling but she certainly preferred cleaning an empty cage to reaching her arm in with an agitated bird bigger than Howdy-Doody beating its horrid wings at her. When Mrs. Ochman opened the door to the cage, Doris waited tensely until Motyl flapped off into a viewing room before she began her job. When her heart stopped palpitating, she was able to perform her task with less displeasure.</div>
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The phone on the desk rang. Doris was loathe to touch the receiver while her hands were contaminated with Motyl germs but she found she was the only person in the room. Thank goodness that by 1960 the Kimberly-clark Corporation had already introduced the Kleenex pop-up tissue carton! Doris frantically whipped out a half dozen tissues which she wrapped around the heavy black handset before lifting the receiver to her ear. A few minutes later, she was back in the embalming room delivering a message for the younger Mr. Ochman. She leaned in through the doorway, hanging on to the door frame.</div>
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“Mr. Ochman, your mother just called. She wants you to come to dinner this Sunday. She said to wear a tie; she’s invited...I think she said Sylvia Latham? She said that Miss Latham attends Memorial Methodist Church,” Doris recited faithfully, “that she has just earned a bachelor’s degree in child development, her father owns a dry cleaning store in Manhattan and that she’s a great prospect.”</div>
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Viktor’s face turned red and he almost dropped the scalpel he was holding. Fortunately, he retained his grip and the Berenstein family’s beloved grandfather sported both ears at his viewing two nights later. Viktor smiled more than a little sheepishly.</div>
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“Uh...thank you, Miss Speck, for delivering that message so efficiently...and in such great detail.” He cleared his throat. “Heh-heh! Another Sunday dinner with Mother...<em style="box-sizing: border-box;">dear</em> old Mother. Well, you know how mothers can be!”</div>
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Doris came all the way into the room now and stood at the opposite side of the embalming slab. Grandfather Berenstein was covered only up to the waist in a white sheet but Doris didn’t really notice him.</div>
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“No, how can mothers be?” she asked, genuinely wanting to hear.</div>
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Viktor mistook her curiosity as interest in himself and blushed again. </div>
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“Well, you know...”</div>
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Doris shook her head.</div>
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“Um...they can be demanding. Case in point, my mother just called and <em style="box-sizing: border-box;">told </em>me to come to dinner on Sunday.” He laughed. “They can be controlling and far too involved in one’s life as proven by the fact that my mother has taken it upon herself to scout out young ladies suitable for marriage and invite them to dinner in order to see how we might look together in the wedding photos.”</div>
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The picture was becoming clearer. Doris nodded her head and took a step or two closer. Waiting to hear more, she leaned with one hand upon the surface of the embalming slab. Viktor continued.</div>
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“Of course, they can be manipulative,” he began to look at Doris strangely, “For example, whenever my mother...um... Miss Speck.” He gave a slight nod that seemed to indicate her hand. She looked down to find that she was leaning with her palm on Grandfather Berenstein’s upper thigh.</div>
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“Oops. Sorry...”</div>
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“No, that’s fine...I just thought it might bother you.”</div>
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“Oh, not at all. Why would it bother me?” Doris gave Grandfather Berenstein a friendly pat to show that it didn’t bother her at all.</div>
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Suddenly, an unpleasant flapping filled the air. A low-flying, rainbow-colored rat had flown into the room, swooping too close for comfort. Wildly flailing wings beat above Doris’ head. Caught off guard, her instincts took over and she ducked, throwing her arms over her face.</div>
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“EEW!” she screamed, “EEW! EEEEWWW!! I hate that thing! I hate that thing! Get it away from me!” Motyl had perched calmly high atop a freestanding instrument storage cabinet. But Doris was still jogging frantically in place, paddling her hands madly in front of her face to keep beating wings from touching her. She looked like what a television viewer might expect to see on American Bandstand after Dick Clark had just introduced a guest singing something about, “Everybody, do the Drowning Victim!”</div>
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“Miss Speck! Miss Speck! You’re okay!” Viktor called to her. He stayed put at the other end of the embalming table since it would be impossible for him to approach her without receiving a black eye at the very least.</div>
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“Miss Speck! It’s okay!”</div>
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Doris froze, her mouth still hanging open in horror, her eyes still large and frightened, her forehead furrowed. She was embarrassed and ashamed. More than anything, she was afraid of what would happen when Mrs. Ochman found out that Doris secretly harbored disdain for the beloved pet. Victor knew what the look on her face meant.</div>
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“It’s okay,” Viktor said once more, “Your secret is safe with me. I’ll get Motyl out of here.”</div>
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Viktor was about to turn around and coax Motyl onto his arm when his aunt breezed into the room. </div>
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“Motyl! <em style="box-sizing: border-box;"><u style="box-sizing: border-box;">Zlatino</u></em>! Time to go to bed, my sweetheart!”</div>
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Doris and Viktor remained frozen staring at each other in silence. Mrs. Ochman carried her baby out of the room, offering treats. Motyl squawked, “My sweetheart!” before taking an orange slice from her.</div>
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When they were alone again, Viktor smiled at Doris. </div>
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“That was a close call. Now I know a little bit more about you than I did before. I should be finished up here shortly. When I am, may I offer you a ride home, Miss Speck?”<script>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02127177435320546422noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7725173217533756483.post-43749293326031876042015-07-24T22:54:00.000-07:002015-07-25T00:07:47.439-07:0010 Shocking Reasons You Should Read This Post (#6 is so weird orange juice shot out my nose and I wasn't even drinking orange juice!)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Ah, gee, I feel kind of bad now. There aren't really ten reasons. There isn't even a #6. It was all a shameless ploy to lure you back to The Crooked Clothesline. It's been months since I've aired any dirty laundry and I've missed you!<br />
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I owe you an actual headline, don't I? I suppose if I hadn't lost all integrity and, instead, used my imagination, I might've come up with something like "Dogs: Just Kids Packin' Hefty Sniffers" or "Your Kid is Nothing More Than a Bi-Pedal K9."<br />
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You see, last fall while enjoying my rash and brash decision to leave my teaching position and luxuriate in delicious writing time, my cousin suggested to her friends that I might be just the person to help out with their dog-sitting business. I thought, "Eh, should be a fun way to bring in some cash until I have to get a full-time job." Oh, it was. It was also strangely familiar.<br />
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Yes, I spent the next several months noting the similarities between teaching a classroom full of kids and tending to a pack of dogs. Before you are offended, please note: I love dogs and kids. Pretty much. I was just surprised by the intensity of the similarities. Of course, if a person thinks hard enough, she can find <i>some</i> similarities between almost any two items. I've provided a Venn diagram to illustrate my point:<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4Qp9kNX0haroj80drUszTU6KF9-D4GwEDLAKd-w4jcdYvm4N7NZEe_9A2R-GJktuH8FJQNw2H36BI_drRKJ3YJxPUkAP7mm55JFF3-_DXhwZFa30ClWIcQDr0Cjk4ClslniyFYusua2Y/s1600/venn+diagram.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="243" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4Qp9kNX0haroj80drUszTU6KF9-D4GwEDLAKd-w4jcdYvm4N7NZEe_9A2R-GJktuH8FJQNw2H36BI_drRKJ3YJxPUkAP7mm55JFF3-_DXhwZFa30ClWIcQDr0Cjk4ClslniyFYusua2Y/s320/venn+diagram.png" width="320" /></a></div>
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However, with dogs and kids it's more like this:</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0_C2MYHhjmVXsziE1zP14eZIbM6Flho8SlNxscXYo05ihPEOl-NKRTIJPNAF5De0aOXBi8NSIivGXVGJZL_r-Ov8HXXe8r3qgZRfDx4Sp1tdK_pUhgiTa82UCmfvgLp5wLtVYjCNHOUg/s1600/venn+diagram+2.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0_C2MYHhjmVXsziE1zP14eZIbM6Flho8SlNxscXYo05ihPEOl-NKRTIJPNAF5De0aOXBi8NSIivGXVGJZL_r-Ov8HXXe8r3qgZRfDx4Sp1tdK_pUhgiTa82UCmfvgLp5wLtVYjCNHOUg/s400/venn+diagram+2.png" width="400" /></a></div>
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Granted, many of the similarities are positive and endearing qualities.....but this <i>is</i> The Crooked Clothesline. And, really, isn't it more fun to focus on the ridiculous? So grab a glass of orange juice and let's see if anything shoots out your nostrils. </div>
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Disobedience</h3>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Re-enactment</i></td></tr>
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In my experience as a teacher, blatant student disobedience was not a daily occurrence. Yeah, there was always that child who would have spent an entire math lesson folding his homework into an origami Yoda on the sly, if he could've gotten away with it (and it's possible some did.) However, the more spectacular displays of disobedience tended to be rare, such as the following incident that occurred during recess. One of my first graders had been told several times not to do such-n-such. Of course, he did it again -- simply for the pleasure of having all attention on himself. I remember the smile of glorious triumph on his face, his shoulders hunching up with each uncontrollable giggle. He hung back, just out of reach, waiting for me to call him over. When I did, his smile stretched even wider and he took off running in the opposite direction. </div>
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As much as I would've loved to race after that kid and make him eat turf by tackling him to the ground, I knew I would never catch him. In addition, and more importantly, it was Fifties Day. I was in full costume. I could just imagine the Benny Hill theme music playing as an overweight, middle-aged lady in rolled up dungarees and cat-eye glasses chased a grinning little boy back and forth across the soccer field and up and down the play equipment while all the other first graders watched. </div>
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So I nonchalantly blew the whistle to signal the end of recess and walked the line of obedient children toward the building with Mr. Naughty trailing along just out of reach (much like a dog!) I completely ignored him until he dared to walk within my reach. Without a word, I took him by the wrist and marched him to the principal's office.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1Xb3xSvHgfA4GNGJNWuS93YVIoa4Qh2L-WmAAfoeQ2pbMuLcrjmM_cBP9aUJqRtPPbFbyYqkMRleQq6f01eDy8y2yNo8pGp_CQL2wRWOXpBsVgb-3jL-0zoKnvEqRZ_nrm33cEyDLHSg/s1600/dogs+beth+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1Xb3xSvHgfA4GNGJNWuS93YVIoa4Qh2L-WmAAfoeQ2pbMuLcrjmM_cBP9aUJqRtPPbFbyYqkMRleQq6f01eDy8y2yNo8pGp_CQL2wRWOXpBsVgb-3jL-0zoKnvEqRZ_nrm33cEyDLHSg/s200/dogs+beth+2.jpg" width="182" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Actor dramatization</i></td></tr>
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Just like kids, most of the dogs I dealt with were mostly obedient. "Come." "Sit." "Drop it." Then, I met Roosevelt (not his real name.) Roosevelt was a fluffy yellow lab puppy roughly the size of a PT Cruiser. I had 30 minutes to get this giant baby to eat and go for a walk. He much preferred to loll around in the yard, munching away patches of the manicured lawn. Once he lazed in the grass with a bird carcass protruding from his fuzzy lips and refused to drop it. Another time, I was perusing handwritten directions left by the homeowners when Roosevelt snatched the paper out of my hand and ran away...reminding me of a certain student I once had. Roosevelt also confused my forearm with a Nylabone and left me peppered with tooth-sized bruises between the elbow and wrist.</div>
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Chaos </h3>
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If you have a dog or a child, you probably already know what I'm talking about. Both are separate entities from yourself and, unfortunately, you cannot control either with your thought waves. While teaching, if a mouse is spotted in the classroom, the calm, orderly spelling test taking place will erupt into screaming and clamoring to get a closer look. While dog-sitting, if the homeowners leave a note requesting that you not allow their Lhaso apsos in the pool, the landscapers will leave the pool gate open and the dogs will jump in to ravage a poor, vulnerable lizard that you will have to wade after in order to rescue.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg53NYzzUHnU8T0sGg-t40GcsPbYMyqPQwDkAPhZ1NdZGRu4mVGizGcHP73DXCu9FEbMwuHTVUbuyJ02i5SNBCho423BMR7nMXiMyGYSjE11nKgywPbezXnXE4J6odzTsGPfR582b1NIqI/s1600/dogs+annabelle.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="154" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg53NYzzUHnU8T0sGg-t40GcsPbYMyqPQwDkAPhZ1NdZGRu4mVGizGcHP73DXCu9FEbMwuHTVUbuyJ02i5SNBCho423BMR7nMXiMyGYSjE11nKgywPbezXnXE4J6odzTsGPfR582b1NIqI/s200/dogs+annabelle.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
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Fear </h3>
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Teaching can be a little scary in today's world. One mistake and your mascara-streaked mugshot may show up in everyone's Facebook news feed. The day students started bringing picture-taking cellphones to school, I got smart and emptied my desk drawer of the vodka bottles and stopped showing that Richard Pryor video for Black History Month.</div>
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I was always afraid that something I said to students would come back to haunt me. Part of my fear stemmed from my unprofessionalism. As one of my favorite first graders put it, "You're like a big kid, Mrs. Bastek." However, a problem much bigger than my leaky filter was what might be lost or gained in the first-grade translation later that night at the dinner table. </div>
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"My dear Mrs. Jennings, let me assure you that Tommy grossly misquoted me. I did NOT say he was a brat. I said he was <i>acting</i> <i>like</i> a brat."</div>
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Being trapped in a classroom with 25 children all day drudges up all sorts of fearful thoughts. "What if I'm letting this child down?" <span style="background-color: white;">"Am I singlehandedly responsible for the tragic demise of cursive?" </span>"Did Mrs. Jennings wrap up these homemade cookies herself or did she let little Booger Fingers do it?"</div>
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I never expected that during my dog-sitting jobs, I would again be poked by the cold finger of fear. Heck, dogs aren't scary. When I was around nine years old, my dad mentioned, somewhat jokingly, that I was too dumb to be afraid of dogs. Doesn't sound very nice, I know, but the man was right. For decades, I unreservedly invited any stray dog into the backseat of my car so I could track down its owners.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhycFFb-jsaVsLeeFmDuMx6WkFSiKI7ZwbzJEHJQD_H9Kn4hgDwTIcr1hjdYyvgyrTBxleqd273nbiBgZnw_TDnkuhoLLtQZZxNvFs8fsZ2HlUDVwJdxXG-GdqcCttxizKIAAsFg5XoIoA/s1600/dogs+langdon+sophie.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhycFFb-jsaVsLeeFmDuMx6WkFSiKI7ZwbzJEHJQD_H9Kn4hgDwTIcr1hjdYyvgyrTBxleqd273nbiBgZnw_TDnkuhoLLtQZZxNvFs8fsZ2HlUDVwJdxXG-GdqcCttxizKIAAsFg5XoIoA/s320/dogs+langdon+sophie.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Not actual pit bulls</i></td></tr>
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I will admit, though, that I had to put on a brave face to go feed and be company for two pit bulls. I want to say up front (so you don't get scared for me) that I got through the experience with nothing bad happening. Mitch and Micki (not their real names) appeared to be wonderful, friendly, loving dogs. They always acted happy to see me and enjoyed getting their hind ends scratched. Yet, after reading unsolicited "trending" articles on Facebook about pit bulls in the news I grew more wary. Honestly, every time I went to feed Mitch and Micki, my own brain spent the entire half hour visit inundating me with disturbing mental images featuring myself. I don't want to go into detail because they were not funny images. The result, though, was that I never bent down to pick up a dog toy in that house.</div>
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The similarity between teaching and dog-sitting is clear: one wrong move and you're dead meat.</div>
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Poop</h3>
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Perhaps it is a little known schoolhouse phenomenon but it is my understanding that legends relating the mysterious appearance of poop on classroom carpets circulate amongst teachers as high up as the 5th grade. I myself have had to discreetly squat down mid vocab lesson, tissue in hand, to remove the object of horror (lest chaos ensue) and then attempt to sniff out the poopetrator.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Taking Bulldog classes at community </i><br />
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<i>college</i>.</div>
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So when it came to dog-sitting, one would think that as a former educator and lifelong dog owner, I would have developed a high tolerance for poo. Well, I recently had a brand new humiliating experience and for that I can thank a beautiful, gray bulldog named Layla (identity changed so the Dog Boss won't get mad at me.) While walking Layla through her apartment complex, she had a bout of the big D, in the grassy common area right outside of a semi-circle of patios. I was a little stunned, standing there with my limp and useless doggy doo-doo bag. I texted the Dog Boss to see if he had any suggestions, really hoping he would say something like, "Oh, please. Just leave, ya' goofball!" I loitered for five minutes without getting a response. Then, confident that no one had witnessed the event, I took Layla back to her home and prepared to leave. That's when the Dog Boss called all panicked, saying that the apartment management would DNA test any dog poo found on the property and that the Layla's owner would get in trouble. Now, I don't know if that claim itself was a load of caca but I found myself scooping up dog diarrhea with two red Solo cups. </div>
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That might've been the very night I decided it was time to throw in the leash.<br />
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Messy Business</h3>
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So in the past year, I moved seamlessly from one messy business to another. The overlap between teaching and dog-sitting really did strike me as funny. I remember being very nervous about the pit bulls. I reminded myself that I was also always nervous the night before a new school year started and had to put on a show for the kids of not being nervous. So I told myself to do the same with the pit bulls: just put on a show and use my teacher voice. It worked. Both jobs provided me with lots of laughs and a clientele that was 100% adorable. One major difference between the dogs and the kids is that the kids usually could tell when I was joking and when I wasn't. I hope you can, too! </div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">A special thanks to </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLUqpXSupjb_YudzhfNVCkqR6WITar-gjhMEcuhQMOsmE99qrnV3mrjveeGuNPmqOJlIoHGphtZjW9IvVErtruy4zRwnqbixRNZ6FxYeZPUka7nkZd6Bt2GP42DdHyuL65i_8i_PSG_JM/s1600/dogs+everybody.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="139" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLUqpXSupjb_YudzhfNVCkqR6WITar-gjhMEcuhQMOsmE99qrnV3mrjveeGuNPmqOJlIoHGphtZjW9IvVErtruy4zRwnqbixRNZ6FxYeZPUka7nkZd6Bt2GP42DdHyuL65i_8i_PSG_JM/s640/dogs+everybody.png" width="640" /></a></div>
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Shawna, Harvey, Langdon and Sophie, Roscoe and Annabelle.</div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02127177435320546422noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7725173217533756483.post-36003728740894595912014-11-17T10:58:00.000-07:002014-11-19T17:21:28.492-07:00Larry Parker: A Plaid, Mad, Doting Dad<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Plaid pants and <i>Star Trek</i> boots.</td></tr>
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During my early teen years, I was always a little surprised when my friends expressed that they liked my dad which they often did. Of course, I realized my gruff dad was really a nice guy but I figured that, during their brief visits, my friends were only experiencing one aspect of his personality and I didn't see how they could possibly get past that one part.<br />
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It was the voice.<br />
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The scary, barking, Army voice my dad used for disciplining ("Andrea <b>LYNN</b>!") made my heart feel like a draining pool of quicksand. Sometimes he used that booming voice or a slight variation thereof for minor infractions ("Don't hang on that!") and, once in a while, for completely innocuous situations ("Andrea <b>LYNN</b>! You want a root beer barrel?")<br />
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So I assumed all of my friends would be terrified of him.<br />
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I especially remember my friend, Katy, surprised me by saying something about my dad being so nice.<br />
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"<i>My</i> dad?"<br />
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"Yeah," she said, "he's like a big, cuddly teddy bear."<br />
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Even though my dad was known for being opinionated, outspoken, hot-tempered and, to the embarrassment of his three kids, for disciplining other people's children, Katy had picked up on something very true. Daddy always did have a tender side that revealed itself in many ways. <br />
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For one thing, Dad had a soft spot for animals, even though I think he tried to fight it. My mom has often told us how devastated Dad felt when he had to have their first dog, Puggy, put to sleep. He vowed to never have another pet. That vow didn't pan out with my animal-loving mom around. Turned out Dad was a pet magnet. Out of the five humans living in our home, each cat or dog in our series of pets always chose Dad as their favorite, despite his blustery protestations.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEy0QveXFT1Pd1ynwLVmLMHhk1tPb-d5n3sFeWAEd0b4TcjLsMrSvy9utSQS9Eq4ct8GshV1LhetYOf6dPE_ZPT5jPQFSQwxiW7lRpEF77OhyVJD77EiqSk13E-xVaRkgpTpDyJF0m-T8/s1600/puggy+cropped.tif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEy0QveXFT1Pd1ynwLVmLMHhk1tPb-d5n3sFeWAEd0b4TcjLsMrSvy9utSQS9Eq4ct8GshV1LhetYOf6dPE_ZPT5jPQFSQwxiW7lRpEF77OhyVJD77EiqSk13E-xVaRkgpTpDyJF0m-T8/s1600/puggy+cropped.tif" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;">My older brother, Puggy</span></i></td></tr>
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As tough as he was, Dad frequently melted in response to us kids. I said <i>frequently</i>, not always. One particular time was when I was in 6th or 7th grade. My sister and I called him at the high school where he taught, sobbing and screaming into the phone because we had discovered our new dog gnawing on our little turtle, Clyde, like he was an ice cube from a freshly polished-off glass of soda. (Oh, wouldn't you love to have been the school secretary for THAT phone call?) Dad came home from work early that day to comfort us and to bury Clyde in the backyard.<br />
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I was always deeply appreciative of the times he decided that we didn't need a spanking (his go-to behavior modification tactic) because our own stupid actions were punishment enough...like the time in fifth grade when I was swinging Tarzan-style on a flimsy willow branch out over the creek that was covered in a thin sheet of ice. Of course, the branch broke, depositing me on the ice which also broke, leaving me seated up to my hips in icy, cold water. I can just imagine all the people in our trailer court, watching out their windows as I waddled home in the freezing air like I had peed my pants. On second thought, this isn't that great of an example. I think I felt so stupid, I just <i>assumed</i> I was going to be in trouble. However, I do remember Dad saying, "Well, I think you've been punished enough," on this occasion and several other occasions that were actually deserving of some disciplinary action.<br />
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I've often repeated the story of when I was fourteen and Tommy Bradford caused a bit of a scandal on the TV show we were watching, <i>Eight is Enough</i>, by befriending a teenage girl who had become pregnant out of wedlock. Just when I was thinking, "This is painfully corny," Dad decided to make the most of a teachable moment. He said that if I ever found myself in that predicament, he might be a little disappointed but that he would do everything he could to help me. I didn't at all understand the magnitude of this promise. So I said that was disgusting and it was never going to happen to me because I wasn't so sure I was going to do <i>that</i> even if I ever got married. He got all mad and used a milder version of the voice to insist that it wasn't gross when you are in love.<br />
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I never tested the sincerity of his promise on that particular situation but I did provide him with many other opportunities to prove that he wasn't joking when he said that he would do everything he could for me. I did all sorts of dumb things, like spent too much money or locked my keys in the car or found myself without a place to live. Every single time, Dad came to my rescue. I know I wouldn't have completed my college education after my divorce without his support. He picked up my kids from school while I worked late in my classroom, had dinner ready when I got home, and watched the kids when I went to class at night.<br />
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As I said before, though, there was a darker side to Larry Parker. In the fiery furnace that was my father's temper, you could forge a suit of armor.<br />
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And maybe I sort of did.<br />
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During my teen years, when I decided, much to my dad's fury, that homework was a waste of precious, precious time that could otherwise be spent having fun, I developed a highly effective form of self-hypnotization: you simply hang your head in apparent remorse, so your long, stringy hair obscures both your face and your vision, and you repeat to yourself, "None of this will matter in ten years." Like I said, it was highly effective. It got me through rants and tirades that mapped out my guaranteed future of living in an abandoned, rat-infested bus with no heating. <b>Disclaimer: </b>This method doesn't work as well when your dad is lunging for your throat.<br />
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Apparently, some displays of temper I have blocked out entirely. An example of this begins on a beautiful early April evening in Indiana, just as the snows from the blizzard of 1977 had begun to thaw. In our gravel driveway, hitched to the back of our car, was a U-Haul trailer loaded with everything we were bringing with us for our new lives in Arizona. The very next day would be Dad's last at his job, then we would be hitting the road the following morning - if all went as planned. However, more "foul weather" was brewing. My younger brother and I, enjoying a rare moment of camaraderie, were throwing a combination of snowballs and mud clods at each other and using the car and trailer as shields. We were having a great time together until we heard a strange crackling, popping sound. We investigated and discovered that the car's rear window had been hit. We watched in horror as the tiny cracks in the center of the window multiplied and crawled in all directions until the entire glass was shattered in a misshapen honeycomb design. One of our snowball/mud clod combos must've contained a rock. We were too terrified to go in the house. So we knocked on the front door of our own home and waited for someone to answer. That's all I remember. I have absolutely no memory of crossing that threshold. My mother claims that all hell broke loose, that Dad chased Tim and me around the living room, and that she had to intervene to save the lives of her two older children. However, my mom tends to exaggerate for comic effect so I can't know for sure. The one other thing I do remember is that for the next thirty-six years, my brother swore up and down that I was the guilty party who launched the loaded snowball.<br />
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<i><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;">The happy although creepy-looking family a mere few days before Dad </span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;">had to be </span></i><i style="font-size: 12.7272720336914px; text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;">restrained from </span></i></i><i style="font-size: 12.7272720336914px; text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;">causing bodily harm to his two oldest children.</span></i></i></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9xVGjXJVFx5_t5SjEhNSnUG8_w_5fDZZMmwduzXzHqlDgrgYv51CTH7RdpNu5gQ60HmVZo4clzHteKdDgWsdUdRrqLlT334bwLAEER52a10o4OABejLpZj0Y70vZ8Q-4OLneXgyaNFLU/s1600/dad+grandkids.tif" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9xVGjXJVFx5_t5SjEhNSnUG8_w_5fDZZMmwduzXzHqlDgrgYv51CTH7RdpNu5gQ60HmVZo4clzHteKdDgWsdUdRrqLlT334bwLAEER52a10o4OABejLpZj0Y70vZ8Q-4OLneXgyaNFLU/s1600/dad+grandkids.tif" height="185" width="200" /></a><br />
Daddy could be hard to understand sometimes but he made one thing undeniably clear with his actions - he loved his family more than anything in the world and he would do just about anything for us. Mom said when we were very little, if one of us was sick, he was the one who stayed up worrying. He enjoyed snuggling up on the couch and watching <i>The Wonderful World of Disney</i> with us. I remember him sitting with me while we colored adjacent pictures in my coloring book. He enjoyed telling us stories of the time he spent on his Grandpa and Grandpa Lucas' farm with his aunts and uncles as much as we loved hearing them. In more recent years, if one of my siblings or I mentioned that we wanted to try something we had seen advertised on TV, he would show up at our front door with it a few days later. (It was very hard not to take advantage of that.) He spent time in my classroom pretty much every week for 16 years, copying papers, stapling packets and sharpening pencils to help me get home earlier. He kept dog and cat treats in his car to bestow upon our pets every time he visited. He loved seeing his grandkids and made the rounds every Sunday, to my sister's house, then to my house, and then to my brother's house, to deliver donuts. He loved bringing us sugar.<br />
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I suppose I have some deep, dark issues as a result of my dad's harsh, domineering side, issues that could afford to be explored with the help of a therapist but, because of his always-present tender side, I also grew up always knowing that I was deeply loved by him. I wouldn't have traded Larry Parker for any other dad, not even for Atticus Finch.<br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>Yesterday, November 16, 2014, was the one year anniversary of Dad's passing. So we all </i></span><i style="font-family: inherit;">gathered at a donut shop - his kids, grandkids, daughter-in-law and a photobombing </i><i style="font-family: inherit;">donut shop employee - to remember him. We miss you, Dad! </i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></i> <span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>Today, November 17, 2014, is the one year anniversary of the day my brother, Tim, finally </i></span><i style="font-family: inherit;">admitted to me that he MIGHT have been the one to throw the fateful snowball that nearly ended </i><i style="font-family: inherit;">our young lives</i><i style="font-family: inherit;">. </i></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02127177435320546422noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7725173217533756483.post-49156459902570056272014-11-09T20:42:00.002-07:002014-11-12T21:07:16.656-07:00On Hold<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: center;">
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<span id="docs-internal-guid-5b6914a6-97b8-71d1-9272-25091ab03ec2"><i>Super short fiction written for a class. Feel free to let me know what you think.</i></span></div>
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<b style="font-weight: normal;"><i><br />
</i></b> <b style="font-weight: normal;"><i><br />
</i></b> <br />
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> When I recognized the organist, I fought the urge to call Dave on my cell phone. Only Dave would find the humor in my sighting of this one-time high school celebrity who, as a popular senior, impersonated Elvis at pep assemblies more than thirty years ago. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; line-height: 2; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Just guess who the organist was!” I would say.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span></span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“You are kidding me!” he would laugh.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Then I spotted Kimmy across the aisle. Beyond celebrity, here was high school royalty. A cheerleader. Now I was dying to call Dave because this was too damn funny. To Dave, Kimmy was one of his older brother’s crowd, a family friend. To me...well, Dave knew the ancient, one-sided love/hate relationship I once had with the cheer squad based on my from-afar admiration and jealousy.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span></span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Kimmy still looks gorgeous,” he might tease, “Oh, here she comes. Quick, put this bag over your head!”</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span></span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I overcame the reflex to dig for my phone. With one heel, I nudged my purse under the pew. Interesting that so much of our friendship was conducted over the telephone. Dave enjoyed indulging in lengthy rants about the cranky cashier at the grocery store, retelling old tales about his brushes with fame in L.A. and initiating passionate debates on the heated Joan vs. Bette issue. For me,</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">in the midst of unpaid bills, car repairs and kids needing their dinner, Dave was a connection to those distant high school days when we could and did laugh about everything... back when life was never too serious. Well, not for me at least. There might’ve been some more serious moments for a skinny sixteen-year-old boy who endured living with two quarterback brothers, wore out Donna Summer albums, and inexplicably made an inordinate amount of gay jokes.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span></span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">It was time. My turn to walk up to the front of the church. Adrenaline jangled through my limbs. The sanctuary looked weird, like I was looking at it through a fish bowl turned upside down over my head. “Elvis” was singing </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Just a Closer Walk with Thee. </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">When I reached the altar, I peered over the side of the polished wooden box. Though afraid this jarring image would never subside, I forced myself to take in the folded hands and neatly parted hair. I realized with relief that this moment was powerless to overshadow my memories. Dave wasn’t in there, not really, and that realization made the sight less disturbing. My only worry now was what would everyone think of me...when I turned back around dry-eyed? That I was cold-hearted and didn’t care? Still, I couldn’t cry. That was not my friend. I knew my Dave was somewhere else...some might say in Heaven, others might say living on in our memories. But Dave was nowhere to be seen in that suit buttoned up by a stranger’s hands nor in that powdered face shaved post-mortem, with artificial color on the lips. Well, actually, the part about wearing lip color wasn’t that far off. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span></span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Ha! That’s pretty funny. You know who would appreciate that one...?</span><br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02127177435320546422noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7725173217533756483.post-19282599396265917452014-11-01T23:23:00.000-07:002014-11-02T20:57:17.806-07:00An Encyclopedic Retrospective of my Teenage Babysitting Years<b><span style="font-size: large;"></span></b><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgx0RR9NOWMpspeG5AUCIabU7RVUqt_z7tUQBUs9NVKANeFNibCfBCZ9A8AL8bFF4yYuXHlCDPJJ-N97W6eysUOyJ1PtnwV2KmhFrIWNZW220D-FJ_kDwA5bYeY7e_JifOMxJENIf-suG4/s1600/me+14+cropped.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/AVvXsEgx0RR9NOWMpspeG5AUCIabU7RVUqt_z7tUQBUs9NVKANeFNibCfBCZ9A8AL8bFF4yYuXHlCDPJJ-N97W6eysUOyJ1PtnwV2KmhFrIWNZW220D-FJ_kDwA5bYeY7e_JifOMxJENIf-suG4/s1600/me+14+cropped.jpg" height="161" width="200" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>This is me in 1978 after my first full year in Arizona. I had just graduated from 8th grade at Kyrene Junior High in Tempe and was freshly sunburned and red-eyed from the neighborhood pool's intense chlorine level. Weeks after this pic was taken, we moved into Chandler, where a young mother from across the alley, who I'd never met, came over to see if I was interested in babysitting. However, before I could</i></span></span><i style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: small;"> be entrusted with her infant </i><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><i>I had to meet some rigid standards. "How old are you?" she asked. When I told her I was fourteen, she responded with, "Great, you're older than I thought!" </i></span><i style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Thus, I embarked on a new phase of my education about life, music, grownups and myself. Maybe you can relate to some of it. </span></i><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></i></span><i style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">In case anyone is interested in keeping my regulars straight, I identified the families by the name of their child in parentheses if my memory allowed.</span></i><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhu_nPDxNHCpUNzU91FOvRDbflrhK0COC8-z3aUb_EjWd1RJjrZ3c46lf1IEU6AYslF16FblEj8Iy59f4UVVc6NbxUMbH7_dJAXdppBKeNm2lNZNh5oosBeTeeSeScss0hj9TkEhFPHwrg/s1600/albums.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/AVvXsEhu_nPDxNHCpUNzU91FOvRDbflrhK0COC8-z3aUb_EjWd1RJjrZ3c46lf1IEU6AYslF16FblEj8Iy59f4UVVc6NbxUMbH7_dJAXdppBKeNm2lNZNh5oosBeTeeSeScss0hj9TkEhFPHwrg/s1600/albums.jpg" /></a><b><span style="font-size: large;">Albums, record</span> </b>Record albums are the very reason I took babysitting jobs. Starting in the late 1978, from the ages of fourteen to eighteen, I enhanced my teenage record collection with the ample funds garnered through late nights of torture and humiliation.<br />
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<b><span style="font-size: large;">Bong</span> </b>I was a little surprised to find one behind an easy chair one night in a client's home. I wasn't snooping; it had been set just behind the corner of the easy chair, close to where I'd set my glass of soda. Took me a little longer than it would've taken my most of my cohorts to identify the item. <b>(Holly)</b><br />
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<b><span style="font-size: large;">Cat Stevens</span> </b>The couple who had a bong stashed behind an easy chair in their living room also had a huge record collection which included Tea for the Tillerman by Cat Stevens. I would listen to it on their stereo after tucking their little girl in bed for the night. I loved these people. <b>(Holly)</b><br />
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<b><span style="font-size: large;">Death</span> </b>The family I babysat for most regularly had three big, loveable dogs: Harry, an Old English sheepdog, his wife, Sam who was a black collie mix, and their gigantic daughter, Jo. One evening, I phoned my parents sobbing after big, ol' Jo lay down at my feet, emitted a strange, eerie howl and died with her eyes open. <b>(Becky)</b><br />
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</b> <b><span style="font-size: large;">Exorcism concerns</span></b> Toward the end of my babysitting era, I took my little sister along on a job, I think in preparation for passing the torch. The infant in our care was sleeping innocently in his room at the back of the house and we were watching some late night TV when Jo-el said, "Wouldn't it be weird if the baby came floating down the hallway?"<br />
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<b style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">Fights over the TV</span> </b><span style="text-align: left;">There was a Diana Ross special on TV that night and these boys thought they were going to watch The Dukes of Hazzard on the color set in the living room? Sorry, kids. I'm in charge. Their parents' record collection consisted largely of Barry Manilow albums. I didn't babysit for them again.</span></div>
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<b><span style="font-size: large;">Ganja</span> </b>I am pretty sure I was the only teenager in the entire neighborhood who didn't smoke it which made me a popular Saturday night choice for parents.<br />
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<b><span style="font-size: large;">Hippy Housemate</span><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></b>Even if you <i>do</i> have a slight crush on the client's hippy<b> </b>roommate because he seems cool, has shaggy hair, and wears a long moustache like a favorite uncle, it is totally weird and uncomfortable when, after the parents are gone for the evening and you've put the baby to bed, he suddenly makes his previously unknown presence known by wandering out of his room and flopping down in a chair next to you. Why in the world didn't HE babysit the kid? (see: Ganja) <b>(Becky)</b><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiL9kcAKpqRVEOuhlBZMHUfw9mTOGUyKXLTaeWG4FJ-UoV2rGit5kQlqLV3tmZmPKPJjCaBukKsQjFbDk_Qj2jXiOoO4xHo_qd6AOvrBsFemACANBwxr8o6QXucq1gOQbrh1IWYL102aE0/s1600/Jo-Jo.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/AVvXsEiL9kcAKpqRVEOuhlBZMHUfw9mTOGUyKXLTaeWG4FJ-UoV2rGit5kQlqLV3tmZmPKPJjCaBukKsQjFbDk_Qj2jXiOoO4xHo_qd6AOvrBsFemACANBwxr8o6QXucq1gOQbrh1IWYL102aE0/s1600/Jo-Jo.jpg" height="155" width="200" /></a><b><span style="font-size: large;">Invasion of Privacy </span></b>My sister is going to be mad at me for sharing this but it was so funny. She was about eleven and had come along with me on a house-sitting job. I turned from doing something to find her on her knees on top of the kitchen counter, nosing through every single cupboard. I said, "What are you doing?!" Jo-el, who had 20/20 vision, quipped, "Uh...looking for my contact?" She really should've studied at Second City. <b>(Kimberly) </b><br />
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<b><span style="font-size: large;">Japanese massage</span> </b>Things got even weirder with the hippie roommate that night when he stretched out on the living room floor and begged me to walk on his back. I declined. The crush was dissipating. <b>(Becky)</b><br />
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<span style="font-size: large; font-weight: bold;">Knocking knees </span>You know that cartoon image of a person so terrified that his body trembles violently causing his knees to knock together and actually produce a noise? I always thought that was just a hyperbolic joke until it happened to me one night and I heard the weird sound of my own knees knocking against each other. (see: Terror) <span style="font-weight: bold;">(two boys)</span><span style="font-size: large; font-weight: bold;"> </span><br />
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<b><span style="font-size: large;">Land line</span> </b>That was the only kind of phone we had back then and I made sure to keep my clients' land lines completely tied up after the children were abed. Hope Mom didn't want to check on little Suzie between dinner and the movie. There were high school boys to be discussed.<br />
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<span style="font-size: large; font-weight: bold;">Motorcycle</span><span style="font-size: large; font-weight: bold;"> </span>One of my favorite couples to sit for commenced their date night by roaring off on a gorgeous motorcycle both wearing brown leather jackets that matched their long, brown hair.<br />
(see; Bong, Cat Stevens) <span style="font-weight: bold;">(Holly)</span><br />
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</b> <b><span style="font-size: large;">Nilla Wafers</span> </b>I mistakenly believed that I had been sneaking cookies undetected. I was disillusioned the day Becky's mom asked me to stay a little longer so she could unpack her groceries. As she emptied her paper sacks, she pulled out a new box of Nilla Wafers, shook it at me and said, "Look what I got! Your favorite!" Humiliating. <b>(Becky) </b><br />
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<span style="font-size: large; font-weight: bold;">Old movies </span>The very best way to end a night of babysitting was to watch a 1940's movie to completion, hearing the parents pull into the driveway with my hard-earned cash just as the credits rolled. Old movies were my favorite because I enjoyed the wonderful costumes and hairstyles, appreciated kissing scenes minus close-ups with visible spit strings, and was intrigued by how acting styles have changed over the years. I also got a kick out of hearing silly phrases like, "Gosh, Ann, don't have kittens over it."<br />
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<b><span style="font-size: large;">Pervert, little</span> </b>I can't remember this boy's name. I think I blocked it out. He was about eight and loved to recount to me his weird, dirty little dreams that always involved naked women. And conveyor belts. <b>(two boys)</b><br />
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<b><span style="font-size: large;">Quandry </span></b>One evening, the pervy dreamweaver and his little brother sought to avoid their prescribed baths by running naked out the front door and racing around the front yard. When I went out after them, they ran back in and locked me out of the house. <b>(two boys) </b><br />
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<span style="font-size: large; font-weight: bold;">Racism </span>The Grammys were on TV and the "cool" hippy roommate first started to really irritate me by criticizing Elvis Presley (who was being honored in memoriam.) But then, after a performance by a black singer, he really shocked me, <i>horrified</i> me, when he said that all black people should be shipped back to Africa. I was fourteen and just stunned out of my mind. I said, "You're just joking, right?" He, in turn, was clearly shocked that I didn't agree with him. I was repulsed and the crush was over. <span style="font-weight: bold;">(Becky)</span><span style="font-size: large; font-weight: bold;"> </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large; font-weight: bold;">Saturday Night Live </span>If there wasn't a good black and white movie to watch at ten o'clock, I was somewhat relieved because that meant at 10:30 I could watch SNL unhindered. However, if there was a movie on another channel with Gene Kelly or Bette Davis or Clark Gable, I was forced to catch bits and pieces of SNL during the movie's commercial breaks.<br />
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<span style="font-size: large; font-weight: bold;">Terror </span><span style="font-size: large; font-weight: bold;"> </span>The boys I was watching were asleep. It was after dark and the house was quiet except for me chattering away on the phone with my friend, Brigette. Mid-laughter, the door leading from the family room to the garage caught my attention; the doorknob was slowly turning. That was plenty scary enough but when I asked several times in a shaking voice, "Who's there?" and got no response and the door knob continued turning slowly, I started picturing an expressionless man wearing black gloves and a ski mask on the other side. After calling the police (pre-911) and trying unsuccessfully to convince them that the boys and I were in imminent danger, after calling the operator and begging her, again unsuccessfully, to break in on my parents' busy phone line (pre-call waiting), and after my dad and little brother came running down the street to save me, it turned out that there was no psychopath on the other side of the door. <b><u>Public Service Announcement:</u> </b><i>When going out for the evening and leaving your children in the care of a neighborhood teenager, be sure to inform the poor girl about the new, doorknob-turning pet cat that recently joined your family.</i> (see: Knocking knees) <span style="font-weight: bold;">(two boys)</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large; font-weight: bold;">Underfed child, an </span>This full-time job was foisted upon Jo-el and me one summer when we should have been home sleeping late and watching game shows instead of caring for an infant. It was for our mom's friend who we loved but she had a swamp cooler and the Oreos were soggy. It was a rough gig. One afternoon while on duty, Jo-el and I started bickering about something and didn't let up until the baby's mom came home, couldn't figure out why he wouldn't stop crying, and asked us point blank if we had fed him his most recent bottle. Jo-el and I were quickly on the same side again and made a silent pact with our eyes. "<i>Yes</i>!" we said. (A friend who proofread this expressed concern that I would admit to this incident but I was seventeen and it was just ONE feeding. I'm sure the kid is just fine!) <span style="font-size: x-small; font-weight: bold;">(name withheld to save my mother undue shame) </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large; font-weight: bold;">Visitor? (uh, nevermind!)</span> I knew I was a completely trustworthy babysitter (this was before the Underfed Child story.) So I had no qualms about asking one of my regular moms if I could have my good friend, Gary, over while I babysat for her daughter this one particular evening. I assumed she would say "yes" because I figured I had proven myself to be pretty much the best babysitter ever. When I asked, she opened her mouth as if she were about to say "yes" but then her eyes went through this weird series of expressions. </div>
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Thinking back on it, she was probably remembering what she was up to during her own teenage years, but I realized she was imagining all the worst possibilities and I was mortified. I launched into a frenzied explanation about the platonic nature of Gary's and my friendship. I honestly don't remember how she ultimately responded. I think she said yes but Gary was unable to visit for some other reason. But I never, ever asked again! And the memory is extremely foggy, so I don't know for sure, but I confess that I MIGHT've been secretly hoping to NOT be the best babysitter ever once my charge was put to bed. <b>(Becky)</b> </div>
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<span style="font-size: large; font-weight: bold;">World Wrestling Federation </span>The gigantic, Saturday night, groan-producing buzzkill that periodically preempted my regular weekend television viewing plans. (see: Saturday Night Live)<br />
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<span style="font-size: large; font-weight: bold;">X-rated material, apparent exposure to </span><span style="font-size: large; font-weight: bold;"> </span>One family I only sat for a few times had a TV channel that my family did not have. Sitting on the couch with the kids and trying out a new-fangled device called a remote control, I was shocked when I came across a channel with nudity. I quickly changed the channel but the five-year-old girl started clapping her hands and chanting, "Oh, boobs and butts, boobs and butts! Change it back to boobs and butts!" <span style="font-weight: bold;">(Kimberly)</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large; font-weight: bold;">You so, told </span>This is actually a sad story. Once I couldn't accept a sitting job because I had plans (I did have friends). So the couple with the three big dogs and the hippie roommate asked me who else I would recommend from the neighborhood. I highly recommended a wonderful girl who was responsible and cool and always super kind to me despite my nerdy, goody-two-shoes status. I loved this couple so I was really disappointed in them when they made it clear that her being black was a problem. They went with a different girl even though I specifically told them <i>she</i> was not a good choice. Later, they told me that when they came home that night, they caught their white babysitter smoking in the house and rummaging through their bedroom. I was quite smug in my satisfaction that justice had been served.<br />
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<b style="font-size: x-large;">Zealot </b>Even as a very little boy, my younger brother was always passionate about making a buck. When he was in first grade, at the prompting of an older boy, he picked apples off a neighbor's tree and went door to door selling them for maybe ten cents a piece. While preparing for this blog post, I asked my mom what she remembered about that first neighbor asking me to sit for her. Knowing my brother's history with money-making schemes, I shouldn't have been surprised when she said, "Well, I know your brother was excited because it gave him an idea about how to make some money." But I <i>was</i> surprised. She went on to tell me that Tim, then about ten years old, created a flyer advertising my babysitting services which he distributed throughout the neighborhood. Apparently, he also negotiated with me to pay him a commission on each job I landed as a result of his efforts. I went from surprised to astounded. I can muster up only the flimsiest, cellophane memory of this. And here, all these many years I was thinking news of my babysitting talent flew up and down Mesquite Drive by word of mouth, thanks to some highly satisfied parents. I'm crestfallen.<br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><i>In case it doesn't show, I loved babysitting. Maybe it was an opportunity to get away from the family for a while and feel independent. I don't exactly remember. I do know I had fun, loved my regulars and raked in the bucks, despite my brother's rumored claims to his cut. I hope my memories provided you with a couple of laughs. </i></span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02127177435320546422noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7725173217533756483.post-39817718139075235252014-10-08T23:49:00.000-07:002014-10-09T11:15:52.899-07:00From Our Middle East Correspondent (A Guest Blogger for Reals This Time!)<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left; text-indent: 35.4pt;">
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<i><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Yes, a guest blogger for reals! I'm not making it up this time! My friend, Josh, took time out from his studies in Turkey to write about his personal experience with Compassion International for us. Here's what he had to say.</span></i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />
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</span> <span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace; font-size: x-small;"><span style="line-height: 115%; text-indent: 35.4pt;"> My name is Joshua MUGISHA, born on 16</span><sup style="line-height: 115%; text-indent: 35.4pt;">th</sup><span style="line-height: 115%; text-indent: 35.4pt;"> February, 1993 in Uganda. My parents are both Rwandese. This’s why after 1994 Rwanda genocide against TUTSI, we came to live in our Homeland.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace; font-size: x-small; line-height: 115%;">I was only 6 years old when I joined Compassion in 1999 and signed out in 2012 after completing my secondary school. In those years I spent with Compassion, my life changed physically and spiritually.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace; font-size: x-small; line-height: 115%;">First and foremost, I was very young when my mom registered me in Compassion and I couldn’t realize why or the situation at home, whether my parents will be able to educate me. But it was not later until I started seeing my elder sister dropping from school, followed by my brother, who later joined Army (Rwanda Defense Force) in 2005. There is no doubt that it is a hand of God worked through Compassion to finance my education. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace; font-size: x-small; line-height: 115%;">Secondary, all the classes we attended at Compassion were teaching us more of having moral behaviors, respecting parents and loving others just the way Jesus loved us and died for our sins. There are various lessons I learnt from Compassion, helping others, socializing, praying, entertaining, having dreams about the future, and others. One of my dreams was to pursue my university studies abroad. I remember one letter I sent to Mrs. Andrea, my sponsor, requesting prayers to pass advanced level national with highest points and thankfully it happened and got government scholarship to study at Middle East Technical University in Turkey. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace; font-size: x-small; line-height: 115%;">Even though am no longer being sponsored through compassion, I still feel a part of it because it is the foundation of where I am now and I can't get enough to thank God for using Mrs. Andrea to sponsor my education, writing to me, sending Christmas gifts and Prayers. May God bless you and family abundantly. I hope one day we shall see each other and praise the Lord.</span><br />
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</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small; line-height: 115%;"><i>Thank you for taking the time to share with us, Joshua! </i></span><br />
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</i></span> <span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small; line-height: 115%;"><i>I don't know what kinds of dreams Fedinand or Douglas or Radha will eventually have for their own lives but as a sponsor, some lucky person will get to find out and encourage him or her and watch a beautiful story unfold. Please give sponsorship some thought. :) </i></span><br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02127177435320546422noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7725173217533756483.post-65566438087107640502014-10-08T11:16:00.001-07:002014-10-08T11:16:58.210-07:00Release 3: Joshua's Bright Future in the Making<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Sometimes God blesses us with something new and unexpected, such as the time I found an abandoned puppy on the side of the road right when both of my kids abandoned me to go to college and live their own lives. Other times God blesses us with what we need far in advance, way before we even know to pray for it.<br />
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Take my friend, Joshua, from Rwanda. God blessed this young man with an extra helping of brains at birth.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPdqHsmZ4g101YH16wKvEzAGC-UA7GNVQiTlThVY5F9PKJ4CS86haOy-9hVCR5QATac6ugnh5s6-lFy9k_nJ8kZW4NRw3qIsRNXqXVthduDL8dMLmVPMdZ9TF-RdmSO7b_5Os30EmQ4OY/s1600/Josh+18.tif" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPdqHsmZ4g101YH16wKvEzAGC-UA7GNVQiTlThVY5F9PKJ4CS86haOy-9hVCR5QATac6ugnh5s6-lFy9k_nJ8kZW4NRw3qIsRNXqXVthduDL8dMLmVPMdZ9TF-RdmSO7b_5Os30EmQ4OY/s1600/Josh+18.tif" height="200" width="166" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">So cute. Josh at 14.</td></tr>
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I first met Josh a few years ago when he was eighteen years old and still a part of Compassion International. I remember a couple of his letters included requests that I pray for him to have success in school. By that point, it was already apparent that this kid was bursting with smarts. I thought, "I'm pretty sure God already has you covered on this one but, yeah, I'll pray for that."<br />
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Then one day I was messing around on Youtube and happened across a Compassion International video about a super generous Australian woman who put her sponsored kid through college.<br />
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I sort of panicked.<br />
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Let me pause a moment to be perfectly clear - it is NOT, NEVER, NOWHERE expected that Compassion sponsors pay for their sponsored child to attend college!!<br />
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And yet, I seem to enjoy internally spazzing out for no real reason. My desire to be a kindly, generous sponsor and my unfounded concern that I had bitten off more than I could chew collaborated to create a perfect NON-reason to panic: I couldn't afford to pay for my own two smart kids to attend college, so there was no way I could measure up to that crazy-nice Australian lady and help my sponsored child attend college.<br />
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So just like I prayed that God would provide a way for my two kids to afford college, I started praying that He would make a way for Josh to get a college education, too, if that was something Josh wanted.<br />
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I was pretty excited when I later learned from Josh that, after much research and hard work on his part, he had applied for and WON a full scholarship to a university in Turkey.<br />
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Josh is now in his third year at Middle East Technical University in Ankara, Turkey, studying petroleum and natural gas engineering. He is doing amazingly well. He conquered a challenging English proficiency exam, earns excellent grades and recently did an internship. My favorite thing is that we're now friends on Facebook and I get to see pictures like this:<br />
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<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/AVvXsEjITQrJKZ1kCxbkvZ5oTSzfEqmj-l_BMhuvSVqBX2ozYePF3q2AhElEYsMlFcIyv6NFsHaeaITOaeBNPSGhIG1hKJKiiGnV_OvbDHJpZb1CEnTWAxltN_UjR79COt0Z6QQribWWCfp9LDo/s1600/josh+exemplary+grades.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjITQrJKZ1kCxbkvZ5oTSzfEqmj-l_BMhuvSVqBX2ozYePF3q2AhElEYsMlFcIyv6NFsHaeaITOaeBNPSGhIG1hKJKiiGnV_OvbDHJpZb1CEnTWAxltN_UjR79COt0Z6QQribWWCfp9LDo/s1600/josh+exemplary+grades.jpg" height="296" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Exemplary (and handsome) student!</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOj31aY_OUayV5nkuBqgzVVnoQWdKmOmukI3BwOC3hf8XtcEeD-MHdXJGlv6FVJe2Hfs1jrpOnX-fkAXvEz27tYCB1ENQv2n20ciSvc5KjlBP9Qpbu7y0mJh1UJpLvrCnaMgiHtW5cqJE/s1600/josh+internship.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOj31aY_OUayV5nkuBqgzVVnoQWdKmOmukI3BwOC3hf8XtcEeD-MHdXJGlv6FVJe2Hfs1jrpOnX-fkAXvEz27tYCB1ENQv2n20ciSvc5KjlBP9Qpbu7y0mJh1UJpLvrCnaMgiHtW5cqJE/s1600/josh+internship.jpg" height="320" width="203" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Looking cool.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0h7-2riBfAwvyS8ZmKoVNXM3RkeeLZRvO_OHw_R_lp1PWDd5gUkCJFRmUpnv5uNoDNT2tFou0LnmAisrkOJUr6jKqbMNUGQ8-3JsPTMMI8w1oaEjK5Tnu5OSrEDvQd5cfqE8zTA5HQg8/s1600/josh+stadium.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0h7-2riBfAwvyS8ZmKoVNXM3RkeeLZRvO_OHw_R_lp1PWDd5gUkCJFRmUpnv5uNoDNT2tFou0LnmAisrkOJUr6jKqbMNUGQ8-3JsPTMMI8w1oaEjK5Tnu5OSrEDvQd5cfqE8zTA5HQg8/s1600/josh+stadium.jpg" height="320" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sight-seeing with friends in Turkey.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRzDuZa1t1nhaNp3W6SXEZ1pSfVnwpCM6AY74enbgI9kN_jt0ds81UUZSk4bqk1WJkuvIlBM0r57RGjgWloEH_6NVXo7AuEgz7NiO5ckRHcm7X489chViqbi31hVM1H1SahyAK8o5rXkk/s1600/josh+mt+nemut.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRzDuZa1t1nhaNp3W6SXEZ1pSfVnwpCM6AY74enbgI9kN_jt0ds81UUZSk4bqk1WJkuvIlBM0r57RGjgWloEH_6NVXo7AuEgz7NiO5ckRHcm7X489chViqbi31hVM1H1SahyAK8o5rXkk/s1600/josh+mt+nemut.jpg" height="226" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Must've been chilly on Mount Nemrut.</td></tr>
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I think it is amazing to look back and know that a few years ago, Josh and I were both praying for the very same thing without realizing it. And our prayers were answered. I didn't have to stress out and feel badly that I lacked the means to help Josh out more. I just did what little, tiny bit I could and God provided Josh with the intellect and drive to pursue his big dreams.<br />
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Josh is very much looking forward to returning to Rwanda, his homeland, "with beautiful mountains and good people," and getting a job. I am very much looking forward to watching what other amazing things God does in his life.<br />
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<i>Stop by tomorrow if you are interested in reading what Josh has to say from his dorm room in Turkey. He took a short break from homework and learning to play guitar to tell us a little bit about Compassion International.</i><br />
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02127177435320546422noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7725173217533756483.post-57707537091285421592014-09-17T00:51:00.001-07:002014-09-17T00:51:23.956-07:00Late Night Confessions of a Part-Time Hypocrite<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Dear Online Diary,<br />
<br />
So I'm struggling a little tonight. I have a job interview in the morning and I can't stop worrying about answering every question just right so I get hired. And, honestly, I'm a little worried that I'll succeed in tricking people into hiring me for a job I can't handle or that I'll hate. Worrying to the point of a nervous stomach and a little tightness in the chest. <br />
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My mom said, "You've always trusted God before. Why stop now?"<br />
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That really struck me. And I thought, "Yeah, Big Mouth Blogger. Why ARE you stopping now?"<br />
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So I thought about it and realized that I was focusing on what I want rather than following God where He leads and waiting on His timing. It took a little journaling to remind myself that, ultimately, I really only want to go where God leads. I can trust Him, whatever the direction.<br />
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If God is leading me to this job, He is capable of sidestepping any stammering or lame-o answers on my part.<br />
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Likewise, I know from past experience that if we take the time to ask, God can be trusted to close doors we shouldn't enter. Years ago, in direct response to prayer, when asking for His guidance, cars have broken down on the way to my questionable destinations and college courses have been completely cancelled. So if this is not the job for me, I can trust God to close that door.<br />
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When we experience the closing of a door, even a door we were really hoping to waltz right through, nothing that really matters changes. We are still loved, provided for and sought after by our awesome Creator.<br />
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Oh, Dear Online Diary, after our little chat, I'm happy to say that the butterflies occupying my stomach have finally gone to sleep and I think am now able to do the same. I'll be sure to share with you later the results of tomorrow's - oops, today's interview!<br />
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Good night.<br />
<br />
Andrea<script>
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02127177435320546422noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7725173217533756483.post-10852282961978638942014-09-07T14:14:00.000-07:002014-09-07T18:56:58.318-07:00This Dumpy House<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Oh, yeah? Well, I'm so mad,<br />
I could spit, too, buddy!</td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: large;">I am trying like crazy to get my house all spruced up so I can </span><span style="font-size: large;">put it up for sale. The whole process is extremely frustrating because while I'm improving one thing, something else is falling apart. Sometimes, it's the last thing I just fixed! While I'm re-fixing THAT, the dishes are piling up!</span><br />
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</span> <span style="font-size: large;">It's so much effort and stress, trying to make my house good enough for someone to want it and not reject it.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQbSytihpzKfXBYb7bXrFLZWpx2NHR7Q1JxiN03ZthXkRlIbbfw-5u6rkrhy7RcJHgEaHBgG-KFmisxUY-uzrnj2wEXXIqGLskQiD4lj0V-j59KmC_7FoBsHWKgK4htKJNR-8SqMcLEyQ/s1600/0907140952.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"></span></a></div>
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</span> <span style="font-size: large;">This morning, a metaphor just flipped up and smacked me in the face, like I'd stepped on the clawed end of a rake, reminding me that it's the same with ME! Lately, I've been on all these self-improvement kicks. Yeah, mostly just in my head, because I never can stick with anything but I make all these big plans to eat right and exercise regularly and keep my home clean and spend my money wisely and use my time productively and stop cussing and whatever else I might notice that's wrong with me. Always, while I appear to be making strides in one area, I completely fall on my face in another area often followed by self-berating (and maybe a little bit of cussing - just being honest.)</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhy4Gqgee57_TFawa0l_MohExRPAV5vvjX_nnnTsXcnTVBxhoUtLToEtl4_5029KF17EKGyocy-nSUmLZUbW4CXbKhR5CsaPP3qt2AD3mIEWHzaXpWuFi1E8noXO0dUI744Z7cYG2_kGW0/s1600/0907141000.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhy4Gqgee57_TFawa0l_MohExRPAV5vvjX_nnnTsXcnTVBxhoUtLToEtl4_5029KF17EKGyocy-nSUmLZUbW4CXbKhR5CsaPP3qt2AD3mIEWHzaXpWuFi1E8noXO0dUI744Z7cYG2_kGW0/s1600/0907141000.jpg" height="150" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Not a lot of curb appeal here. </td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Don't you love when there's a BUT to save the day?</span><br />
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</span> <span style="font-size: large;">BUT I am not up for sale, hoping someone's going to come along and deem me acceptable.</span><br />
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</span> <span style="font-size: large;">I've already been chosen and purchased to be cherished forever, run-down and dumpy as my heart might be, lacking all the latest personality upgrades. Jesus knew all of my flaws, hang-ups, and mistakes, all of my selfishness and stubbornness, when He paid the price for my sins on the cross so those sins would no </span><span style="font-size: large;">longer separate Him and me. He loves me in my current condition.</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMgZj5G54P1qxjU45maJiQ327lSwT_HyPdX-fO7S0mvGnCojYOAiGX_4DKbEGGOZ8oWek2hibBFD_QUTEN5IWkRLsyVxfpc97MsTHuQYYcnBB9oA3FPIvYAXfwZREjZETbt94PzfCfQkw/s1600/0907140955.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMgZj5G54P1qxjU45maJiQ327lSwT_HyPdX-fO7S0mvGnCojYOAiGX_4DKbEGGOZ8oWek2hibBFD_QUTEN5IWkRLsyVxfpc97MsTHuQYYcnBB9oA3FPIvYAXfwZREjZETbt94PzfCfQkw/s1600/0907140955.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Yep, just like this hideous...whatever it was. </td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: large;">I have to say that knowing this truth is a huge relief and a great joy because it's just too much effort, running around, trying to fix all of my flaws by myself.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">And while Christians have a way of making Christianity appear exclusive, Jesus is anything but exclusive when it comes to purchasing souls and offering His salvation. He already wants you. He already loves you endlessly. He is not willing to lose even one of us. You can accept what Christ has done for you right where you are, just as you are, and still be a liberal or celebrate </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinZvhTBNS4IZZqp7lKk9A4jjpJk1WQqIP38BxNXhm5V-jcSy8jMf6HZUC2uOyq2S4fXwpOE5b9vw6FN8wphQOljDI010o1le7kVDobviZ7rOewArR3j7AC5VKpagZqU39ns9bPwsxmYvg/s1600/0907140956b.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/AVvXsEinZvhTBNS4IZZqp7lKk9A4jjpJk1WQqIP38BxNXhm5V-jcSy8jMf6HZUC2uOyq2S4fXwpOE5b9vw6FN8wphQOljDI010o1le7kVDobviZ7rOewArR3j7AC5VKpagZqU39ns9bPwsxmYvg/s1600/0907140956b.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">Passover or wear a hijab. Some Christians might tell other people they have to do away with this or that, but ultimately, Jesus purchased the house and He will make renovations as <i>He sees fit.</i> Some things He'll leave in place that might leave some Christians disapproving. Other things, in His perfect timing, He will rip out and throw away, like self-righteousness or pride or that judgemental thought you just had about your neighbor's life choices.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Jesus is not looking for perfection but He is in the business of improvement, whether He's dealing with a run-down, dirty shack or a beautiful mansion. You think your place is perfect, my friend? Trust me, you've got a leaky pipe hidden deep inside those walls somewhere and Jesus has the tools to lovingly fix it, if you'll just let Him point out the damage for you. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Well, my realtor might not be too jazzed if I take this laid-back attitude with my actual house. However, while I'm replacing plumbing hardware and scrubbing dirty windows, I can rest in the peace of knowing that I am deeply loved despite my flawed heart and my repeated failures and that God will fix in me what He wants, when He wants. I hope you will rest in that peace, too. </span></div>
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</span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02127177435320546422noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7725173217533756483.post-66174917568603709112014-08-30T18:07:00.000-07:002014-08-30T21:53:14.981-07:00Out on a Limb and Sorta' Lovin' It<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I am in the process of looking for a job.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span> <span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Looking for a job in a completely different area than my last sixteen years of work experience.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span> <span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And I'm fifty years old.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYx26pcj1FECQe92I0012PUVXM51gEUK-x39TmSsmerjtcgWh212dNfgliPDcBzUx8YcaZBYYooFf9IadFE4Z7Mmw2HUDUC37YZ1V72DEwHg8xqRbg6F7HLhhgcwgSSsSCKjxzAViJ6sg/s1600/out+on+a+limb.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYx26pcj1FECQe92I0012PUVXM51gEUK-x39TmSsmerjtcgWh212dNfgliPDcBzUx8YcaZBYYooFf9IadFE4Z7Mmw2HUDUC37YZ1V72DEwHg8xqRbg6F7HLhhgcwgSSsSCKjxzAViJ6sg/s1600/out+on+a+limb.jpg" height="194" width="320" /></span></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span> <span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span> <span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">In preparation for job interviews, I painted my fingernails what I think is a beautiful deep magenta. I was hoping it would trick potential employers into believing I'm way more competent than I feel.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span> <span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">My deceptive and uncharacteristic use of nail polish was the result of panic. I felt threatened by all the job ads saying things like, "quick, on-the-spot decision making," "fast-paced environment," and "competitive."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span> <span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I'm a slow mover. I'm a slow thinker. The only thing I do quickly nowadays is speak. Pre-thought, always. So something goofy always plops out of my mouth and lays there like an egg yolk on linoleum, impossible to scoop back up.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span> <span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">No shade of nail polish, no matter how elegant, is going to dress up that trait!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span> <span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">So, really, I have no idea what is going to happen as far as my future employment but I do know what the future has in store - goodness and mercy.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span> <span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Psalm 23:6 says, "Surely, your goodness and mercy will follow me all the days of my life."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span> <span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I know that doesn't mean that I can count on obtaining my dream job or that any kind of job is going to just drop into my lap before things get scary or that I won't have to say goodbye to a bunch of luxuries (I'll miss you, Sonic.) It doesn't mean that I'm <i>not</i> going to feel rejected and far too old for this every time I get another email saying, "We've gone with a more qualified candidate."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span> <span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It does mean I can be confident that God is with me.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span> <span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I learned that truth more than ever during the past three years of really struggling as a teacher. I never felt super competent as a teacher but the last three years, things were really being stirred up in me, until one day I ended up collapsed on my kitchen floor bawling my head off because I couldn't bear the thought of going back to work the next day. <span style="line-height: 1.15; white-space: pre-wrap;">It was two and a half more school years before I decided to resign. It was a dark time for me - a normally happy, cheerful person becoming an increasingly dissatisfied and frustrated grouch, scowling in rage each morning before my eyes even opened as the alarm clock started screeching. </span></span><br />
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<span style="vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">My sister would probably like you to know that I confessed to once even flipping the bird at my alarm clock. I’m telling you, it was a <i>dark time</i>.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; white-space: pre-wrap;"><i>But....</i>subsequently, I spent a lot of time during those three years talking to God. And trying so hard to listen. I didn't hear anything but, just by spending more time with Him, praying and reading, I started to love Him and trust Him more and more - until I became willing to do whatever it was He wanted me to do - whether that was resign from my job or stay another year...or ten. The act of submitting to His will, whatever it might be, seemed like a real breakthrough for me because shortly afterward, I finally experienced the peace I had been seeking as far as making a decision one way or the other. I was finally at peace with resigning.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; white-space: pre-wrap;">Slow learner that I am, I've only recently started to notice this as a pattern in my life. Every time I go through a painful period, I come out of it appreciating God a little more or learning a lesson about Him - maybe something I learned in church and have always known in my head, but now understanding it in my heart through personal experience. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br />
</span> <span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; white-space: pre-wrap;">It's like the labor of childbirth - when the pain is over, we have something new and beautiful that was totally worth it.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span> <span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Yes, I'm going to keep tweaking the resume and practice answering the dreaded "Tell me about yourself" because, you know, I want what I want - a pleasant job in a comfy setting, a place of employment within a certain radius, and a certain amount of pay. However, more than all that, I want what God has planned for me. His lessons are far better than any perfect, lucrative job I can dream up and He just may accomplish His plans through some uncomfortable times.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span> <span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">My job search might be drawn out and discouraging. The cardboard housing I joked about with coworkers may yet be in my future. </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Or maybe I'll find a job ad begging for a slow-movin' daydreamer with a knack for on-the-spot, snappy complaints! Either way</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">, I can trust that God's goodness and mercy will follow me every step of the way, teaching me something new, drawing me ever closer to Him or reminding me how much He loves us.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span> <span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I can't help but be excited. For anyone who's interested in my journey, I'll be updating you here at The Crooked Clothesline - on the good, the bad and the embarrassing. Let's go!</span><br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02127177435320546422noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7725173217533756483.post-5327687287370306572014-08-23T09:19:00.000-07:002014-10-11T21:46:15.127-07:00Once Upon a Yellow Umbrella: A Memoir<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-Jznd4OUKI2co4MKgkJ95no11sbpCJe_UdihzwoJDCkYX8CrMZ613tKDWs4kKzI9ANv6IvNIgqGd1jKPVGMPLl0FYFto1vAoRn5I-yBVLSm2NffzkX5sGZa0PHP_cx-VVTdoHe60BCP0/s1600/angel+close+uppest.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-Jznd4OUKI2co4MKgkJ95no11sbpCJe_UdihzwoJDCkYX8CrMZ613tKDWs4kKzI9ANv6IvNIgqGd1jKPVGMPLl0FYFto1vAoRn5I-yBVLSm2NffzkX5sGZa0PHP_cx-VVTdoHe60BCP0/s1600/angel+close+uppest.png" height="200" width="158" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Beneficence also known as Benny<br />Photo credit: my sweet friend, <br />Lori Stephenson</i></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Many of my favorite childhood memories were made during the mid-1970's while running amuck on a college campus with my younger brother and sister. At that time, my dad was attending Ball State University in Muncie, Indiana and we lived in "married student housing" - a trailer court adjacent to the campus. </span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">M</span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">y mother worked as the secretary to the dean of students which I thought automatically qualified me as Sort of Cool. None of my classmates concurred.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br />
</span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">It is now clear that I suffered from Coolness Confusion Disorder - a condition characterized by the level of one's familial pride and enthusiasm being disproportionate to the level of interest and appreciation demonstrated by fifth-grade peers, resulting in the over-communication of information concerning the sufferer's mother's job-related celebrity encounters and campus involvement (i.e. Alex Haley, Watermelon Bust), followed by bored stares, covert eyerolls and abrupt changes of subject, thus leading to further confusion on the part of sufferer. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Fortunately, CCD did not run my life. There was too much fun to be had living at Ball State. The combination of </span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">having a working mother and growing up in a less fearful era</span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> gave Tim, </span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Jo-el and me plenty of opportunity to wander the campus like joyous waifs. The three of us made pests of ourselves on the sports field, loitered in the </span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">elevators of dormitories, invaded the art gallery and clamored all over the beautiful memorial to the five philanthropic Ball Brothers. And we were barefooted the whole time. It was like having a personal King's Island right in our own backyard.</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXNmGyewHDZ9A5yLqp31JK2ruinnqk5J8vJYXsq4FdKRieLmA2OgNWCii4q8ehyphenhyphen5qMFQWQ2qsCkg44ooKWMDIYofLKeChfve4xMWeDXwTMMV2hnyRXoa7r9iUiFMwtNkzZ_SZmVUqOPnI/s1600/angel+statue+memorial.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXNmGyewHDZ9A5yLqp31JK2ruinnqk5J8vJYXsq4FdKRieLmA2OgNWCii4q8ehyphenhyphen5qMFQWQ2qsCkg44ooKWMDIYofLKeChfve4xMWeDXwTMMV2hnyRXoa7r9iUiFMwtNkzZ_SZmVUqOPnI/s1600/angel+statue+memorial.png" height="230" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Sorry, Ball Brothers. I love your jars. </i></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">However, as with all childhoods, not every memory is heartwarming. Some memories, while perhaps entertaining, are tinged with guilt.</span><br />
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</span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Here is the cast of one such guilt-producing memory from my years at Ball State:</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxEqtmyD1wh0ov8JHe1vVk2IYVV9GNU9xIuyxO0sh-Ea8gBNS_N_OskLtOU7fUWSWKfQHaSOtIzi-7nxL0i0f4iDYF52DyTkKzJreWw9maFTk2oW9b3pScAZgr3nX3q0mHY0rFxQH5NIg/s1600/fifth.tif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxEqtmyD1wh0ov8JHe1vVk2IYVV9GNU9xIuyxO0sh-Ea8gBNS_N_OskLtOU7fUWSWKfQHaSOtIzi-7nxL0i0f4iDYF52DyTkKzJreWw9maFTk2oW9b3pScAZgr3nX3q0mHY0rFxQH5NIg/s1600/fifth.tif" height="320" width="255" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Me - fifth grade Platters fan, <br />
homework-ignorer and, as my brother often pointed out, <br />
"not the boss."<br />
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1ipM0j9hOGSlzlWOMNWS2OcyqacOc-_VY0-7VRTTjauoxFTvwESUSkAst8arneAGmtam3ZoQSY3YIf5W_St-o7Z0h0i1XJ7TjZO2Xgfs47nKvVq-todqPHL44bdIm3TviOppsZqCe37I/s1600/timmy+1st.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1ipM0j9hOGSlzlWOMNWS2OcyqacOc-_VY0-7VRTTjauoxFTvwESUSkAst8arneAGmtam3ZoQSY3YIf5W_St-o7Z0h0i1XJ7TjZO2Xgfs47nKvVq-todqPHL44bdIm3TviOppsZqCe37I/s1600/timmy+1st.png" height="320" width="248" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hard-livin' first grader,<br />
Tim "Question Authority" Parker<br />
(also known by his then secret<br />
code name: Mit Rekrap)</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEia75XUuFx-tbw5_phT-QLlW8DVSWUuYh5lsDkcfx076hkRe1YDTC9bwz7p_S3bj043X5A1TBK2j6bM_lh87iAfaVWBal42Af7wk0QfRaMsxchqSZZs9_m1a_39I1DjAh1ol73usgMWRvw/s1600/jo-el+kinder.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEia75XUuFx-tbw5_phT-QLlW8DVSWUuYh5lsDkcfx076hkRe1YDTC9bwz7p_S3bj043X5A1TBK2j6bM_lh87iAfaVWBal42Af7wk0QfRaMsxchqSZZs9_m1a_39I1DjAh1ol73usgMWRvw/s1600/jo-el+kinder.png" height="320" width="251" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Kindergartner, Jo-el Parker -<br />
She might look like an angel but she was<br />
already perfecting her biting wit.<br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">My fifth grade year was the only year that Tim, Jo-el and I all attended the same school. Every day after school, I was expected to wrangle a six-year-old anarchist and a mini-Joan Rivers</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> along a maple-lined residential street, around a dormitory and across a campus avenue to our trailer court.</span><br />
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</span> <span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">And on one particular afternoon the rain was coming down like crazy.</span><br />
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</span> <span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Luckily for me, I was carrying my brand new, ultra-groovy, clear plastic, yellow bubble umbrella. It was with the opening, nay, the <i>blossoming</i> of this glorious device that the clouds of Coolness Confusion Disorder lifted. With my head inside the bubble, peering through the plastic at the golden-yellow world, there was no doubt -- I WAS cool. </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> </span><br />
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</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Other than the delight I felt gazing through the sunny dome of my bubble umbrella, the only memory I have of walking home with my siblings on this particular day is the moment we were preparing to cross Neely Avenue, right outside of a dorm building. The rain was coming down hard and I had to yell to be heard. Either that, or I was just an out-of-control tyrant as my brother claimed. I was yelling instructions, while keeping an eye on the cars splashing by, assessing the traffic for a safe moment to dash across the road.</span><br />
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</span> <span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">My little sister was holding something over her head. I think I had given her my brown plastic raincoat while we were walking home. That was as nice as I could be as a big sister. I wasn't about to give up the bubble umbrella. </span><br />
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</span> <span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">As we stood on the curb waiting for a break in the traffic, I yelled, "Nobody move until I say 'Go!'" At that very second (without waiting for the referenced <i>subsequent</i> "Go!" but on the original <i>preparatory</i> "Go!"), Jo-el shot out into traffic while holding the raincoat up over her head. </span><br />
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</span> <span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Thank God, "traffic" at the moment was pretty much only one car and, thank God, the car reached their meeting spot first, so that Jo-el just barreled into the driver's side of the car and bounced off. Still...drama ensued.</span><br />
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</span> <span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">I remember letting go of the yellow bubble umbrella which sailed off down the road, whisked away by the winds, never again to cast its golden glow on my world. I also remember rushing recklessly out into the road to my sister. (The umbrella was gone, therefore, so was the Cool.) The driver, a freaked-out mom with a little kid in the back seat, jumped out of the car. She and I both started to pick up my sister who was now screaming her little kindergarten head off.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br />
</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">A college student who had been walking down the sidewalk also ran out into the road to help. He took charge and reminded us that we shouldn't be moving Jo-el yet. He checked her out for broken bones, then scooped her up. The driver had jumped back in the car to drive Jo-el to the hospital, but the college student told her to move over. </span><br />
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</span> <span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">With the college student behind the wheel, the mom sat in the passenger seat, holding Jo-el in her lap. Jo-el was screaming, "I hate this lady! I hate this lady! I want my sissy!" Meanwhile I stood by the side of the road just staring, my hair soaking wet, water streaming down every part of me. The college student leaned across the mom and yelled to be heard above the sound of the pounding rain, "Are you her sister?" Dumbstruck by the entire situation, I just nodded. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br />
</span> <span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">"Then get in the car!"</span><br />
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</span> <span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">I did and we sped off. </span><br />
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</span> <span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">And left my little brother. </span><br />
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</span> <span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Alone. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">In the pouring rain.</span><br />
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</span> <span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">And I had the house key.</span><br />
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</span> <span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">My poor brother had to break into his own home to get out of the downpour that afternoon. Fortunately, his life of hooliganism at an unusually young age had prepared him for this moment.</span><br />
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</span> <span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"></span> <span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">My sister was fine. No broken bones, no concussion. I don't think she even had a single scrape. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br />
</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Regarding the driver mom and the college student -- as a fifth grader, I always liked to imagine that she was a widow and that the two of them fell in love, sort of Brady Bunch style. </span><br />
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</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">As for me, well, I've always felt a little responsible for the entire incident. I figured my sister probably wouldn't have been hit by a car if she had been carrying my umbrella with its high level of crisp, cheery visibility rather than hunching over like a tiny, blonde Quasimodo blinded by a cumbersome, brown raincoat flapping in her face. </span><br />
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</span> <span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">I have a pang of guilt every time I remember abandoning my curly-headed little brother in a rain-filled gutter. I should've spoken up when the college student told me to get in the car. I should've said, "My brother's coming with us!" But I think, in the trauma of the moment, I forgot I even had a brother. </span><br />
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</span> <span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Of course, none of it would've happened if I hadn't greedily insisted on clinging to the bubble umbrella, falsely assuring my status as Cool. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Later in life, I abandoned, perhaps as penance, all aspirations of coolness. I never strove. I never hoped. I never pretended. I know now that I was never meant to be cool and any affectations of such only bring about grave consequences.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">And yet, I find this memory - the memory of the traumatic day my sister got hit by a car, for heaven's sake - highly entertaining. What can that <i>mean</i>? </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">I suppose it means that, in a way, the yellow bubble umbrella is still with me, tinting my view of the world.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i><b>Author's note:</b> This memoir is entirely factual, except the last three paragraphs which descend into utter nonsense.<script>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02127177435320546422noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7725173217533756483.post-59825676873047845192014-07-18T20:38:00.000-07:002016-04-22T13:34:10.619-07:00Ridiculous Story Hour<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMccCQxyvdp8OE3gVeE0jRdigzPJwVWTlP8a4HBnVtlZv00P6Jli6n9MyHabF0FYrZK1owZmIdkz332aFiW-OtHs7e9xiRNo5LkFYshWjTlSH8ynZv-Iq3x35PmvKalysKk-UfZcXlMII/s1600/popcorn+mini.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/AVvXsEgMccCQxyvdp8OE3gVeE0jRdigzPJwVWTlP8a4HBnVtlZv00P6Jli6n9MyHabF0FYrZK1owZmIdkz332aFiW-OtHs7e9xiRNo5LkFYshWjTlSH8ynZv-Iq3x35PmvKalysKk-UfZcXlMII/s1600/popcorn+mini.jpg" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><i><span style="font-weight: normal;">Welcome to </span>Ridiculous Story Hour<span style="font-weight: normal;"> here at The Crooked Clothesline, featuring another recycled post. This was originally written as an assignment with a strictly enforced, crippling word limit for an online writing class. The two stars are silly characters previously created for an altogether different story during the madness of </span><a href="http://nanowrimo.org/" style="font-weight: normal;" target="_blank">National Novel Writing Month</a><span style="font-weight: normal;">. I hope you'll enjoy...</span></i></span></h4>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgX2rE7cDLd5IxjhH82Y4PUkXCRRjY9AzQYIK0zfjHlyukuwp15WO6kJPZACYvHQwrfxf0SM-PazGD38_ld6dswLcQy0BaTd1yrWQMgX_659XkPTp4nKK3CUur34zaLD-C6LpBnK-qfNc4/s1600/agatha+title.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="104" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgX2rE7cDLd5IxjhH82Y4PUkXCRRjY9AzQYIK0zfjHlyukuwp15WO6kJPZACYvHQwrfxf0SM-PazGD38_ld6dswLcQy0BaTd1yrWQMgX_659XkPTp4nKK3CUur34zaLD-C6LpBnK-qfNc4/s1600/agatha+title.png" width="320" /></a></div>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEii7yFaqcIKdOzp3z_P0c1x2hjXo2-ywC4BqiDjyG-A0LRk6ZrWOIzPoaqatrixCcfyzDRpTIPVjKueEk-HzAFluAclLmqH6F5Cs_OT_yYMlp0DadI7brxqdtKdR1SsWSWdQVR9cYgkTmw/s1600/bw+woods.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEii7yFaqcIKdOzp3z_P0c1x2hjXo2-ywC4BqiDjyG-A0LRk6ZrWOIzPoaqatrixCcfyzDRpTIPVjKueEk-HzAFluAclLmqH6F5Cs_OT_yYMlp0DadI7brxqdtKdR1SsWSWdQVR9cYgkTmw/s1600/bw+woods.jpg" width="213" /></a><span style="font-size: large;">Through the bug-encrusted windshield, fifty-four year old, Agatha Lovelost watched as the woods of southern Indiana grew denser.</span><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><span style="font-size: large;">She became more and more enveloped by the very adversary with whom she must contend before her prize was won. Ah, but 1959 was going to be her year. </span><span style="font-size: large;">She trained her bold gaze on the husky young man in the driver's seat, an American who had answered her classified ad for a field assistant with his own vehicle. Kevin appeared to be gentle and soft-spoken, someone she could knead and shape as necessary.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span> <span style="font-size: large;">"Pull over, lad." She climbed out of the car, stretched her manly frame to its full six feet and strode to the back of the car. "We must hike into the remotest part of the wood...into <i>the forest primeval."</i></span><br />
<i><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></i> <span style="font-size: large;">"Sure, Miss Lovelost, but this seems as good a place as any to observe flying squirrels."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span> <span style="font-size: large;">"Indeed..." Agatha thought quickly. "But if <i>we</i> were able to achieve this location by simply motoring in, others might do likewise. We mustn't allow our work to be disrupted by a truckload of beastly hunters, raping and pillaging!"</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span> <span style="font-size: large;">"But I don't think...well, okay, sure."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span> <span style="font-size: large;">They hiked south for more than two hours. Agatha stopped abruptly, her green eyes trained on a strange arrangement of broken tree limbs. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span> <span style="font-size: large;">"We shall set up base camp here, then do a bit of scouting."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span> <span style="font-size: large;">"I betcha' we'll see plenty of flying squirrels after dark!"</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span> <span style="font-size: large;">"I must confess, old chap...I have deceived you. I've not come all the way from England to watch a squirrel foraging nuts. I seek the elusive creature known to your red man as Sasquatch."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span> <span style="font-size: large;">"<i>Bigfoot?</i>" Kevin raked his fingers through his Brylcreemed curls. "Ah, gee, Miss Lovelost! There's no such thing! I'm a zoology major. At least, I would be if I had the money to go to school. Point is, I took this job for the field experience. Now, I hate to hurt your feelings but I can't put 'Hunted Bigfoot' on my resumé. It would make me look foolish!"</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span> <span style="font-size: large;">"Quite right, my lad. You are free to go. No hard feelings."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span> <span style="font-size: large;">He wavered a moment and then, as she had hoped, dropped his backpack to the ground.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span> <span style="font-size: large;">"Sheesh, I'd have to be a real heel to leave a woman alone in the backwoods. But count me out of that Sasquatch business!"</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhi9MhPu6KHGIb22hl4tlSmuqHcUBnnaDy5JBH75AVN6XI2QrPWeMQV2ptBsSgY-tIawyxlz31fOs9bYzwA2CmgxohF2efM-kRy6TNRtLi2GOeoRsx-qlV1Et7j2O5No2nHUTsWekCDjvs/s1600/moon.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhi9MhPu6KHGIb22hl4tlSmuqHcUBnnaDy5JBH75AVN6XI2QrPWeMQV2ptBsSgY-tIawyxlz31fOs9bYzwA2CmgxohF2efM-kRy6TNRtLi2GOeoRsx-qlV1Et7j2O5No2nHUTsWekCDjvs/s1600/moon.jpg" width="210" /></a> <span style="font-size: large;">At three-thirty in the morning, all was silent in the camp. The flying squirrels had sailed home to the safety of their rented woodpecker holes. In the distance, a pack of coyotes yipped like a woodland acapella group. There was a violent rustling in a nearby cluster of bushes. From out of the limberlost burst a wild-eyed Agatha with twigs and leaves tangled in her graying blonde bob. She groped her way to Kevin's tent and unfastened the flap.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span> <span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span> <span style="font-size: large;">"I say, my boy, is this a good time?"</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span> <span style="font-size: large;">Kevin must have thought Bigfoot himself was addressing him, judging by the unmanly scream that rang through the treetops.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span> <span style="font-size: large;">"Splendid, you're awake! Follow me!"</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span> <span style="font-size: large;">Several minutes later, they both stood on the bank of a small stream. Kevin sported untied hiking boots, striped pajamas, and a dumbstruck expression as he stared down at the enormous footprint of a bipedal humanoid. Agatha clapped him on the back.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span> <span style="font-size: large;">"A believer now, eh? Soon <i>National Geographic </i>will be begging me for a pictorial spread and Louis Leakey can choke on his Olduvai dust!"</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span> <span style="font-size: large;">By the time the sun was up, Agatha had checked off several items on the day's agenda.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLyQ8lcLuizzbbn6Q7N27m8UVnbrz_-HNFPqzM5yy9vNmjRi5s0CPvtUwklvcQhf7ujtY5q7p0MGw7fLHMn3QicDnxqJQoAH80h4FNmsZKizqkdrCcEFcPCdJaEWONEFJPa4mlj1tcPcY/s1600/P1120904.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="365" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLyQ8lcLuizzbbn6Q7N27m8UVnbrz_-HNFPqzM5yy9vNmjRi5s0CPvtUwklvcQhf7ujtY5q7p0MGw7fLHMn3QicDnxqJQoAH80h4FNmsZKizqkdrCcEFcPCdJaEWONEFJPa4mlj1tcPcY/s1600/P1120904.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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</span><span style="font-size: large;">Only one item remained:</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwAac3h3zQqqd6xPhk6YEJAMEoYAQYlwf1IAnRVlFxzAJC47mZgpwG_Uge99CL7iiegHaQqBTbasZDT4c8VCBJzfUZFU-_1rNDYC3B2oBmzkveKpQdaYPSterEnzzWGDiN71GiUfqNSLc/s1600/bigfoot+green+flourish.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwAac3h3zQqqd6xPhk6YEJAMEoYAQYlwf1IAnRVlFxzAJC47mZgpwG_Uge99CL7iiegHaQqBTbasZDT4c8VCBJzfUZFU-_1rNDYC3B2oBmzkveKpQdaYPSterEnzzWGDiN71GiUfqNSLc/s1600/bigfoot+green+flourish.png" /></a></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><span style="font-size: large;">Later that morning, as they fought their way through the thicket under the increasing heat of the sun, a thought occurred to Kevin.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><span style="font-size: large;">"You got a gun with you, right?"</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><span style="font-size: large;">"Good heavens, man! I intend these creatures no harm. It's only Leakey I'd like to murder."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><span style="font-size: large;">A strange sound reverberated through the treetops. Agatha threw an arm up to signal a halt.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><span style="font-size: large;">"Does that sound like two rocks being struck together?" she whispered.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><span style="font-size: large;">"Maybe. Why?" Kevin whispered back.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><span style="font-size: large;">"It's a classic sign. Smell that?"</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><span style="font-size: large;">Sniffing the air, he instantly gagged.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><span style="font-size: large;">"Another classic sign," Agatha informed him.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><span style="font-size: large;">Silently, she bid him follow. The striking sound rang out erratically, intermingled with the birdsong above their heads. They entered a clearing to find a small wooden structure several yards away.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><span style="font-size: large;">"Looks to be a primitive shelter, perhaps built by your famous pioneers."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><span style="font-size: large;">"Sheesh, get a load of that stench! It's getting stronger!"</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><span style="font-size: large;">Agatha held up her hand for silence, her eyes rounded. The striking had ceased.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><span style="font-size: large;">"Ready the Kodachrome, lad."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><span style="font-size: large;">In the thicket, a twig cracked. Something was moving toward them. Kevin's hands shook as he fumbled for the camera that hung around his neck.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><span style="font-size: large;">"Whatever you see," Agatha commanded, "no matter how disagreeable, you <i>must</i> record this historic moment!"</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><span style="font-size: large;">A wild thrashing agitated the underbrush. Kevin couldn't stop the camera from shaking.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><span style="font-size: large;"><i>No matter the outcome</i>, Agatha assured herself, <i>he will regret throwing me over for that cow, Goodall!</i></span><br />
<i><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></i><span style="font-size: large;">She lifted her chin to meet the angry force that was bursting out of the treeline. Kevin, squeezing his eyes closed but keeping the camera aimed, threw himself in front of Agatha to shield her. However, the image he snapped was not that of a savage beast but a tall, skinny, unshaven man in worn clothing, pointing a shotgun.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><span style="font-size: large;">"Looka' here, law man!" the man hollered as he advanced, "Ya' ain't got no call to be a'trespassin' on this here lan'. Ain't no still in these parts. Now you two fellers jes' step away from my outhouse and be on yer way, if'n ya' know what's good for ya'."</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguqBZRGJSqadgr23W7Kg4KZYmow37aGrZzO-RN5jdJGexC_4q7ETXrmIiB2iGtEjHSaEQBNXSY_V1k2qjsugyO9RCck8n9wz076swSMBVnNF9sb5F4lTuBI7e2zRDBGyMKoATzzjiGgMg/s1600/bigfoot+green+flourish.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="140" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguqBZRGJSqadgr23W7Kg4KZYmow37aGrZzO-RN5jdJGexC_4q7ETXrmIiB2iGtEjHSaEQBNXSY_V1k2qjsugyO9RCck8n9wz076swSMBVnNF9sb5F4lTuBI7e2zRDBGyMKoATzzjiGgMg/s1600/bigfoot+green+flourish.png" width="200" /></a></div>
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</span> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtq96XG1NT421qsoTEl8Bw5nCHAztrdcqm2kgEbsc8UoVAtT1OZvcj46m-3U-HWH7Q2MzI52F97BB7xG4BELwc2GmAbeBsjZ-_6cD9eWtM8VnOO4sTkwoED04fX_4Q05SY6jzJYTlhCR0/s1600/bw+trees+(4).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtq96XG1NT421qsoTEl8Bw5nCHAztrdcqm2kgEbsc8UoVAtT1OZvcj46m-3U-HWH7Q2MzI52F97BB7xG4BELwc2GmAbeBsjZ-_6cD9eWtM8VnOO4sTkwoED04fX_4Q05SY6jzJYTlhCR0/s1600/bw+trees+(4).jpg" width="177" /></a><span style="font-size: large;">A swig of Agatha's scotch was required to convince the man they weren't interested in his still and the rest of the bottle to persuade him to pose for journalistic photos. Agatha was disappointed to learn that he was married but she rallied at the thought of possibly selling the story to <i>National Geographic.</i> Furthermore, her rendezvous with Bigfoot mustn't be postponed. As she surveyed the land from Jedediah's cabin door, she heard the forest calling for a rematch.</span><br />
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<i><span style="color: #990000;">**Nature photos by Timothy Christopher Bastek, stolen by his mother with his kind permission.<script>
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02127177435320546422noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7725173217533756483.post-82648564650258471902014-07-12T15:45:00.000-07:002014-08-26T11:32:41.688-07:00Over Seven Billion Lines Open, No Waiting<br />
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Some twenty years ago, my sister and her husband had the audacity to spend two years of <i>my life</i> in Sweden. My sister is, as Cassandra Austen described her own sister Jane, "the sun of my life." </span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br />
</span> <span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">My world stopped rotating with a violent jolt. I was stuck on one side of the planet while the sunshine, my best friend, was on the other side.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br />
</span> <span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">For you young'uns who don't remember, back then we cave dwellers communicated by telephones bolted to kitchen walls. So during this time of separation</span><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">, my sister and I were forced to rack up the world's most horrendous long-distance phone bill.</span><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> This was because it was heart-rending for the flow of conversation and commiseration and <i>relation</i> to be severed. When I was forced to hang up, either by my then-husband's distressed looks or the phone company's more effective<br />
"interruption of service," it was always with an aching for more of my sister. I remember one day wheezing with laughter</span><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> as we joked around about how great it would be if we could each have a tiny phone surgically implanted in one ear so we NEVER had to hang up. Then at three in the morning, if one of us wanted to talk to the other, she only had to whisper, </span><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"Heyyyyyyy...you awake?" </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br />
</span><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Of course, this isn't as funny since the advent of the Bluetooth but at the time we thought it was ground-breakingly hilarious.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br />
</span><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">The point is</span><i> </i><span style="font-size: large;">this mind-blowing "technology" has always been available between us and God. He's right <i>here</i>. For each and every one of us.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></span><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Psalm 139:8-10 says, "If I go up to the heavens, you are there; if I make my bed in the depths, you are there. If I rise on the wings of dawn, if I settle on the far side of the sea, even there your hand will guide me, your right hand will hold me fast."</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br />
</span> <span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">His love, companionship, comfort, and guidance are never interrupted. He is with you - in the car, at the kitchen sink, in the hospital room - and ready to listen.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br />
</span><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Not only is God available to hear your prayers any time, any place but He WANTS to hear your prayers. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></span><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Isaiah 30:18 says, "The Lord longs to be gracious to you; he rises to show you compassion. For the Lord is a god of justice. Blessed are those who wait on him." </span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br />
</span><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">What bigger thrill can there be than knowing that the same Creator who dreamed up, designed and created DNA and photosynthesis and seashells and tectonic plates <i>longs</i> to hear your prayers and bless you?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><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/AVvXsEhhAsncvukSV4eVyxmxs2pAMCYMhq0IVRmyhfhVO4HtS97YFEH4EIEPY6qIfGrOsbIHcjlEfogZ5tAvsRnV_XTveqbIqoJRWS0Vb0-I7M20A_SQHDI4qVaNCdsDWDsA1ia3UB_9Ukmae_A/s1600/little+white+flowers.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhAsncvukSV4eVyxmxs2pAMCYMhq0IVRmyhfhVO4HtS97YFEH4EIEPY6qIfGrOsbIHcjlEfogZ5tAvsRnV_XTveqbIqoJRWS0Vb0-I7M20A_SQHDI4qVaNCdsDWDsA1ia3UB_9Ukmae_A/s1600/little+white+flowers.jpg" height="320" width="305" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>...and...these little white flowers. <br />
( I didn't have a picture of tectonic plates.)</i></td></tr>
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</span> Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02127177435320546422noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7725173217533756483.post-39537034415922003072014-06-28T22:40:00.000-07:002014-06-28T22:40:49.473-07:00Strike Up a Conversation Today<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">I <i>really</i> hate constantly spewing weird confessions about myself out into cyberspace.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">But here comes another one.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">When I'm talking to a friend or a coworker, I often get all nervous and start to trip over my words or stammer or rush my words together unintelligibly. Sometimes spittle is involved. Over the course of these many years, I've figured out that it's because I'm subconsciously thinking to myself, "I better hurry up and make my point before this person gets bored with me." I guess there's a shy school girl still lurking somewhere inside me worrying that what I have to say is not worthy of another person's time. At her prodding, I rush, end up sounding like an idiot and never manage to make that point.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Maybe you can't relate to that feeling of being weird, awkward and shy. You're probably poised, eloquent and brimming over with healthy self-esteem. That's great. No, <i>really</i>, I'm thrilled for you.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Perhaps you can relate more to this situation. Have you ever been perched on the exam table at the doctor's office and felt like maybe you'd better knock a couple questions off your list because the doctor seems to be getting a little antsy? Or felt like the doctor thought your concerns were laughable? Today, I horrify friends and family with a wrist that cracks every time I rotate it because over twenty years ago some rude doctor scoffed at my suspicion that I had carpal tunnel syndrome. After he dismissed my symptoms, I was too embarrassed to mention it to any other doctor.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">What's that you say? Nothing like that has ever happened to you? </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Well, of course, I'm genuinely relieved to learn that your physician is enraptured by your fascinating recitation of ailments and pleads to hear more. </span><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">It seems your splendid good fortune has rendered my humble blog post quite unnecessary. (Sorry, reading a Regency murder mystery.)</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">What I <i>was</i> going to say is that, if by any chance you <i>could</i> relate to sometimes feeling that your conversation might not be worthy of people's time, or that others find your concerns laughable (or maybe even that your readers don't seem to empathize with you) there is Someone who has plenty of time and concern and empathy to lavish on you. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">God doesn't have a schedule that requires Him to cut your session short. You don't have to rush to blurt out everything you want to say before He has to rush off to his next appointment. He has all the time you need. Psalm 46:1 assures us that, "God is our refuge and strength, an ever-present help in trouble." He is always there to listen.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">And when you stumble over your words in prayer or otherwise have trouble expressing yourself to Him, you can relax and just rest in the knowledge that, "your Father knows what you need before you ask him." (Matthew 6:8 NIV)</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">An occasional rude doctor might walk away from you rolling his eyes, but God pursues you with joy. The Bible is full of beautiful metaphors illustrating how God chases after us, like a shepherd after a lost lamb, a loving father after a rebellious son, a forgiving husband after an unfaithful wife. He is not willing for even one person to miss out on a relationship with him. Romans 5:8 tells us, "But God demonstrates his love for us in this: While we were still sinners, Christ died for us."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">You are precious to Him! Psalm 139:13-14 expresses how He has known you and loved you since before your mother started researching baby names. "For you created my inmost being: you knit me together in my mother's womb. I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made; your works are wonderful, I know that full well." His works are wonderful! That's you! </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">You can vent to Him, cry to Him, confess your darkness secrets to Him. You can be honest with Him about your frustrations, your feelings, your failures and sins. He already knows the worst, even the stuff you try to hide from yourself, and He still loves you. (Psalm 139:1-4)</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><i>Wait! Wait! Don't walk away! I'm almost finished talking, I promise!</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">On those awful days, when you feel that no one can know how you feel or understand what you're going through, you can know for sure that God does understand and He hurts with you. In Psalm 31:7, the writer says to God, "I will be glad and rejoice in your love, for you saw my affliction and knew the anguish of my soul."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">So that's what I was going to say. God is there for you always and wants to hear from you. You can relax, open your heart to him and be your genuine, imperfect self with Him without fear of rejection. "</span><span style="background-color: #fdfeff; color: #001320; font-family: Trebuchet, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large; line-height: 20px; text-align: justify;">But if from there you seek the LORD your God, you will find him if you seek him with all your heart and with all your soul. (Deuteronomy 4:29)</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Thank you for staying with me to the end. I am sorry if, in my rush, I got spittle on your computer screen. </span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAj4TxAIfsNzyfB31h5u6qGNGuTofk5yQvTglFWrvQ89zJBdFe3fwedO6zHt77d9KVNqEfqxrwenMRMCAluSNGj4ojCnDEE35ikRmJWDANAuo41u-_iHMZurdiE_-yc6yb3xfP5yTW1Z8/s1600/angel+letter+tightest+crop.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAj4TxAIfsNzyfB31h5u6qGNGuTofk5yQvTglFWrvQ89zJBdFe3fwedO6zHt77d9KVNqEfqxrwenMRMCAluSNGj4ojCnDEE35ikRmJWDANAuo41u-_iHMZurdiE_-yc6yb3xfP5yTW1Z8/s1600/angel+letter+tightest+crop.jpg" height="194" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Do not be anxious about anything, but in every situation, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests,<br />
to God. And the peace of God, which transcends all understanding, will guard your hearts and minds in Christ Jesus.<br />
Philippians 4:6-7</td></tr>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02127177435320546422noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7725173217533756483.post-16431064123649437432014-06-15T11:36:00.000-07:002014-06-15T11:36:34.178-07:00Confidently Speaking<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi95lGTf0AT6EN3w_VvLa86V7SmO8-QdoOFCPmFwnZKVUykm7jj08JlnzyGwhYIOQoZsbTXTWeIF_Y2PxVno9c4b0Z0yvJDKKMqdM5nv-bdxGFfr7FXYqHnzzpuEBFMHe_QaCpKxAWDgg0/s1600/0615140909.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/AVvXsEi95lGTf0AT6EN3w_VvLa86V7SmO8-QdoOFCPmFwnZKVUykm7jj08JlnzyGwhYIOQoZsbTXTWeIF_Y2PxVno9c4b0Z0yvJDKKMqdM5nv-bdxGFfr7FXYqHnzzpuEBFMHe_QaCpKxAWDgg0/s1600/0615140909.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">I'm not one of those people who says, "The Lord told me this," or "The Lord placed it on my heart to do that." I've never felt comfortable talking like that because I can't trust myself. I lie to myself and mislead myself all the time. Not on purpose, mind you (sorry, been reading Agatha Christie.) It's just that we often tell ourselves something is true simply because we really </span><i style="font-size: x-large;">want</i><span style="font-size: large;"> it to be true.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Here's a very non-spiritual example from my own fascinating life. It's 6:30 on a Monday morning. I am in my bathroom performing my toilette - which on the most delightful of days consists of merely brushing my teeth and slicking my hair down with sink water. With the best intentions, I assure myself, "You don't need to shave your legs in order to wear those capris pants today. Your leg hair is blonde and fine. No one will even see it." I really<i> want</i> it to be true. Two hours later, while on cross-walk duty, I glance down to discover that every single individual hair jutting out of my shins is highly visible.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Augh! Betrayed by my own self once again!!</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">If I could thus deceive myself concerning things seen, how much more so things unseen?</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">At this point in my life, I haven't had a lot of experiences where I know for sure that God told me a specific something. I might believe it or assume it or feel convinced of it but I don't feel comfortable going around declaring it boldly because it's highly possible my decision to, say, bow out of teaching Sunday School was my own selfish idea. I'm a little slow on the uptake so God has to really grab my attention for me to know for sure it's Him.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">One time, God really grabbed my attention.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">It happened about 17 years ago when my kids were five and six. I was newly divorced. My former in-laws were kind enough to let the three of </span><span style="font-size: large;">us live with them while I did my student teaching. Life was chaotic and stressful but everything was going fine. That is, until I lay my head on the pillow each night. That's when I uncharacteristically began to worry. "What if I die? Who will take care of my babies?" I knew my ex-husband was in no position to care for them. He's been in recovery for 13 years now but at the time he was not doing well. Staring at the ceiling in the middle of the night, I would plan out my will and who would be responsible for my kids. I ran down the list of relatives: my mom, my dad, my in-laws, my siblings. All of them were wonderful people but none of them were me!</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtdAS9e3kbTrgRbK3HnfbCj5B91sbq1nr621YEFpE7zHG9to5GZzOp1BpEu-sY7ajT7sU_4F1PUu0EURsDHuIWoZx-U_e5jAoRlFnZNwLg9XVguKlSqZcR4TMOnp6HflU_PEg_YxE_dus/s1600/tim+and+ali+cuties.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/AVvXsEhtdAS9e3kbTrgRbK3HnfbCj5B91sbq1nr621YEFpE7zHG9to5GZzOp1BpEu-sY7ajT7sU_4F1PUu0EURsDHuIWoZx-U_e5jAoRlFnZNwLg9XVguKlSqZcR4TMOnp6HflU_PEg_YxE_dus/s1600/tim+and+ali+cuties.jpg" height="200" width="115" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">It was imperative that these cuties be raised by someone who possessed a particular brand of </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> kooky!</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: large;">As I fretted about possibly leaving my kids orphaned, my body started playing tricks on me. My head started to hurt so I worried that I had a brain aneurysm. I didn't even know what that was at the time but I was sure I had one. Then my chest started to hurt. I was certain I had heart disease and would promise God I would stop eating potato chips if he let me live through the night. I convinced myself I had breast cancer at one point. I was a wreck into the wee hours. But the sun would come up in the morning and my irrational fears disappeared. I never even told my sister or my mother all of my concerns because I completely forgot all about my ridiculous worries during the day.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">But my fears returned each night. This happened for several weeks. I lived like my normal carefree self during the day but as soon as the house was dark and quiet I tortured myself with the fear of dying and leaving my children motherless.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">One Sunday, I happened to get myself back to church. I returned to the church my husband and I had attended but things had changed a lot and there were so many new people. I sat next to a young woman I didn't know. At the end of the service she said, "Excuse me, God is telling me to tell someone something and I think it's you."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">I was surprised and very curious. I said, "Okay."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">She said, "He's telling me to tell you that you're not sick. That there's nothing wrong with you so stop worrying about it."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">He grabbed my attention all right! I was amazed. I was thrilled.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Number one: I wasn't dying and my kids could look forward to being raised by their own loving, goofball mother!</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzOsO1KQOtxE_A95A3_sggMcMDhhK08iqixgecIIBbNZXZdRzrz2IQzSVV1eDLiHmmuG7qvKQuXtaqigS6TS28Ir_2ICWS3JIJnOJGEN-hoP2_LX4Ht6aTNw0-BTbGMniYp04WMYkw8mw/s1600/tim+and+ali+hats.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzOsO1KQOtxE_A95A3_sggMcMDhhK08iqixgecIIBbNZXZdRzrz2IQzSVV1eDLiHmmuG7qvKQuXtaqigS6TS28Ir_2ICWS3JIJnOJGEN-hoP2_LX4Ht6aTNw0-BTbGMniYp04WMYkw8mw/s1600/tim+and+ali+hats.jpg" height="177" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sorry, you two! I was your destiny! </td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Number two: God had said something to me!!! How amazing is that?!!</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">It was like the world's best celebrity sighting. Way better than the time Willie Nelson smiled at me or the time Bono leaned down from the stage to accept the rainbow button I handed him. The Creator of the universe had just diagnosed me!</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">I had never told another person about my late night worries. But God knew. He was there with me when I was stressing myself out at night. He was paying attention <i>to me</i> and what was going on in my life. And He cared enough to tell me I was okay!</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">At that moment when the girl at church passed on this message, I smiled and said, "Thank you! Yeah, that was for me!" In my head I was thinking something like, "Oh, my gosh, God! Message received!" I stopped worrying immediately and completely. That night, I returned to my usual unmotherly, stone-like sleep.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">What I got from that experience in the long run, though, was, I think, even more valuable.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">I don't know about you, but I sometimes struggle with doubts. I think sometimes it can be hard to believe in God in today's world. Once in a while, I have a little tiny doubt that asks, "Do you tell yourself you see evidence of God's existence just because you really want Him to be real?"</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">I mean, doesn't it seem a little too good to be true? A God who knows you inside and out but still loves you, who cares deeply about you and is intimately involved in your life?</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">When I have these thoughts, I look back on this experience that, to me, cannot be denied. It restores and reinforces my faith in promises that are, yeah, too good for us to deserve, but, praise God, not too good to be true. So if you've been wondering...open your mind and ask Him to reveal Himself to you. He is there for you.</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghOtxHl7vLN4TFEkMLJGFouTyIHvAeTlDwjeoxbt1_YywAxA0ASptEXWSDw2tfuXTAHNRX-HYUoQ9y0HU7cE-LYAHEpJ1oPpmDM8AXLqjoUg2H6P1sNan26qt5dV1klUWvwphV2zv26RI/s1600/0615140910b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghOtxHl7vLN4TFEkMLJGFouTyIHvAeTlDwjeoxbt1_YywAxA0ASptEXWSDw2tfuXTAHNRX-HYUoQ9y0HU7cE-LYAHEpJ1oPpmDM8AXLqjoUg2H6P1sNan26qt5dV1klUWvwphV2zv26RI/s1600/0615140910b.jpg" height="200" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Cast all your anxiety on him because he cares for you. 1 Peter 5:7 </i></td></tr>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02127177435320546422noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7725173217533756483.post-35312265347687744622014-06-09T17:12:00.000-07:002014-06-09T18:14:06.936-07:00Daily Spa Treatments<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhydQ5n5NkKb-l95cPOpl6GBQys0AoykVTeA9shOUi7hoSArYJ8tmnZbe3NZaoiT_Mh1weTmQBZs-c6O-a6yPk7mssvLxk72GTFyQBoP9xggtfl6cAsdImICtqZB2qxYuyKencYVAJDIo/s1600/0413141101a.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/AVvXsEjhydQ5n5NkKb-l95cPOpl6GBQys0AoykVTeA9shOUi7hoSArYJ8tmnZbe3NZaoiT_Mh1weTmQBZs-c6O-a6yPk7mssvLxk72GTFyQBoP9xggtfl6cAsdImICtqZB2qxYuyKencYVAJDIo/s1600/0413141101a.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Until recently, this was the very view that greeted me when I woke up each morning for much of this past school year. </span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">With a self-inflicted eyesore in the backyard, stacks of ungraded school papers lining the baseboards</span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> like ankle-high gremlins </span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">and the mess of laundry I'd elected to not fold the night before, you might think my bedroom could better serve as the setting of an eerie psychological thriller than a place of relaxation.</span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;"><i>Did the mysteriously expanding pile of unfolded laundry truly exist or was it</i></span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIXUYhNwifQEf7AwiFiineqyaqJrGbWlF9rVQHuaOnOSfl-svBHmuhdM7Mfz30diICY8wC6FBVoetwVau2P4VEjQzJxE8sU7T_thRhcsJ35fvciGHFkrP0F9xg7DhqiO6v_JyG-oa-OEU/s1600/papers+to+grade.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIXUYhNwifQEf7AwiFiineqyaqJrGbWlF9rVQHuaOnOSfl-svBHmuhdM7Mfz30diICY8wC6FBVoetwVau2P4VEjQzJxE8sU7T_thRhcsJ35fvciGHFkrP0F9xg7DhqiO6v_JyG-oa-OEU/s1600/papers+to+grade.jpg" height="300" width="320" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;"><i>She had the unsettling feeling that she was being watched. She froze, her eyes</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;"><i> sweeping the silent room. Had that stack of ungraded spelling tests crept a few inches closer?</i></span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Even worse, let's take this unkempt environment and add to it the fact that I've spent the last three years feeling like the nation's worst teacher. Factor in my legal certification as Subhuman until after 8:00am and you can see the serious potential my bedroom has for feeling as cheerful as a tuberculosis sanitarium when my alarm clock starts its hideous caterwauling at 4:45 each weekday morn. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">So you might be surprised to find out that this place feels like a spa to me.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">For the past three years, I had really been wrestling with the desire to leave teaching. And I was getting my butt kicked. Oh, this isn't just me exaggerating. Perhaps you've noticed my tendency to do so. No, I was being battered and nearly drowned by all the expectations of the job combined with my own shortcomings. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">So every morning, in desperation I climbed onto the Rock to wait out the storm in safety and comfort.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Funny how God works. For years I had struggled to develop the habit of getting up early to spend time praying and reading the Bible.</span><span style="font-size: large;"> Suddenly, my feelings of ineptitude as a teacher really began to reinforce this habit as they emphasized my need for it.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I admit that I spent part of my prayer time unloading about my growing itch to leave education. However, I concentrated more on praising God and thanking Him for every little thing, including the stress of my job because I knew it was bringing me closer to Him. This wasn't my clever idea. I got it from a Book. First Thessolonians 5:18 says, "In everything give thanks: for this is the will of God in Christ Jesus concerning you." Apparently, I was supposed to be in this particular place at this particular time. Ugh. So I semi-reluctantly thanked God for everything that was stressing me out and and waited expectantly.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">So as I was praying, I would look out at those awful weeds in my backyard which were green at the time but I didn't see weeds. I saw a little world full of life - plants, birds and insects. I thought about how plants and animals reproduce and grow and how everything is interdependent until I was just amazed and overwhelmed by God's unfathomable creativity and His loving provision for us. Then, looking around my little bedroom, I would see more evidence of God's provision...photos of my two kids, a ratty old quilt on the bed, a roof over our heads, a freckle-faced dog named Jenny...until I was crying tears of gratitude and joy. </span></span></div>
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It was so relaxing, yet thrilling. I felt rejuvenated every morning.</div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheTcBBDrmuO0o8041PTxczDG1UlQ-RbYC3x71OXUBpn23mWFZzAjpB4Q3UcCEtFcdiGX8q-BUnIdXsxIE1Ahd2aQD5pxMN022ziOORBGnHIxwt487K8gciT5MpMcXVsPjH8aOW75P-CIE/s1600/spa+time+in+the+storm.tif" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheTcBBDrmuO0o8041PTxczDG1UlQ-RbYC3x71OXUBpn23mWFZzAjpB4Q3UcCEtFcdiGX8q-BUnIdXsxIE1Ahd2aQD5pxMN022ziOORBGnHIxwt487K8gciT5MpMcXVsPjH8aOW75P-CIE/s1600/spa+time+in+the+storm.tif" height="400" width="270" /></a>Ain't gonna lie to ya' now<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">. 'Cause that there would be a sin. I confess that I did not go to work all happy and cheerful. Indeed, sometimes in my weakness, I would unfaithfully lean on the crutch of caffeinated soda to get me through the day. </span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">I still hated being in a job that I didn't do well but in the middle of all the turmoil and stress, I knew that God is in control of the situation and that He was up to something.</span></span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimctWc8HzIYXb5QuBe8qqjAV0-5_YkeqCFY51W-dwGTWIZlZwR4k_eYZF0HXZYowCDYV4XOnUY41e0adnydZI0CkjHY4TsAMw7oSTdlRXndmlDX_fPgV3mX2fAV5SumWKLE9GJEemE65Y/s1600/0609141056c.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/AVvXsEimctWc8HzIYXb5QuBe8qqjAV0-5_YkeqCFY51W-dwGTWIZlZwR4k_eYZF0HXZYowCDYV4XOnUY41e0adnydZI0CkjHY4TsAMw7oSTdlRXndmlDX_fPgV3mX2fAV5SumWKLE9GJEemE65Y/s1600/0609141056c.jpg" height="320" width="241" /></a><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">I can't claim to know the exact nature and complete scope of that something. I'm still waiting. However, I can feel my relationship with God changing. He is tending and growing little things. In the meantime, one thing that God has shown me is that while the temptation to sleep longer on work days is strong, the extra sleep is not worth giving up time enjoying Him. </span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><i>(full disclosure: Sometimes I fall asleep while I'm praying! Embarrassing. Sorry, God.)<span style="font-size: large;"> </span></i></span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">I am grateful that through my prayer time, in the midst of my stressful chaos, God turns my one-star room into a relaxing, rejuvenating, spa-like environment. It is my favorite time of the day.</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimL61XVOOJVzCA-62SdclTWKIwoZJmtOS8OBtXqWzW_BRzIe_gNItNpuBhYMv9WWbW3f7m_0a7vNYEel48JrzjbIDZZhF5QTa-zmXtOAwKY0v9SWQgAwAcXvhdoYs35VplOzMSn4IW4ZU/s1600/0609141057a.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimL61XVOOJVzCA-62SdclTWKIwoZJmtOS8OBtXqWzW_BRzIe_gNItNpuBhYMv9WWbW3f7m_0a7vNYEel48JrzjbIDZZhF5QTa-zmXtOAwKY0v9SWQgAwAcXvhdoYs35VplOzMSn4IW4ZU/s1600/0609141057a.jpg" height="200" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>In the morning, Lord, you hear my voice,<br />in the morning I lay my requests before you <br />and wait expectantly.<br /> Psalm 5:3 </i></td></tr>
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<i><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">When I think of strolling down Memory Lane, <span style="background-color: white;">I always picture a white picket fence planted in rambling clouds of blue morning glories.</span> However, the stretch of Memory Lane I'm visiting today, if I remember correctly, is instead paved with 1970's burnt orange carpeting and lined with orange metal school lockers. You're welcome to walk down that way with me if you'd like and meet my friend, Mike. </span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">(ack! I had to make a correction. I originally said I met Mike in '78 but it was in '79.)</span></i></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibQNeX6cg7KjZw3KsmyWddAvufwSfZtE9Z5fjmdILYI0yPPtDFGBtvVVuokp1GDafUh14AXJ6qUxgZCI1WxcLWWZShDSQDC-GvfDUjbjoYQ6g2RxbzRdx4J8m30F8tMOeJmqsGmC00EcA/s1600/mike+chair+cropped.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibQNeX6cg7KjZw3KsmyWddAvufwSfZtE9Z5fjmdILYI0yPPtDFGBtvVVuokp1GDafUh14AXJ6qUxgZCI1WxcLWWZShDSQDC-GvfDUjbjoYQ6g2RxbzRdx4J8m30F8tMOeJmqsGmC00EcA/s1600/mike+chair+cropped.jpg" height="320" width="219" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"> Photo credit: Mike's best friend, the <br />
fabulous Michele Cook</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<i></i><br />
<i></i>
<span style="font-size: large;"></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">In 1979, during the second semester of my 9th grade year, I met the person who, for the next thirty-some years, would dazzle me, infuriate me, encourage me, bluntly contradict me, rescue me, zing me, laugh with me and <i>at</i> me, argue heatedly with me and inspire me. This is where I met my buddy, Mike Girard.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Shy and quiet, I tried to enter Mrs. Merrill's algebra class unnoticed, hiding behind a baggy, brown sweater and a stringy curtain of long, blonde hair. Waiting for class to begin, I sat slumped in my seat with my feet, in their nameless blue and yellow track shoes, jammed into the wire book rack under the empty chair in front of me. I have a vague memory of a guy, a tall, thin 8th grader, strolling unhurried into the room just as the bell rang. He had feathered hair, wore what I assume were Jordache jeans and wielded a disdainful scowl that made me quickly unwedge my shoes from beneath the seat he then claimed as his own.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Any memory of our initial conversation has completely disintegrated into our thirty-year friendship like sugar swirled into a glass of tea. All that's left is a feeling of pleasant surprise, that someone so bold, funny and confident would turn around again and again to talk to <i>me, </i>to share a disparaging remark about Mrs. Merrill's taste in shoes or to laugh at my jokes.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Mike immediately dazzled me with his creativity and wicked sense of humor. He encouraged my creative side and egged on my cruel streak by instigating a series of drawing projects that lampooned our classmates, our teacher and her variety of maternity-leave substitutes. Much of this activity took place right in the middle of algebra class. No surprise -- I got the "D" I was expecting. I was stunned, however, that my new friend had earned an "A", apparently without even trying. I hadn't yet recognized his genius.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Shoot. I've only touched on the first semester of a lifetime of schooling in the ups and downs of a treasured friendship. A simple blog post cannot contain the personality and legacy of Mike Girard. We would need an entire book! And you likely have a dishwasher to load or a toilet to scrub. How do I explain Mike sufficiently while keeping it short and sweet?</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: large;">I can't! So let's do this. Let's run through some quick examples for now and consider making this an ongoing series later: </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;">A Mike and Andrea Sampler</span><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><br />
(dates are rough estimates)</div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<ul>
<li><span style="font-size: large;"><b>rescued</b> - 1995 Me, newly divorced, back at Dad's, depressed and crying in the bathroom. Mike, just back in town from some months-long adventure and in possession of two tickets to see the Go-Go's on their reunion tour. Was I the first person he called? I don't know and I don't care. I was thrilled. </span></li>
</ul>
</blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<ul>
<li><span style="font-size: large;"> <b>dazzled</b> - While living in Hollywood, Mike swept past security to casually crash an Emmy Awards "after-party" and mingled with the likes of Mary Tyler Moore.</span></li>
</ul>
</blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<ul>
<li><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><b>zinged</b> - 2000? Me: Do you think I would die if I fell (from this second story balcony)? </span>Mike: At your weight? Yes.</span></li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li><span style="font-size: large;"><b>encouraged</b> - 2007 Me: Look, I'll watch <i>you</i> sing karaoke but <em>I'm</em> not going to do it! Mike: Sure, that's fine. Bartender, another drink for the lady.</span></li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li><span style="font-size: large;"><b>laughed with me</b> - 2000 Mike presented me with this grocery store find and we laughed until we almost peed:</span> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtSNt7TpTBFhfy2FJTakAFlyeLTMpl2zclEtdaUYGQmpI74o01leysnC4o3fJdos1Yqk0TbobGLygQvgRW0qTM3Byfgs07RSuzEwjeaob5XwvoPxYskUQRMYNnK6hgWGzzqu3Y5qDpeKQ/s1600/mike+doll.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="font-size: x-large; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtSNt7TpTBFhfy2FJTakAFlyeLTMpl2zclEtdaUYGQmpI74o01leysnC4o3fJdos1Yqk0TbobGLygQvgRW0qTM3Byfgs07RSuzEwjeaob5XwvoPxYskUQRMYNnK6hgWGzzqu3Y5qDpeKQ/s1600/mike+doll.jpg" height="190" width="200" /></a></li>
</ul>
</blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<ul>
<li><span style="font-size: large;"><b>laughed <i>at</i> me</b> - 1984 Mike: Do you have a stamp I can use? Me (just arrived home from work, hot and sweaty): Yeah, in my bedroom. I'll go get you one. (meaning I would bring one back out after I'd changed clothes. Instead, Mike walked into my room the instant I had dropped my sweaty jeans to my ankles.) Mike: (through the door after slamming it in horror)AAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!</span></li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li><span style="font-size: large;"><b>infuriated</b> - 2008 Mike: You need slap therapy!!!</span></li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li><span style="font-size: large;"><b>contradicted</b> - 2008 Mike: Do you believe (some- thing; I don't remember what)? Me: Yes, I do. Mike: No, you don't.</span></li>
</ul>
</blockquote>
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">This is just my little slice of Mike's story. He had many friends who, just like me, adored him, irritated him and got fed up with him. And we all got a kick out of his flare for comedy and improv. Mike was a natural performer. Any place, at any time, was his stage and playground. </span><span style="font-size: large;">Didn't matter if he was at the grocery store, in a movie theater, on a crowded dance floor, or walking through a parking lot; the public might be subjected to his accents, his pantomimes, or his impersonations of Pat Benatar, Dodie Goodman, Joan Crawford or the rude cashier he recently encountered. A </span><span style="font-size: large;">night out with Mike was a star-studded affair, </span><span style="font-size: large;">all much to the delight of his friends. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />Although Mike lived life entirely on his own terms, several weeks before his death in 2010, he expressed that he was angry with himself for not making the most of his talent, for not pursuing his dreams. Those of us who loved Mike and were blessed with his friendship know that his talent was anything but wasted. He gave us years of joy and fun as well as happy memories that will keep us laughing the rest of our lives. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2cEe-GmeSD-Fx7P54Q-Yywoh2RLaZwsDrWLh6EFcXzQVOPPSBpp6XRW8JAA9UQ66a9Wis3OBiFIRVkX4JFIcEq0_3UKodmKxH3QQh68lNRDTMgWFWFKkzPZlhd6JbOH3FD1xawsBSTtQ/s1600/mike+and+ham.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2cEe-GmeSD-Fx7P54Q-Yywoh2RLaZwsDrWLh6EFcXzQVOPPSBpp6XRW8JAA9UQ66a9Wis3OBiFIRVkX4JFIcEq0_3UKodmKxH3QQh68lNRDTMgWFWFKkzPZlhd6JbOH3FD1xawsBSTtQ/s1600/mike+and+ham.jpg" height="200" width="181" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Maybe my favorite pic: Mike and me<br />
with the slice of ham he slapped on my wedding<br />
dress as the photo was being snapped.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><span style="font-size: large;">Looking back at my 9th grade algebra class, though, I realize now that one aspect of my friendship with Mike has come full circle. In 1979, he inspired me to create comics and song parodies. With his passing, he inspired me to pursue my dreams and write in earnest (me? In earnest? Ha!) This is yet another reason for me to think of Mike with a grateful smile which I do pretty much each and every day.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">I could go on with stories of Mike's brilliance, array of talents...oh, and the jobs, the cities, the arguments, the apologies, the re-enactments of Mtv music videos from the 1980's...but you have a bathroom to clean and I can't take up any more of your time! However, I do urge Mike's family and friends to join me in writing down the truth before he reaches folk hero status. We want people to know the difference between Mike's real adventures and tall tales. Although, we all know Mike's story needs no exaggeration!</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;">We miss you, Mike! Can't wait to see you again! </span></div>
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<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAH3w-XEWgAeIgBVBuUoWn8_mH5h-ew6x4ea0T0CbDqsEQbuoikD8RBTZPI4-t_oW6O7xihbskbL5jlWPUC6iqKg-937i3pJIdpgvYdj2l5lBORUF2X9QHgtyNu8zUIyIVTD5WneFwM_U/s1600/mike+dancing.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAH3w-XEWgAeIgBVBuUoWn8_mH5h-ew6x4ea0T0CbDqsEQbuoikD8RBTZPI4-t_oW6O7xihbskbL5jlWPUC6iqKg-937i3pJIdpgvYdj2l5lBORUF2X9QHgtyNu8zUIyIVTD5WneFwM_U/s1600/mike+dancing.jpg" height="320" width="246" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Here's Mike doin' what he did!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<em><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></em>
<em><span style="font-size: large;">Family and friends of Mike, I know t</span></em><em><span style="font-size: large;">his short post does not do him justice. I encourage you to help me out by leaving a comment and sharing your own thoughts!</span></em><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02127177435320546422noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7725173217533756483.post-33024731325426596492014-05-18T22:00:00.000-07:002014-05-18T22:00:37.353-07:00I Swear I Will Act My Age From Now On: A Non-Blog<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivWrw0wrPozfwE7_-icVqy4thXmURdCCb0ZlN-q1o1KqmW8eJeR9xZgg3MhYUROj0M_FXMDKbfOTLWwWRKD_Zu-AppV7-dxKNRteaCJuxBp_zlOv6Gj53Pc8vjCfZ4xKyVDe9PSshuj_M/s1600/the+blog+killer.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivWrw0wrPozfwE7_-icVqy4thXmURdCCb0ZlN-q1o1KqmW8eJeR9xZgg3MhYUROj0M_FXMDKbfOTLWwWRKD_Zu-AppV7-dxKNRteaCJuxBp_zlOv6Gj53Pc8vjCfZ4xKyVDe9PSshuj_M/s1600/the+blog+killer.jpg" height="320" width="265" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Blog Killer traveling through the dark of night.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-size: large;">Oh, dear. I'm afraid I have besmirched the respectable title of "Blogger." My Friday evening was spent with a bunch of lovely ladies celebrating a friend's 30th birthday on a crazy double decker bus tour of Scottsdale's and Tempe's entertainment districts led by a bus driver with a decent but decidedly fake Russell Brand accent. I'm pretty sure the worst, most embarrassing things I did were prudishly refuse to enter a Hooter's with the rest of my party (but I would've done that anyway), give a dollar to a creepy Johnny Cash impersonator for playing <i>Folsom Prison Blues</i>, and declare that my evening would not be complete until I'd made out with a drag queen (but I would've said that anyway!) However, I cannot help but regret my indulgence because I paid for my fun-filled evening all day Saturday with a general feeling of "bleah." The creative juices were curdled. Today was spent in a paper-grading frenzy. As a result, I have no blog post prepared for this weekend to entertain quite possibly my one and only reader - me. I feel just terrible about disappointing me.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">And yet....</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Well, if it were just me who was left without a ridiculous, frivolous blog to peruse, it might be enough to simply hang my head in shame. But what if there are other people who were looking forward to reading this blog </span><span style="font-size: large;">with a smug, "I could do better than that?" What about them? Where is their justice?</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">On the off chance that someone besides myself ventures under The Crooked Clothesline in search of mediocre entertainment, I must attempt to provide her with at least one laugh. To that end, I offer up this sacrifice, one of the most hideous images ever captured on film -- an undated school picture of myself. I hope you will enjoy a a giggle, forgive my irresponsible blogging and consider dropping by next week.<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEin-vL-OSGzERxpgdVAeqhbBOviT5I9CUjlaqyE1eMqSRN5QryfnMFAy4Cx-41CbEKl_jofHJm_TDTSxU7x_TlpvB-C002D9Xy8iGlChHJXvP7Cqs_q780Bxxa5uD4L0BcMUVYE-6YURRQ/s1600/mystery.tif" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEin-vL-OSGzERxpgdVAeqhbBOviT5I9CUjlaqyE1eMqSRN5QryfnMFAy4Cx-41CbEKl_jofHJm_TDTSxU7x_TlpvB-C002D9Xy8iGlChHJXvP7Cqs_q780Bxxa5uD4L0BcMUVYE-6YURRQ/s1600/mystery.tif" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: large;">Evil incarnate with buck teeth?</span></i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02127177435320546422noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7725173217533756483.post-77373518239088745492014-05-10T23:25:00.000-07:002014-05-11T13:58:38.713-07:00I'll Take "Access Denied" for 500.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">During the summer, when Daylight Savings is in effect, there's a three-hour time difference between Arizona and Indiana. This is extremely annoying and it ain't saving me any time. In fact, it's DRAGGING me BACK in time to the gloomiest, most torturous daily half hour of my childhood. So at this time of year, as I'm driving home from my job between 4:30 and 5:00 pm here in Chandler, Arizona, and I reach for my cell phone, anticipating a cozy mother/daughter chat during my commute, I'm stopped by the unpleasant realization that it's between 7:30 and 8:00 pm in Fort Wayne, Indiana. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: large;">Which means I CAN'T talk to my mom.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Because she's watching <i>Jeopardy!</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Ugh! <i>Jeopardy!</i> That same old half-hour game show that came between me and my mother's highly-prized attention when I was in grade school. My brother and sister and I were trained to leave her alone while she matched wits with the Returning Champion.</span><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><span style="font-size: large;">I had to WAIT to show her the book about Jane Goodall </span><span style="font-size: large;">I had checked out from the school library. </span><span style="font-size: large;">I had to WAIT to tell her about Mr. Martzell's outrageously chauvinistic prediction concerning the upcoming Billy Jean King/Bobby Riggs tennis match</span><span style="font-size: large;">. </span><span style="font-size: large;">I am telling you, that torturous Final Jeopardy "waiting" music dragged on and on like a </span><span style="background-color: white; font-size: large;">Peter Jackson movie after you've polished off an extra large soda from the concession stand</span><span style="font-size: large;">. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">I am not writing this to make my mother feel guilty. Heaven knows, the woman deserved a half hour of educational television to herself. I've just been thinking that certain things have not changed in the past several decades. I still yearn for time with my mother.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">In many ways, my mom, Judy, was not the typical mom. She never stressed about having a perfect house - we enjoyed our time together in the evenings and we all cleaned together on Saturdays </span><span style="font-size: large;">with the radio blasting</span><span style="font-size: large;">. She was occasionally known to tell her children somewhat inappropriate jokes. We were tucked in bed by hilarious characters she made up on the spot. I can remember one or two practical jokes she took too far, such as when I was home alone one afternoon as a fifth-grader and had to take an upsetting phone message from a mysterious stranger calling about the side-by-side funeral plots my parents had supposedly purchased. </span><span style="font-size: large;">And, of course, my siblings and I absolutely loved all of it.</span><br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">Although my mother is a very social person, she also requires a lot of alone time. In my youth, when she came home from work, after greeting her family, she shut herself in the bathroom for a few minutes of privacy. She never really got it, though. The three of us kids would clamor in hallway, yelling our news of the day through the closed door. I remember sliding artwork or school papers with good grades under the door for the poor harassed woman to appreciate. We just couldn't wait to talk with her.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Today, my siblings and I threaten to burn up the cell phone towers with our regular phone calls to Mom. The grand kids also call or text to get her advice. When she heads out here to stay at my sister's place for a visit, my two adult kids feel ripped off if we don't have plans to see her the very day of her arrival, even when her plane won't land until nine in the evening. We all love to be with her.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: large;">So I automatically reach for the phone when I have a funny story to share or exciting news to announce like, "Hey, I got another blog view from the person in Germany!" If it happens to be time for <i>Jeopardy!</i>...well, fortunately for Mom, I have matured a bit in the past forty-some years. I have developed the skills to occupy myself for that half hour or even until the weekend. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Thanks, Mother, for always being there for us, listening to us, laughing with us and telling us what we needed to hear even when we didn't want to hear it. And thanks for being willing to put <i>Jeopardy!</i> on pause even though it might make a mark on your TV screen. </span><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6imRPFiJKquk3htA6r5SJDdhPwcp1XU22Pq0ul3dQ7kHpRDe5SNIOdeLDPvO54tOZuMq1Nfz8h15Jwh-jHpXBIfKIpZnfMlpv8NVzKhPIUqrfqiKB0BQQ9hS9w6gscYKl8qUonv_QBoc/s1600/mom+and+me+snuggling0001.tif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6imRPFiJKquk3htA6r5SJDdhPwcp1XU22Pq0ul3dQ7kHpRDe5SNIOdeLDPvO54tOZuMq1Nfz8h15Jwh-jHpXBIfKIpZnfMlpv8NVzKhPIUqrfqiKB0BQQ9hS9w6gscYKl8qUonv_QBoc/s1600/mom+and+me+snuggling0001.tif" height="136" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I love you, Mommy! Happy Mother's Day!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02127177435320546422noreply@blogger.com2