tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-77465109652125863242024-03-16T05:17:58.119-04:00Anything Fits a Naked ManAnd Other Weird Things My Dad Used To Say...Anything Fits A Naked Manhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07579409446582399318noreply@blogger.comBlogger145125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7746510965212586324.post-26890672095125119022014-02-07T18:41:00.000-05:002014-02-08T17:19:47.018-05:00Dot, Dot, What a Girl I've Got!!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Hey Everybody! Meet Dottie, the newest Emery family addition! That blur in the background is her tail wagging furiously. This happens pretty frequently these days, especially when she's frolicking like this. <br />
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But, Dottie didn't always frolic. Truth is, when we found her at a shelter adoption fair here in Franklin, TN last October, Dottie was about as far from "playful" as any dog I've seen.<br />
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It was a cold, rainy Saturday. The fair was sponsored by the Mars Corporation (makers of Pedigree products), and held in their corporate offices' parking lot. Forty shelters from the area arrived, setting up crates filled with dogs and cats of all shapes and sizes. Even Barbara Mandrell, country music legend, showed up to host the event (That's how we roll here in Nashville, y'all!). <br />
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-FtStLXeeEyI/UvVfT41_aKI/AAAAAAAABog/P6nRzP7J0mo/s1600/photo+4.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-FtStLXeeEyI/UvVfT41_aKI/AAAAAAAABog/P6nRzP7J0mo/s1600/photo+4.JPG" height="200" width="150" /></a>The music was loud, the barking was loud, and the adoptees were overwhelmed. Especially Dottie. There she sat in her pen, cold, tired, terrified, and in no mood to "sell herself" to potential adopters. She remained uninterested in being scratched and/or held, preferring to curl up in a ball and sleep in the corner of her pen. Frankly, chances were pretty good that Dottie was headed back to her home at the Hickman County Humane Society that night. To the right is a picture of her and her handler, trying desperately to convince us that she was the one for us. Let's just say we were skeptical.<br />
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I remember looking at this poor, pathetic face, so detached, so uninterested in giving or receiving affection, and thinking about the major decision I had to make. Dottie needed me. Nobody else was going to pick her, so I needed to do just that. Alan was unsure, but, because he loves me so perfectly, said, "Go get her."<br />
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Dottie shivered the whole way home, and not because she was cold. We brought her into the living room and showed her around. To the left is Alan holding her just a few minutes after we arrived. Can't you just see the combination of terror and exhaustion on this dog's face? A few minutes after this pic was taken, Alan brought her outside, hoping she'd do a little "eliminating." She bolted. Ran like the wind. Lucky for us, Dottie was unsure of where to go, and ended up under my sister's car, trembling. We had to crawl on our bellies to grab her and drag her out. <br />
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The next day, I called the shelter handler and asked if she knew any of Dottie's history. She said Dottie had been abandoned at the end of a woman's driveway when she was still a puppy. That woman let Dottie live on her back porch for several months, until she decided it was all too much and surrendered her to the Humane Society. There's a chance her Downes Syndrome child may have abused her, but no one knows for sure. While at the shelter, Dottie tried to escape by climbing a fence, fell, broke her leg, and lost a toenail. They believed her to be about 1.5 years old. Dottie had a rough start, to say the least.<br />
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-a7u505-vTBw/UvVm8aFm1XI/AAAAAAAABpE/vmlkc_AbK_E/s1600/1460990_10201353552580175_1206772257_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-a7u505-vTBw/UvVm8aFm1XI/AAAAAAAABpE/vmlkc_AbK_E/s1600/1460990_10201353552580175_1206772257_n.jpg" height="200" width="150" /></a>So, our work began. We learned quickly that Dottie really liked belly rubs. So we were constantly flipping her over and giving her a good scratch. Soon, she began rolling over on her own as we'd walk by, then reveling in the rubbing she always received. I held her a lot those first several weeks, stroking her ears and kissing her head. Very soon, she began to "lean in" to me.<br />
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-s-45jjH0_x4/UvVlPghTTTI/AAAAAAAABo4/o-5xkQ03iw4/s1600/996029_10201032209786806_1932969148_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-s-45jjH0_x4/UvVlPghTTTI/AAAAAAAABo4/o-5xkQ03iw4/s1600/996029_10201032209786806_1932969148_n.jpg" height="150" width="200" /></a>Then came the naps. Boy did she sleep! She finally decided we weren't going to hurt her, so Dottie relaxed, let her guard down and went to sleep. I think she slept for two weeks straight, waking only to eliminate and eat. Sometimes, like in the picture to the left, I'd find my slipper next to her, apparently placed there to accompany her nap. I decided that was a good sign!<br />
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-w8F4gVzc3uo/UvaqUvtcYRI/AAAAAAAABpg/fbPdN6e1HLY/s1600/photo+5.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-w8F4gVzc3uo/UvaqUvtcYRI/AAAAAAAABpg/fbPdN6e1HLY/s1600/photo+5.JPG" height="320" width="316" /></a>Slowly, ever so slowly, our playful little girl began to emerge. Trips to the dog park, although at first tentative and unsure, soon brought our little girl sprinting with the big dogs, chasing balls and barking at birds. Her toys are scattered all around the living room, brought out of their box and tossed in the air with glee. Dottie has become an expert frolicker.<br />
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But, the other day something occurred to me as I watched her in full sprint alongside Dexter, the lab mix puppy who has become her favorite dog park buddy. This sad little, detached terrier, who had physically and mentally given up all hope, is thriving. But not because we fed her <br />
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anything special, provided her with some elaborate bed, or played with some fancy toy. All we did was love her. That's it. Dottie frolics, because she is loved. Period.<br />
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And when you come right down to it, isn't that true for all of us? All we need is love, my dears. Well, love and maybe a really good belly rub once in a while...<br />
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Thanks for Reading!Anything Fits A Naked Manhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07579409446582399318noreply@blogger.com40tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7746510965212586324.post-64985883003109527282011-08-28T18:26:00.007-04:002011-08-29T17:42:22.426-04:00"We Didn't Know..."<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-OMi7ZkQI8zI/TlqrG-AK5xI/AAAAAAAABlw/sBuQRlQuVKI/s1600/colored-only11.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="238" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-OMi7ZkQI8zI/TlqrG-AK5xI/AAAAAAAABlw/sBuQRlQuVKI/s320/colored-only11.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Shortly after moving to our new home here in Nashville, TN, Alan and I were thrilled to find our new church home. The only problem was that the existing pastor was leaving, and the new one wasn't set to arrive for several months. So, the church elders called on a former retired pastor, who graciously accepted the offer to serve in the interim. He (let's call him Pastor Jim) was a old man with glasses, a kind face, and thick Southern drawl. <br />
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The congregation seemed thrilled to have Pastor Jim and welcomed him back with open arms and happy hearts. When he walked up to the podium to deliver his first sermon, he paused, looked over at the high school choir, and smiled as he remarked that he was pretty sure he had baptized just about every one of them when they were infants. Then he began his message.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-TAL_99ln_V4/Tlq75HgCU3I/AAAAAAAABl0/kTDJKwkLBeQ/s1600/Misc+082.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-TAL_99ln_V4/Tlq75HgCU3I/AAAAAAAABl0/kTDJKwkLBeQ/s320/Misc+082.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>That was over three months ago. We now have our new leader and the interim pastor has gone happily back into retirement. But I must admit the words he spoke that first day have stuck with me ever since. I can't get them out of my head. I'd really love to get your opinion about them. Here's a gist of what his sermon entailed:<br />
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The topic was about two forms of sin. One is the most obvious, when we KNOW what we're about to do is wrong, yet we do it anyway. Like the shoplifter who grabs merchandise off the shelves and puts it in his pocket. He KNOWS stealing is wrong and a sin (Thou shalt not steal), but he does it anyway.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-aZWYIzLQyr4/Tlq8hDO0VPI/AAAAAAAABl4/rrqhNmILQOI/s1600/whites-only.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="132" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-aZWYIzLQyr4/Tlq8hDO0VPI/AAAAAAAABl4/rrqhNmILQOI/s320/whites-only.png" width="320" /></a></div>The other form of sin, the pastor explained, was the kind when we commit an act, but we're unaware we are doing wrong. Jim chose this example to prove his point: He said he remembered being a young boy in high school back in the 50's, and how much he and his buddies loved going down to the local drugstore to drink root beer floats and chocolate milkshakes. He said there was a sign over the counter that read "Whites Only." A little further down was the "Colored Section." Pastor Jim pointed out that this was a sin. But "We just didn't know."<br />
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Really? You didn't know? You didn't know that it was wrong to treat another human being this way? I tell you, I can't get those words out of my brain. "We just didn't know." Wow.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-XfWkQjfT5AI/Tlq84umNmHI/AAAAAAAABl8/aRECdHOwA8o/s1600/images.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="196" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-XfWkQjfT5AI/Tlq84umNmHI/AAAAAAAABl8/aRECdHOwA8o/s200/images.jpeg" width="200" /></a></div>I'm trying very hard, I promise you, not to be judgmental on this. (That would also be a sin, by the way!). I grew up in the suburbs of Ohio, where all of my classmates were white and middle class. We had one Jewish boy, I remember, and we pretty much accepted him, except at Christmastime when we mercilessly grilled him about his Hannukkah traditions ("Seriously? Santa doesn't visit your house? REALLY? How do you cope?"). I have no idea what it was like to deal with bussing or racial unrest in my community. But I will say that I was raised to treat everyone, EVERYONE, with kindness and respect. <br />
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I volunteer with my new best friend, Michelle, at a local charity that provides books for underprivileged children. Michelle is the volunteer coordinator. One day a week we are joined by another volunteer, a 60 year old woman we'll call Roberta. Roberta is a fast, hard worker. Roberta is also a blatant racist. Her views come out loud and clear in the conversations we have while processing books, and I must tell you many of her comments have left both Michelle and I speechless.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-RAtsil_3Xzc/Tlq9Bt5cPXI/AAAAAAAABmA/P1PcQCWdJH4/s1600/The-Help-300x232.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="154" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-RAtsil_3Xzc/Tlq9Bt5cPXI/AAAAAAAABmA/P1PcQCWdJH4/s200/The-Help-300x232.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>At the end of a rather strenuous day recently, the three of us were walking back to our cars when Roberta asked Michelle and I, "Have either of you seen 'The Help?'" She was referring to the movie just released starring Emma Stone, Viola Davis, and Octavia Spencer involving black maids in the early sixties in the town of Jackson, Mississippi. The women basically cooked, cleaned, and raised Southern white children. In turn, they were treated as second class citizens. Emma Stone's character, a young journalist, convinces the black women to tell their side of the story, for an article she is writing for Harper's Bazaar. The stories are an immediate hit and are made into book form, much to the dismay of all of the white women in Jackson.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-YWdapwc1GlQ/Tlq9b_nz-vI/AAAAAAAABmE/2abQyU0Qn6Y/s1600/the-help-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-YWdapwc1GlQ/Tlq9b_nz-vI/AAAAAAAABmE/2abQyU0Qn6Y/s320/the-help-1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>When Michelle and I informed Roberta that we had not, in fact, seen the movie, she rolled her eyes and said she didn't plan on seeing it at all. When we asked her why not, she waved her hand dismissively and stated, "It's characterized bullshit. That's just how we treated black people back then. We didn't know it was wrong. Nobody did." <br />
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There was that phrase again. "We didn't know..." So today, my friend Michelle and I went to see "The Help." It was a terrific movie with Oscar-worthy performances delivered by several of the actresses. But I must tell you, my friends, I'm still so appalled that we treated each other this way. This wasn't one hundred years ago, this was less than fifty. And Roberta is proof that this way of thinking still exists. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-sa4lh-MsX00/Tlq9k4LjGII/AAAAAAAABmI/8lne1Ga4RXE/s1600/black-maid.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-sa4lh-MsX00/Tlq9k4LjGII/AAAAAAAABmI/8lne1Ga4RXE/s320/black-maid.jpg" width="314" /></a></div>Michelle and I stood outside the theater after the movie ended, still contemplating it's message. Michelle's story is different from mine, in that she was raised in the Deep South, in New Orleans, LA. She told me she distinctly remembers her mother escorting her to her first day of elementary school when desegregation was initially enforced. The teacher approached her mother and cried in a hushed tone, "Good Lord, I've got four of THEM in my classroom!" <br />
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Michelle's mother was also strongly opposed to her serving as a bridesmaid in her black friend's wedding. There were ten bridesmaids, Michelle was the only white one. When she asked her mother why she disapproved, her only reply was, "It's just not done, that's all."<br />
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Michelle, being the smart, awesome, headstrong lady that she is, told me that she was raised with all the prejudice and bigotry as everyone else at the time. But she KNEW it was wrong, and she chose to reject it. This is just one of the many reasons why Michelle completely rocks. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-mZ_bsyB-a-Y/Tlq-RqU6z5I/AAAAAAAABmM/Q4BjaQ_BDzk/s1600/the-help-movie-image-viola-davis-bryce-dallas-howard-01-600x398.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-mZ_bsyB-a-Y/Tlq-RqU6z5I/AAAAAAAABmM/Q4BjaQ_BDzk/s320/the-help-movie-image-viola-davis-bryce-dallas-howard-01-600x398.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>"The Help" displayed a variety of women, each of them choosing a different way of dealing with the issue. Some, like Emma Stone's character, knew it was unjust and tried to do something about it. Others, like her mother, portrayed by Allison Janney, also knew it was wrong, but lacked the courage to do anything. It was easier for her to go along with what the others thought than to take a stand. Then there were the others, those that "Didn't know..."<br />
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So, I really want to know your opinion on this. How were you raised? Did your beliefs change or stay the same once you matured? Do you believe those that say, "We didn't know?" Thank you in advance for your comment, I can't wait to read your view!! Also,<br />
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Thanks for Reading!!Anything Fits A Naked Manhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07579409446582399318noreply@blogger.com114tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7746510965212586324.post-83208704101479990132011-07-25T16:17:00.006-04:002011-07-25T18:15:27.969-04:00The Breakfast Club<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-jPd8AHPvNyc/Ti3M_80yp1I/AAAAAAAABlc/2suXFlAHn6k/s1600/270564_1947934977436_1214421258_31888552_2001576_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-jPd8AHPvNyc/Ti3M_80yp1I/AAAAAAAABlc/2suXFlAHn6k/s320/270564_1947934977436_1214421258_31888552_2001576_n.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>Well, did you miss me? Sorry I've been a little lax with the posts recently, but I have a REALLY good excuse. I was preparing for, then actually taking part in our yearly pilgrimage to Key West! Oh, how I love the Conch Republic! Alan and I have vacationed there just about every July for the last ten years. The place kinda gets under you skin, you know? <br />
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I've written about the Keys more than once in this blog, often mentioning my attraction to it's quirky, eclectic people, it's rich, storied history, it's free-roaming chickens and roosters, and it's nightly magical sunsets that would make even the most stringent atheist believe in God. I can't seem to get enough of it. This year's visit was no exception, and we've returned sun-kissed and key lime pie-filled!<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-rKx7VGL9Hkc/Ti3NGuyIfAI/AAAAAAAABlg/KCUaDe5h1Xs/s1600/267401_1945465595703_1214421258_31885713_5454785_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-rKx7VGL9Hkc/Ti3NGuyIfAI/AAAAAAAABlg/KCUaDe5h1Xs/s320/267401_1945465595703_1214421258_31885713_5454785_n.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>But I must tell you, the last few years my Key West euphoria has been mixed with a little melancholy. The cute little motel in which we used to stay (cheap rates, small rooms, but a GREAT pool!) was purchased a few years back by the monstrous, big-name hotel next door. They immediately flattened the structure and added on to their own behemoth building. And just like that, another tiny part of Key West's charm was swallowed up.<br />
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But it's not necessarily the the little motel that I miss. It's the mornings Alan and I spent enjoying breakfast on the patio of their sweet diner, located in front of the building. It wasn't anything special, just your basic eggs and bacon kind of joint. But sitting on that patio in the early morning, when the temperature was still tolerable and the bougainvillea was just beginning to sparkle under the morning sun, was priceless. We'd watch the Key West citizens riding by on their bikes on their way to work, off to spend another day selling sea shells and straw hats to tourists. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-W4uC4lNYKUE/Ti3NMt-EQiI/AAAAAAAABlk/j2jhMicTR-M/s1600/228861_2252450874482_1344576492_2588677_6346099_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-W4uC4lNYKUE/Ti3NMt-EQiI/AAAAAAAABlk/j2jhMicTR-M/s320/228861_2252450874482_1344576492_2588677_6346099_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>But even the eggs and the view weren't my favorite part of our mornings on that patio. It was the opportunity to watch <i>them</i>. They were a sweet older retired couple, possibly in their late sixties, who ate breakfast together on that patio every morning. They always sat at the same table, which was permanently saved for them with a sign that read, "Reserved for The Breakfast Club."<br />
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The two never had to place their order, because they ate the same thing every morning. As soon as they sat down, the waiter would bring their steaming plates to the table with a "Good Morning!" They'd turn and smile at him, return his greeting, and then ask him about how things were going at his second job. They'd have a brief conversation, then the waiter would drop the check on the table, give both their shoulders a squeeze, then leave with a "See you tomorrow morning!"<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-gvyTRnrxeiU/Ti3NqcrMo7I/AAAAAAAABlo/22dwSbNtkrM/s1600/pd2070980.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-gvyTRnrxeiU/Ti3NqcrMo7I/AAAAAAAABlo/22dwSbNtkrM/s320/pd2070980.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>I don't know what it was about that couple that made me want to stare. I think it was just the loveliness about them. They would sit so contentedly with one another, two old souls that had shared a lifetime, and now didn't need to speak with words. They'd eat quietly, holding hands, occasionally looking up to wave at familiar faces passing by. When they did speak to each other, it was always done quietly, but with such loving looks on their faces. They always greeted Alan and I as we arrived on the patio, and even offered some suggestions for good places to eat and visit while we were on the island. <br />
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I found myself wanting to get up early every day of our vacation so I could be on that patio when The Breakfast Club would arrive. I liked being near them, and imagining that someday Alan and I could still be that much in love. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Qo_hapl1K3Y/Ti3ONIEPI3I/AAAAAAAABls/bYypFaRN8Y4/s1600/Bike+and+bougainvillea2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="242" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Qo_hapl1K3Y/Ti3ONIEPI3I/AAAAAAAABls/bYypFaRN8Y4/s320/Bike+and+bougainvillea2.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>I think about that couple every time we're back in Key West. I wonder if they've found a new place to resume their Breakfast Club routine, and if they still sit and hold hands and smile at one another as sweetly as they did back then. Oh, I hope so!<br />
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By the way, did I mention that this couple was two gay men? Yes, this sweet, devoted senior couple enjoying their golden years in the company of their one true love was not a man and a woman. This sweet, devoted, loving couple was two men. See the difference? <br />
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Yeah, me neither...<br />
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Thanks for Reading!!Anything Fits A Naked Manhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07579409446582399318noreply@blogger.com25tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7746510965212586324.post-73066243348212801182011-06-20T17:32:00.000-04:002011-06-20T17:32:03.337-04:00Joan Does Kindle<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-nah8DC_1luA/Tf-eWMjtb0I/AAAAAAAABlI/oGsQkjbcdiI/s1600/amazon-kindle3.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-nah8DC_1luA/Tf-eWMjtb0I/AAAAAAAABlI/oGsQkjbcdiI/s320/amazon-kindle3.png" width="239" /></a> <b>"ALAAAAAN!!!" </b><br />
<br />
This is what you will frequently hear if you are a fly on the wall in my home while I am sitting in front of my computer and it won't do what I'm telling it to do. Rest assured, I have never, ever been accused of being a techno-wizard. I fall more under the category of "Special" when it comes to all things computer, video, digital, and the like. <br />
<br />
Fortunately for me, I am married to a computer genius. Alan is able to fix just about any computer problem in a matter of seconds, and he can navigate his way around one with expert precision. So, whenever I am sitting at my laptop and begin experiencing problems, you can hear the above, screechy call to my husband, imploring him to come save me from my technologically-challenged self. He usually arrives and fixes the problem within seconds. I thank him profusely, he sighs, pats me on my head and heads back to his office. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/--kLoE1phttk/Tf-oq5XE9zI/AAAAAAAABlM/kvZxVV2IhTU/s1600/free_books_online.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/--kLoE1phttk/Tf-oq5XE9zI/AAAAAAAABlM/kvZxVV2IhTU/s320/free_books_online.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>So, imagine my reaction when Alan recently suggested that I try out a Kindle. Kindles are e-books, sold by Amazon, that allow you to instantly download dozens of books, newspapers, or magazines in a matter of minutes. Since I am an avid reader, Alan thought it was something I could use. I think I replied with something like "Oh, hell no."<br />
<br />
I resisted, mostly because I'm one of those crotchety old people who talk about how much they love to "turn the page" rather than hit the "next" button. But I also feared the technology of the thing. It looked dangerous, quite frankly.<br />
<br />
But when I saw one in the store recently and was able to hold it in my hands, I have to admit I really liked the lightness of it, as well as the cute, decorative covers that actually made it FEEL like I was reading a book. Hesitantly, I told Alan I was onboard.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ArHV_MO2xK4/Tf-o3BfgL_I/AAAAAAAABlQ/DekyTWzhLZc/s1600/owl-reading.gif" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ArHV_MO2xK4/Tf-o3BfgL_I/AAAAAAAABlQ/DekyTWzhLZc/s320/owl-reading.gif" width="306" /></a></div>When my Kindle arrived in the mail, I quickly handed it to my smart, computer savvy husband. He dutifully accepted it (I think he likes to play with these kind of new toys, anyway!), and immediately began the process of getting me registered and ready to go. <br />
<br />
He gave it back just a few minutes later telling me, "You're all set!" and showed me how to access the online bookstore to make my selection. The store was set up in Alan's Amazon.com account, but he told me we could switch that later. <br />
<br />
Since I'm pretty caught-up on all my favorite authors, I decided to do a massive search. This time of year, less than a month before our Key West vacation, I love to listen to Jimmy Buffet and read "beach books" to get me in the mood for our trip. So, I did a quick "Key West fiction" search. Within seconds, hundreds of titles emerged. I clicked on the first one, which was labeled, "Key West." Hmm. Sounds perfect. The screen was too small to make out the actual cover, so I clicked on what I thought was "description." Apparently, I had inadvertently hit "reviews." Rather than scream for my husband again, I decided to just read those instead. They said things like, "Four stars!" "LOVED the surprise ending!" and "I now want to read EVERYTHING by this author!"<br />
<br />
Well, that was good enough for me. I hit "download" and within less than a minute, my book "arrived" on my screen! Hooray for modern times!<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-LOt42Sd7J6Y/Tf-pFwynlII/AAAAAAAABlU/167J6t55pSI/s1600/LR-Gallery.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-LOt42Sd7J6Y/Tf-pFwynlII/AAAAAAAABlU/167J6t55pSI/s320/LR-Gallery.jpg" width="221" /></a></div>I read the first sentence (LITERALLY, the FIRST sentence) and performed an audible gasp. Then I decided to go back and check the "description" like I should have done in the first place. That's when it hit me. I had just downloaded my first book, on my brand new Kindle. And it was erotic fiction.<br />
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But, you know, being somewhat of an author myself, I felt it was only fair that I read a fellow writer's work. I mean, I'd want HER to do the same if she accidentally downloaded something from my blog. It's the courteous thing to do, people! Besides, I'm a sucker for a "surprise ending!" <br />
<br />
So I read it. It was really, really "interesting." But I must admit, the ending WAS surprising. I did NOT see that coming!<br />
<br />
Here's the fun clincher to this pathetic tale: You know how Amazon, once you've purchased a particular book, will then send follow-up, "If you liked THAT book, we recommend THESE titles as well" emails? Yeah. Alan's been getting LOTS of "suggestions" for potential reading material on his Amazon account! Because he is awesome and (thankfully) has a great sense of humor, instead of being angry with me, he just reads me the titles of the suggested books. We've had a GREAT time pouring over THOSE!<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-YYRu_60v234/Tf-pkoLKIgI/AAAAAAAABlY/ttYHqziSwmM/s1600/Kindle-006.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="192" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-YYRu_60v234/Tf-pkoLKIgI/AAAAAAAABlY/ttYHqziSwmM/s320/Kindle-006.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>So, in conclusion, I must tell you that this technologically challenged old biddy really DOES approve of her new Kindle. Since that original debacle, I have actually learned how to effectively search for (and read the descriptions of) more appropriate reading material. I am really enjoying it. <br />
<br />
Although I'll never look at Key West the same way again...<br />
<br />
Thanks for Reading!!<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>Anything Fits A Naked Manhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07579409446582399318noreply@blogger.com28tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7746510965212586324.post-45706948614841102332011-06-12T21:10:00.004-04:002011-06-13T15:20:51.306-04:00God Does William Wallace<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-1hSi_LlIJTE/TfVMgEo8GZI/AAAAAAAABkc/s3g2fD9VmTA/s1600/340x_braveheartHOLD.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-1hSi_LlIJTE/TfVMgEo8GZI/AAAAAAAABkc/s3g2fD9VmTA/s320/340x_braveheartHOLD.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>I've never been a fan of Mel Gibson's, even before his drunken, anti-semitic, womanizing rants. But I admit I do love the movie <i>Braveheart</i>, Mel's movie based on the life of Scotsman William Wallace.<br />
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One of my favorite scenes from the movie is the first battle in which William and his fellow countrymen must fight the invading British army. The Scots are outnumbered, out-weaponed, and don't appear to stand a chance. But they show up, paint their faces, and after a rousing speech about freedom and country from Wallace, the battle begins.<br />
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The British fire arrows, then start an all-out charge, driving directly at the standing Scottish line. Wallace raises his arm in the air and, as the line stands perfectly still, shouts, "HOLD!" The British continue to advance, Wallace again repeats, "HOLD!" The Scotsmen shift their weight nervously and tighten their grip on their shields. A few of them steal a sideways glance at their leader with worried eyes that say, "Really? Are you SURE?" Once more Wallace shouts, "HOLD!"<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Q23x5bTXpQk/TfVPQ8VxTEI/AAAAAAAABkg/08ttRjUQU_k/s1600/braveheart.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="208" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Q23x5bTXpQk/TfVPQ8VxTEI/AAAAAAAABkg/08ttRjUQU_k/s320/braveheart.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>When it appears that the British are literally on top of them, Wallace yells, "NOW!" and the Scotsmen stoop down, drop their shields, and pick up long, sharp, crudely-made spears. The British, too close to stop or retreat, are immediately impaled. <br />
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Here's a quick look at the scene:<br />
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<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="349" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/tr8bZ25uo1U" width="560"></iframe><br />
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Intense stuff, huh?<br />
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I've been thinking a lot about William Wallace lately, and how God's been showing me His impression of the Scottish Warrior these days. God's been telling me to "HOLD!" quite a bit. Let me explain:<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-epvSrRrDYyU/TfVcDSUSovI/AAAAAAAABkk/vaLQeVgJT7A/s1600/RAYAC21007153.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-epvSrRrDYyU/TfVcDSUSovI/AAAAAAAABkk/vaLQeVgJT7A/s320/RAYAC21007153.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Our home in Pennsylvania has been on the market for a full year now. We actually thought we had a buyer very recently. We agreed on a price, but they backed-out at the last minute. So, we're back to square one. In the meantime, we're renting a home in Tennessee, waiting for the house to sell so we can buy something here. I am aching to be settled into our own home, painting walls, hanging curtains, and working in the garden. Instead, God tells me, "HOLD!"<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-3YjQlXT1g90/TfVdfk8HUzI/AAAAAAAABks/NBFILADws_4/s1600/GetAttachment-3.aspx.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="228" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-3YjQlXT1g90/TfVdfk8HUzI/AAAAAAAABks/NBFILADws_4/s320/GetAttachment-3.aspx.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div>There's also the issue of my "book." Last September, after Dad's funeral, I decided to gather the stories from my blog and compile them into book form, dedicating it to his memory. I sent the completed manuscript to the independent publisher in October. She told me I'd have it by mid January. I still don't. Over the past eight (EIGHT!) months, when I email to inquire about the book's progress, she replies with a string of excuses about her busy schedule and health issues. Once again, I'm told, "HOLD!"<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-5pbFvbR0UdY/TfVd6-cGHbI/AAAAAAAABkw/Za-5LwvHLhs/s1600/A11+Homemade+Calendar+2011+November.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-5pbFvbR0UdY/TfVd6-cGHbI/AAAAAAAABkw/Za-5LwvHLhs/s320/A11+Homemade+Calendar+2011+November.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Then there's the ever-present, foreboding, lymphoma. In April, I learned my tumors have grown. In November, I will be re-scanned to determine whether or not it's time to begin chemotherapy. In the meantime, I try very hard not to think about November. I down my daily doses of Curcumin (the latest herb that's supposed to shrink lymphoma tumors) and try not to finger the palpable lumps in my neck. Beside that, there's really nothing else I can do until November. Except, of course, to "HOLD!"<br />
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I've never been good at waiting. Like Wallace's warriors, I stand in place, nervously weight-shifting, grasping my gardening tools, asking "Really? Not YET?" But like those Scottish soldiers, I know I must trust my Leader. His timing is perfect, even if it seems excruciating to me. <br />
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So, excuse me as I sigh, paint my face, throw on a kilt, and grab a spear. I've got more holding to do...Anything Fits A Naked Manhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07579409446582399318noreply@blogger.com19tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7746510965212586324.post-28196669996515103842011-06-07T17:18:00.008-04:002011-06-08T10:37:58.605-04:00Angels Watching Over Me<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-vzGzOa_2hno/Te55XVbztEI/AAAAAAAABkA/XqoMaYwqJ0Y/s1600/male_angel_mousepad-d1449381202277311727pdd_500.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-vzGzOa_2hno/Te55XVbztEI/AAAAAAAABkA/XqoMaYwqJ0Y/s320/male_angel_mousepad-d1449381202277311727pdd_500.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>One of the neat perks of being a ghost tour guide is hearing my guests tell me their own chilling stories. Just about every night, someone will approach me as we're walking from one site to the next and say something like, "You know, I live in a haunted house!" or "I had a ghost visit me in my room when I was a kid!" <br />
<br />
Whenever this happens, I give my guest my full attention and insist they tell me EVERY detail. Truth is, I'm a sucker for a great ghostly tale!<br />
<br />
But a few nights ago, one of my tour goers unveiled a story of a different kind. She was a quiet, older woman, there with her two girlfriends enjoying a "Girl's Night Out." Her companions did most of the talking and answering of the trivia questions I asked (Yes, we play a trivia game on the tour, and the winner receives a Haunted Tavern Tour shot glass! WHY haven't you been here yet?). But since I want to make sure ALL of my guests are having a good time, I sat down next to her at one of our stops and struck up a conversation. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-stQpsKQJto0/Te6IXXdh5HI/AAAAAAAABkI/JVBV_qNXhDI/s1600/Cole-the-sixth-sense-2091791-748-452.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="193" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-stQpsKQJto0/Te6IXXdh5HI/AAAAAAAABkI/JVBV_qNXhDI/s320/Cole-the-sixth-sense-2091791-748-452.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>She didn't come out with it right away, but in the process of talking, she revealed to me that she had a certain "gift." Like Haley Joel Osment in Sixth Sense, she can see dead people! She said the streets of Nashville are filled with tired, sad ghosts of former confederate soldiers and lost cowboys. She told me that she did her best not to make eye contact with them, because as soon as they noticed that she could see them, they would follow her.<br />
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I wasn't sure I believed her, but I told her to keep an eye out and let me know if she saw any of the spirits I mentioned on the tour. She promised she would. At the end of the evening, I approached her once more and asked her if she "got" anything along the way. She said she saw a few spirits relating to what I was talking about. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-cE9cdXQ5kKs/Te6I83lSiJI/AAAAAAAABkM/FerxEklzmZk/s1600/seanachie.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-cE9cdXQ5kKs/Te6I83lSiJI/AAAAAAAABkM/FerxEklzmZk/s200/seanachie.jpg" width="125" /></a></div>But then she pointed to a building across the street. "There's a LOT going on inside THERE!" she said. I had heard that the structure to which she was referring had some "stories of haunting" attached to it, but my company is still researching and verifying the accounts, so it's not yet part of the tour. She had no way of knowing this. My doubt in her ability was beginning to fade. It was a good thing, too, because I was more prepared to hear what she had to say next: "You have two male guardian angels attached to you."<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-dIdW-8rP6OE/Te6FgzFmW6I/AAAAAAAABkE/QzEyYX5IKlk/s1600/SexyMaleAngel.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-dIdW-8rP6OE/Te6FgzFmW6I/AAAAAAAABkE/QzEyYX5IKlk/s320/SexyMaleAngel.jpg" width="301" /></a></div>Two!! That's right, TWO!! Sadly, my first thought was, "I wonder if they look like this guy">>>>><br />
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Unfortunately, the tour was wrapping up and I wasn't able to question her any further. She smiled as she took my hand, thanked me, and wished me luck. Then she was gone. And there I stood, on 3rd Avenue in downtown Nashville, wondering. <br />
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Wondering why God decided I needed TWO guardians, first of all. I mean, it's not like I do a lot of sky-diving or bungie-jumping these days. A great deal of my time is spent reading and napping! <br />
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Which brings me to another issue I stood pondering: Aren't my angels BORED? Also, do they see me when I come out of the shower? Oh, these poor, poor celestial beings!! They must complain about their job on a daily basis, begging to be reassigned!<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Npgl4gf30mI/Te6KpzJnviI/AAAAAAAABkQ/kbs8Cq-MYQA/s1600/angels_and_demons_the_war.enufttgpw8gsswwoow4k8w4oo.b4qubkbf7m88gwckckcws4scg.th.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Npgl4gf30mI/Te6KpzJnviI/AAAAAAAABkQ/kbs8Cq-MYQA/s200/angels_and_demons_the_war.enufttgpw8gsswwoow4k8w4oo.b4qubkbf7m88gwckckcws4scg.th.jpeg" width="165" /></a></div>But on the drive home, I recalled a book I read several years ago. It was kind of a Christian science fiction story which revolved around guardian angels fighting for the human beings on earth. They were constantly battling with the demons that encircled the humans to which they were assigned. The demons' names were things like, "Self-Doubt," "Greed," and "Shame."<br />
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The evil beings would buzz around the ears of the earthlings, whispering condescending words that the humans immediately believed about themselves. They'd slouch over, burdened by the weight of it. The angels would swarm in and engage in battle with the demons, warning them to keep away from God's precious creatures. It was some powerful stuff! It occurred to me that if this was the case, then I was DEFINITELY in need of two of these guys.<br />
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So, with that in mind, I'd like to take a moment to speak to my angels, since we're now aware of each other:<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-h5lywkGAyAQ/Te6Kzg5fMyI/AAAAAAAABkU/e1k2Ifv9VVc/s1600/Angels1male_thumb.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-h5lywkGAyAQ/Te6Kzg5fMyI/AAAAAAAABkU/e1k2Ifv9VVc/s320/Angels1male_thumb.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Dear Guardian Angels:<br />
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Hi fellas! I'd just like to start off by thanking you for, so far, a job well done! I've managed to live 47 full years without a whole lot of tragedy or drama, and for that I'm truly grateful! Also, thanks for having my back each night after my tours as I walk back to my parked car in downtown Nashville. I've always felt some kind of protection on those nights, now I know the source! You guys ROCK!!<br />
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I imagine the "fighting off my demons" thing can be pretty tiresome for you both. As we all know, I've got plenty of them buzzing around to keep you busy. Lately, Anxiety and Body Image have been running pretty rampant, so I'd really appreciate if you could just stick a large, sharp saber right through both of their hearts. That'd be just terrific. Also, quick question: Is there, by any chance, a guy named "Keep Her Metabolism As Slow As Possible" encircling me? If so, could you please see that he dies an intensely painful, slow, torturous death? Thanks!<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-itOOAElzaQ0/Te6Mo_68GEI/AAAAAAAABkY/9196m0TYGcA/s1600/angelwings.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-itOOAElzaQ0/Te6Mo_68GEI/AAAAAAAABkY/9196m0TYGcA/s320/angelwings.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Here's my last question and then I'll let you get back to work: Did God send you here to fight my lymphoma? Boy, would that be awesome. I've been trying so hard out here on my own, and there's a chance I may be losing this current battle. I could sure use a couple of celestial warriors on my side, because I'm feeling a little weary these days.<br />
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Lastly, thanks for believing that I'm special enough to protect. That may be worth more to me than the actual protection itself. Another demon bites the dust...<br />
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Thanks for Reading!Anything Fits A Naked Manhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07579409446582399318noreply@blogger.com25tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7746510965212586324.post-38124617533686040402011-05-30T05:00:00.010-04:002011-05-30T07:23:05.635-04:00For the Fallen<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-qBdH8tN0GKE/TeE6cz34J0I/AAAAAAAABj0/6iiEIDM_5Yk/s1600/arlington-national-cemetery-041310jpg-318f757a58560fd4_large.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="220" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-qBdH8tN0GKE/TeE6cz34J0I/AAAAAAAABj0/6iiEIDM_5Yk/s320/arlington-national-cemetery-041310jpg-318f757a58560fd4_large.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>These past few days, I've noticed many of my Facebook friends posting things like this: "Have a great weekend, everybody! Remember to honor the veterans!"<br />
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I am an enormous supporter of those veterans who have served our country with bravery and pride. I'm actually married to one of them. But even my husband will tell you that this day is NOT about him, nor any of the military men and women who are living today.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-vCs2muDz8PI/TeE-vCRjWbI/AAAAAAAABj8/Ux8SjvLOfn0/s1600/Memorial-Montage.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-vCs2muDz8PI/TeE-vCRjWbI/AAAAAAAABj8/Ux8SjvLOfn0/s320/Memorial-Montage.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Today is Memorial Day. It's the day we remember those who died while serving in wartime (hence, the "memorial" part). Memorial Day was originally known as "Decoration Day" and was created shortly after the Civil War to honor those who lost their lives during that conflict. Following World War I, it was extended to include ALL fallen soldiers from all of our wars. <br />
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My earliest memories of Memorial Day involve the parade that was held each year in my hometown of Northfield, Ohio. I marched in it with my Girl Scout troupe, then my softball team, and later, with the high school marching band. The parade would always conclude at the town cemetery, where a short ceremony would be held, then the playing of "Taps" by two high school trumpet players. One of them would stand near the speaker and play the first few notes, the other would be placed further back in the cemetery, hidden from view. He'd echo the notes just played by the first trumpeter. Even when I was small and couldn't quite grasp the brevity of this ceremony, the sound of those mournful trumpets made a permanent impression on my young heart.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-NAS2lUJDh7g/TeE-NYi3pdI/AAAAAAAABj4/mMrKbGU-8DE/s1600/6a010536f74aea970b0133ef41d4cf970b-500pi.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="204" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-NAS2lUJDh7g/TeE-NYi3pdI/AAAAAAAABj4/mMrKbGU-8DE/s320/6a010536f74aea970b0133ef41d4cf970b-500pi.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Today, I'm old enough to understand the enormous sacrifice that these soldiers, sailors, marines, airmen and their families have made for my freedom. So, on this day especially, I'd like say "thank you." I won't forget what you did, nor will I ever take for granted the liberty that you defended with your life. <br />
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Here's a video that I believe did a pretty decent job of explaining what today's about. Hope you like it, and that you have a very Happy Memorial Day! <br />
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<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="349" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/WxJf9ZezTZE" width="425"></iframe>Anything Fits A Naked Manhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07579409446582399318noreply@blogger.com99tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7746510965212586324.post-48830654336197497472011-05-27T10:29:00.004-04:002011-05-27T20:15:09.255-04:00No More Kings<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-d2Lgn-OY3l4/Td8TVbshiUI/AAAAAAAABjs/lIWKHK1DH0U/s1600/Sara-Bareilles-King-Of-Anything.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="298" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-d2Lgn-OY3l4/Td8TVbshiUI/AAAAAAAABjs/lIWKHK1DH0U/s320/Sara-Bareilles-King-Of-Anything.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Since I am a proud member of both The Frank Sinatra and Billy Joel Fan Clubs, my knowledge of any music written after 1985 is pretty weak.<br />
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So imagine my surprise a few months back when I was introduced to this song by the wonderfully confident and talented Sara Bareilles. I love this girl. I'm using the word LOVE here.<br />
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Having spent a great deal of my life in the realm of show biz, I know a little something about people telling me what I had to look like, sound like, or most importantly, WEIGH, if I wanted to become a legitimate success. I walked around feeling enormously inadequate for the majority of my performing life, because I failed to live up to what these "experts" were telling me I needed to be.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-TRHdZQDWu7o/Td8UDRP4tjI/AAAAAAAABjw/0tRsyTigedA/s1600/sarabareilles.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="204" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-TRHdZQDWu7o/Td8UDRP4tjI/AAAAAAAABjw/0tRsyTigedA/s320/sarabareilles.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Somehow, this lovely, confident young lady has found the nerve to do something I never could. She's declared "Enough!" This song announces her refusal to listen to those who think she is somehow deficient. Instead, she's going to take the wheel. It's awesome, my friends!<br />
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So, if you're feeling your confidence slipping a little today, or you've ever experienced someone spewing hurtful words your way under the banner of "helpful advice," I want you to listen to what Sara has to tell you in this video. Don't let anybody be the king of you. You ROCK!!<br />
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I can't stop watching it! It makes me feel more confident with each chorus! Hope it does the same for you! Enjoy!<br />
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<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="349" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/eR7-AUmiNcA" width="560"></iframe>Anything Fits A Naked Manhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07579409446582399318noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7746510965212586324.post-60144813688668557652011-05-24T14:14:00.008-04:002011-05-25T22:13:55.929-04:00Here's a Tip...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-swN5wurDvbE/TdvmU6c_lPI/AAAAAAAABjM/xutBCk-Bf80/s1600/tipjar.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-swN5wurDvbE/TdvmU6c_lPI/AAAAAAAABjM/xutBCk-Bf80/s200/tipjar.jpg" width="134" /></a></div>The summer after I graduated from college, I moved back to my hometown for a few months to plan my upcoming wedding. I got a job as a waitress at the local restaurant, not only to earn some much-needed cash, but to gain some experience as a server. I knew that once I headed to NYC after the wedding, I'd probably do my share of waiting tables as I pursued my career in theater.<br />
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Boy, did I suck at being a server. No, really, I mean it. I was terrible. I am a horrible multi-tasker, so I'd run literal laps around the restaurant as I tried to remember to bring each requested item to each separate table. If the host sat guests at more than three of my tables at a time, I'd usually panic, hyperventilate, and/or cry.<br />
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When I finally DID move to NYC that Fall, I humbly admitted my server-challenged abilities, and decided to go the temporary secretary route instead. The restaurant world breathed a collective sigh of relief.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Kn4u-CpCnZk/Tdvx4FDz0-I/AAAAAAAABjQ/HXivhiRondk/s1600/Tipping-wide.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="192" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Kn4u-CpCnZk/Tdvx4FDz0-I/AAAAAAAABjQ/HXivhiRondk/s320/Tipping-wide.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Some good did come of my short-lived waitressing experience, however. I have an enormous respect for those who do this job well, and I tip generously. Actually, I've always been a pretty big tipper (if I do say so myself!), even when the service is sub-par. I may leave a little less, but I know what it's like to hold a job where your salary is low because your employer knows your pay will be supplemented by gratuities.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-BWkFkV6sMaw/Tdvykhu24wI/AAAAAAAABjU/xCREWHsdabU/s1600/6337117-tired-overworked-waitress-trying-to-carry-too-many-things-isolated-on-white.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-BWkFkV6sMaw/Tdvykhu24wI/AAAAAAAABjU/xCREWHsdabU/s200/6337117-tired-overworked-waitress-trying-to-carry-too-many-things-isolated-on-white.jpg" width="188" /></a></div>When I receive service that is poor, I try to understand that maybe the waitress (or hairdresser or nail tech) is just having a bad day, and I still leave something. Maybe the customer before me was abusive and surly, or maybe she's just exhausted because this is her second job and she was up all night with a crying baby who refused to be consoled. Or maybe he's a college student who forgot to put a lemon in my Diet Coke like I requested because he's distracted by the fact that he has a really important final tomorrow.<br />
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Anyway, imagine my surprise when at 47 years old, I am once again working for tips! That's right, in my current position as a ghost tour guide, my paycheck is pretty meager, because my employer knows I will receive tips each night. There is even a portion at the beginning of the script I recite each evening which refers to this. That's where I remind my guests that "gratuities would be greatly appreciated" at the end of the evening. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-8KuCZnO4zGY/TdvyvWM70pI/AAAAAAAABjY/JlZ-nfEL4fk/s1600/tip-jar-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="132" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-8KuCZnO4zGY/TdvyvWM70pI/AAAAAAAABjY/JlZ-nfEL4fk/s200/tip-jar-2.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>Because of this, I work very hard at making my tours special for each of my guests. I memorized, word for word, ten (TEN!) pages of an intricate script, involving dates and historical facts. I try to add my personal flair to the stories (without changing the facts) so that they are sure to be entertaining. I take my guests to the best places to capture "orbs" with their cameras, and I wildly "ooh" and "ahh" when said orbs actually appear on their digital screens. As we walk from location to location, I ask them about where they're from and what they do for a living. I listen with wide eyes and gasps of fright as they tell me about their ghostly encounters experienced in their own homes and places of business.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-o41brQjCQOA/Tdvy4mlo0tI/AAAAAAAABjc/XrzJ6qN-lsc/s1600/holiday-tipping.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="201" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-o41brQjCQOA/Tdvy4mlo0tI/AAAAAAAABjc/XrzJ6qN-lsc/s320/holiday-tipping.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>A few nights ago, I had a effervescent woman on my tour who gasped and showed me her "goose bumps" after each story I presented. When we arrived at the last location, she asked me to go slow because she was so sorry the tour was coming to an end. As I finished, she shook my hand, thanked me for a wonderful time, and left. Without leaving me a tip.<br />
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This happens time and time again, actually. People smile and laugh through the majority of the evening, tell me they had a delightful time, and then refuse to tip me. They watch as others press some folded bills into my hand, watch as I tell them how much I appreciate it, then turn and walk away without giving me a second thought. Now, I must tell you, I'm not a single mother who desperately needs this cash to put food on the table. My income is just a supplement to what my husband makes. But still, it stings.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-MIV0BLIfXbg/TdvzSBe-xaI/AAAAAAAABjg/6ZXHskaGx8I/s1600/6071B364194BCF68CB80B7438C5FA.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="184" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-MIV0BLIfXbg/TdvzSBe-xaI/AAAAAAAABjg/6ZXHskaGx8I/s200/6071B364194BCF68CB80B7438C5FA.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>My husband has worked in every capacity of the restaurant business for the majority of his adult life. He told me that this is just how it is when you're working for tips. He told me that it often happened when he used to tend bar, putting himself through college. He said he'd take special care of his customers. He'd prepare the drinks just the way they liked, engage in witty conversation, and provide excellent, prompt service. Then, they'd get up and head for the exit, leaving no tip at all. He told me he learned not to take it personally, and that I shouldn't either. But I do.<br />
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So, what's your theory regarding gratuities? Are you a generous tipper? Have you ever worked in the service industry? If so, how did you get past the sting of being "stiffed?" I'd really love to hear it. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-PPNS7q_QLeo/TdvzfSnAkWI/AAAAAAAABjk/1c1b0ft4coU/s1600/tipping.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="149" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-PPNS7q_QLeo/TdvzfSnAkWI/AAAAAAAABjk/1c1b0ft4coU/s200/tipping.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>In the meantime, I hope that the next time you leave the table, the salon chair, the pedicure foot bath, or the wonderfully informative, tremendously entertaining ghost tour, you'll think about us poor folk who tried to go the extra mile for you, to make your experience special. And I hope you'll show your appreciation with a little monetary token of thanks! Also,<br />
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Thanks for Reading!!Anything Fits A Naked Manhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07579409446582399318noreply@blogger.com20tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7746510965212586324.post-35168998410186510142011-05-10T05:00:00.015-04:002011-05-10T05:00:06.419-04:00Look, Ma! I'm Versatile!!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-79nkh3_7GwE/TcheO1bNX4I/AAAAAAAABik/xE6rlKuvPV8/s1600/1.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-79nkh3_7GwE/TcheO1bNX4I/AAAAAAAABik/xE6rlKuvPV8/s200/1.png" width="200" /></a></div>My good friend, Shady Del Knight over at <a href="http://www.shadydell.blogspot.com/">Shady Dell Music and Memories</a> has bestowed me with this lovely Versatile Blogger Award!! Isn't it pretty? I've ranted about Shady in a previous post, but if you still haven't been over to his terrific site and checked out his wonderfully eclectic mix of music and memories, you MUST do so immediately!! He's also an incredibly supportive commenter to THIS blog, and for that I am intensely grateful!<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-9G0QH-jr7n0/TchoLGF_gdI/AAAAAAAABio/YLTM1LDgEps/s1600/Shady+Del+Knight+-+Copy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-9G0QH-jr7n0/TchoLGF_gdI/AAAAAAAABio/YLTM1LDgEps/s200/Shady+Del+Knight+-+Copy.jpg" width="180" /></a></div>The rules upon receiving this award are to first give credit to my presenter, then divulge seven personal things about myself. Like Shady said in his own blog, I feel I've gone on about myself here ad nauseum, and there really isn't a whole lot more to reveal. Plus, let's face it, I'm just not that interesting!!<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>So, I've decided to borrow a page from Shady's book (or, in this case, blog!) and discuss seven DIFFERENT things. Shady, true to his blog theme, actually revealed seven bands that "rocked his world" when he was in college. Fun stuff! Since I already had a blog topic rattling around in the old noggin, I thought I'd incorporate it into my OWN Top Seven List. But first, allow me to explain:<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-k84LuL7yaXg/Tcho4rOAQYI/AAAAAAAABis/y5YsOfb9ED8/s1600/Sad-Face.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-k84LuL7yaXg/Tcho4rOAQYI/AAAAAAAABis/y5YsOfb9ED8/s320/Sad-Face.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>As you may have read in my recent posts, life's been a bit challenging lately. There's been a whole lot of negative news that Alan and I have been attempting to rise above (thank goodness we have each other, otherwise I don't know WHAT we'd do!). We were doing pretty well there for awhile, but lately we've been getting weary, and it's been hard to remain positive. Trust me, it can be terribly exhausting looking for the bright side when there's so much gloom everywhere you look. I have NO idea how Pollyanna managed it.<br />
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So, I was thinking I'd try another tactic. I'm going to list seven of the pettiest, most ridiculous pet peeves that drive me crazy. If we focus on the stupid small stuff for just a while, maybe we can forget about the big problems hanging over our heads. Are you with me? Let's do this!! Here goes:<br />
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<b>Seven Stupid Pet Peeves:</b><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-5FGaSpS5HAc/TchpHpvCHrI/AAAAAAAABiw/HSpspEaVaXQ/s1600/corvette_turn_signal_mirror_lrg.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-5FGaSpS5HAc/TchpHpvCHrI/AAAAAAAABiw/HSpspEaVaXQ/s200/corvette_turn_signal_mirror_lrg.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><b>1. People Who Don't Use Their Blinkers.</b> Seriously! This has to be the LAZIEST form of inconsideration! Really? You can't gather the effort to flick your finger and move the blinker switch on your steering wheel so I know you're changing lanes? REALLY?<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-NNv2hYGoMyY/TchpfGbNfXI/AAAAAAAABi0/5IUAumJxcCk/s1600/holding-door-open-t14755.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="141" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-NNv2hYGoMyY/TchpfGbNfXI/AAAAAAAABi0/5IUAumJxcCk/s200/holding-door-open-t14755.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><b>2. People Who Don't Say "Thank You" When I Hold the Door for Them.</b> It was raining, I got to the door, but saw you just a few yards behind me running to the entrance. So I waited and held the door. Silently, you walked through. REALLY? By the way, YOU'RE WELCOME!!<br />
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<b>3. People Who Are Intolerant.</b> Wait, this one's not petty at all. I really, really hate this. But it's too important to remove, so I'm leaving it!<br />
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<b>4. People on Facebook Using Poor Grammar and Spelling.</b> If I read one more sentence like this: "Your right, we had a gr8 time to, I'll send pitures ASAP," heads are going to start rolling!<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ugoXVZJutY0/TchtDYUTmsI/AAAAAAAABjE/4Pqm6NjgyHU/s1600/Middle-Sister-Chardonnay-Smarty-Pants.d_0_8.wine_3954482_detail.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ugoXVZJutY0/TchtDYUTmsI/AAAAAAAABjE/4Pqm6NjgyHU/s1600/Middle-Sister-Chardonnay-Smarty-Pants.d_0_8.wine_3954482_detail.jpeg" /></a></div><b>5. People Who Read My Name on a Form and Still Call Me "Joann."</b> (Medical receptionists, I'm looking at YOU!) Joann is a lovely name. It's just not mine. My name's JOAN. See the difference? You might as well call me Mary or Wanda. These are also beautiful names, also not MINE!!<br />
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<b>6. The Fact That I Can't Buy a Bottle of Wine at the Grocery Store in Tennessee.</b> Seriously, it's the law. I have to schlep to a liquor store because apparently our state legislators think this is somehow protecting me, or causing me to drink less. Poor, clueless souls.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-2asICn-Sj1E/TchqpSc0JkI/AAAAAAAABi8/hJgQe6fnot0/s1600/st_joseph_statue_with_box.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-2asICn-Sj1E/TchqpSc0JkI/AAAAAAAABi8/hJgQe6fnot0/s200/st_joseph_statue_with_box.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><b>7. People Who Tell Me to Bury A Statue of St. Joseph in My Yard When I Mention That My Home Isn't Selling.</b> Seriously. St. Joe's been in the ground at that house since last May. I even dug him up and moved him to a different location when a certain site suggested it. It's not working (I, personally, am beginning to believe the guy just really hates Pennsylvania). So, basically, if you mention it to me again (telling me how GREAT it worked for YOU), I will cut you. <br />
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WOW!! I don't know about you, but I feel TERRIFIC!! Now it's your turn! Tell me what stupid, petty thing really irks YOU! I can't wait to grumble with you!<br />
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And thanks again, Shady, for the lovely award and acknowledgement. I can't tell you how much it means to me! And finally, as always,<br />
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Thanks for Reading!!Anything Fits A Naked Manhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07579409446582399318noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7746510965212586324.post-46879009510219319902011-05-07T23:40:00.005-04:002011-05-08T20:03:30.273-04:00Thanks, Mom!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-qDHLPwABs4E/TcYIUyizIQI/AAAAAAAABiU/LiGDN5IZppA/s1600/Mom2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-qDHLPwABs4E/TcYIUyizIQI/AAAAAAAABiU/LiGDN5IZppA/s320/Mom2.jpg" width="229" /></a></div><br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">I've written a great deal here about my Dad. In fact, this blog was titled after a phrase Dad often uttered, and I've discussed his idiosyncrasies and work ethic in more than one post.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">And yet, one person has remained in the background, content to stay in the shadows. That's my Mom, Saundra Lee Simmons Donnelly. I thought I'd remedy that today in order to honor her this Mother's Day.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">This is a picture of her before she married a paranoid, quick-tempered husband and gave birth to five children in the span of seven years. Doesn't she look so beautiful and rested?</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">Truth is, Mom has always been a beauty, inside and out. While Dad was out working three jobs to pay for food and ballet lessons, Mom was single-handedly, lovingly, running the show at home. </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ZhpAYmuq8Xg/TcYMyCfCTmI/AAAAAAAABiY/gEQwZRzc6eo/s1600/GetAttachment.aspx.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="301" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ZhpAYmuq8Xg/TcYMyCfCTmI/AAAAAAAABiY/gEQwZRzc6eo/s320/GetAttachment.aspx.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">I don't think Mom ever left the driver's seat of our station wagon from the years 1972-1986. She was shuttling us to ballet, softball, band practice, and gymnastics. She was our girl scout leader and the first to volunteer for countless fundraisers for drill team, majorettes, and Thespian society. She sewed our ballet and swing choir costumes, hemmed our skirts, mended our blouses, and taught us how to knit, sew, embroider and crochet. </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">She was always so quiet, lovely, and beautiful. I remember being a little girl and hoping I'd turn out just like her. Unfortunately, I inherited Dad's slow metabolism and short temper. Sometimes, life just isn't fair, people. </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-yc414tErYiQ/TcYNywb6U_I/AAAAAAAABig/o_J0R0xgsR8/s1600/Mom4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-yc414tErYiQ/TcYNywb6U_I/AAAAAAAABig/o_J0R0xgsR8/s320/Mom4.jpg" width="227" /></a></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">(This, by the way, is a picture of Mom holding my dog Trixie. Like all animals, Trixie adores her because she's so sweet and gentle. Here, she has fallen asleep, burying her head in Mom's arm.) </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">But soft spoken and ladylike as Mom was, she definitely had her "Mama Bear" moments. I remember one occasion when she felt that our band director had treated one of us unfairly, and she called and firmly gave him a piece of her mind, insisting he "rethink" his actions. He did!</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">So, here's to you, Sandy Donnelly. Thanks for everything you've done, all you continue to do, and for making me feel so loved and special all these years! I hope I've made you proud, and that you feel that the woman I've become was worth all the hard work you did for me! I love you!!</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">Thanks for Reading!!</div>Anything Fits A Naked Manhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07579409446582399318noreply@blogger.com19tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7746510965212586324.post-63262283512478941882011-04-27T19:50:00.006-04:002011-04-29T22:36:50.682-04:00Cancer - 1<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-f_cpZs8sZ7Q/TbiicSj_nDI/AAAAAAAABh4/ZvOreD85xlo/s1600/anti-cancer.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-f_cpZs8sZ7Q/TbiicSj_nDI/AAAAAAAABh4/ZvOreD85xlo/s200/anti-cancer.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><i>***Warning: this post was written on a particularly bad day. It is REALLY negative. I decided to post it anyway because of it's rawness, but please proceed with caution!**</i>*<br />
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I wrote <a href="http://anythingfitsanakedman.blogspot.com/2010/01/joan-9-cancer-0.html">this post</a> last January documenting my bi-yearly CT scan appointment, and the positive results the scan revealed. I titled the post, "Joan - 9, Cancer - 0" because at that point, I had undergone nine CT scans over the course of three years, all with positive, "no tumor growth" results.<br />
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Yesterday marked my eleventh CT scan, with my third oncologist (moving to a new town also means finding a new specialist). This time, the results showed marked growth in the majority of my lymph node tumors, one especially in my pelvic region which has prompted a huge red flag. The "conclusion" line from the radiologist's report was one sentence: "Increasing thoracic, abdominal and pelvic adenopathy suggesting progression of lymphoma."<br />
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Cancer - 1.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-wybRjsYzLek/TbiqbLt3laI/AAAAAAAABiA/1E8eePk0hg8/s1600/LymphNode_FollicularLymphoma6.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="239" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-wybRjsYzLek/TbiqbLt3laI/AAAAAAAABiA/1E8eePk0hg8/s320/LymphNode_FollicularLymphoma6.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>So, here we are in Scarytown. My new oncologist feels it is still necessary to wait before starting chemo, because my particular brand of lymphoma (follicular) can sort of wax and wane. There is a chance that it will diminish on it's own, without treatment. My doc feels it is safe to wait six more months, scan me again, and make the decision for action at that point.<br />
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Although I recognize this glimmer of hope, and will be clinging to it with both hands for the next six months, I still feel an enormous sense of defeat. Here's why:<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-nmKvA0asRGM/Tbiq6oDv7uI/AAAAAAAABiI/HIYWJSYP9CE/s1600/wheatgrass+juice.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="172" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-nmKvA0asRGM/Tbiq6oDv7uI/AAAAAAAABiI/HIYWJSYP9CE/s320/wheatgrass+juice.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>It's time to admit that cancer holds all the cards, my friends. We can eat right, replace our carbonated sodas with green tea, and exercise daily. We can juice fresh veggies and fruits and down them after our morning runs, and consume healthy, green salads every day. We can even invest in a pricey wheat grass juicer because someone said that ingesting a frothy, thick, green swill that tastes like you're drinking your lawn has "been known to cure cancer." And even though each shot of that stuff makes us want to vomit, we faithfully grow that damn grass and down it every morning because just MAYBE it'll be the healing remedy that will solve everything. Except that it won't.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Em21UEv_1Fs/Tbiqe83zl9I/AAAAAAAABiE/LvIuEOb1SEU/s1600/lymphoma-ribbon1.gif" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Em21UEv_1Fs/Tbiqe83zl9I/AAAAAAAABiE/LvIuEOb1SEU/s200/lymphoma-ribbon1.gif" width="95" /></a></div>I did all these things, my cancer has never gone away. I raised a triumphant fist in the air after each of those ten CT scans, as if I had something to do with the results. I didn't. Cancer was just deciding to stay quiet for awhile. Now, I must sit and hope it will do the same until November. I have no control. <br />
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So, I'll wear my colored ribbons and donate to my friends' 5Ks and Races for the Cure. I'll keep a positive attitude (after I'm finished purging myself with this particular dramatic pity-party I'm now composing) and smile at my friends and relatives and tell them I'm doing just fine, that I'll "show cancer who's boss!" But I know the truth. There is no score. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-W_DxiSBd-Y8/Tbip4Pn9ZNI/AAAAAAAABh8/RShRu4vwb9w/s1600/lymphoma.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-W_DxiSBd-Y8/Tbip4Pn9ZNI/AAAAAAAABh8/RShRu4vwb9w/s200/lymphoma.jpg" width="188" /></a></div>Cancer has me, literally, by the throat.Anything Fits A Naked Manhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07579409446582399318noreply@blogger.com33tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7746510965212586324.post-29920672102365163602011-04-20T23:55:00.000-04:002011-04-20T23:55:27.817-04:00Feybulous!!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-lDGoew4-xhk/Ta7srf3JoTI/AAAAAAAABhY/cgStKVNSlfo/s1600/TinaFeyBossyPants.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-lDGoew4-xhk/Ta7srf3JoTI/AAAAAAAABhY/cgStKVNSlfo/s200/TinaFeyBossyPants.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>Even though I'm an avid reader, I've never used this blog to review any of the books I've read. Why? I have no idea! But I've just finished "Bossypants," an autobiography by the awesome Tina Fey, and I've decided to break my streak!<br />
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"But Joan," you may be saying, "Tina Fey is a Pinko Commie Liberal Fascist! How can you like her, or for that matter, support her anti-American agenda by buying her book?" To you I have only this response: If you feel this way, you need to read Tina's writing more than anyone, because then you will see how misinformed you've been!<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Z3wrqSq1akY/Ta-j1D3zFzI/AAAAAAAABhc/r6upxwe6uTo/s1600/Tina_Fey_0011.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Z3wrqSq1akY/Ta-j1D3zFzI/AAAAAAAABhc/r6upxwe6uTo/s320/Tina_Fey_0011.jpg" width="228" /></a></div>The truth is, Tina is an uber-witty comedian/writer/producer who somehow managed to achieve success in a male-dominated medium, even though she was never the Prettiest Girl in the Room. She actually succeeded because she is smart and talented, not because she batted her eyelashes and played "dumb blonde." She also displays a wonderful self-deprecating humor which proves that she doesn't take herself too seriously, and insists that we don't either.<br />
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In her brilliant, witty book, Tina discusses her early years as an improvisational comic (performing with the popular Second City Comedy troupe in Chicago), and how they helped shape the ways she conducts herself as a performer, as a writer, as a boss, and as a wife and mother.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-25kWVkTIBT8/Ta-nWPC0cqI/AAAAAAAABhg/7W5Y6oDC78M/s1600/second_city3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="126" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-25kWVkTIBT8/Ta-nWPC0cqI/AAAAAAAABhg/7W5Y6oDC78M/s200/second_city3.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>For example, one of the rules of improv is to "Always agree and say 'Yes.'" "For instance," she writes, "if we're improvising and I say, 'Freeze, I have a gun,' and you say, 'That's not a gun. It's your finger. You're pointing your finger at me,' our improvised scene has ground to a halt. But if I say 'Freeze, I have a gun!' and you say, 'The gun I gave you for Christmas? You bastard!' then we have started a scene because we have AGREED that my finger is in fact a Christmas gun."<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-IpJclwtJwes/Ta-nfWrCVZI/AAAAAAAABhk/IfodMKyak9c/s1600/fey_ap_chrispizzello_picks_606.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-IpJclwtJwes/Ta-nfWrCVZI/AAAAAAAABhk/IfodMKyak9c/s320/fey_ap_chrispizzello_picks_606.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Then Tina explains why this "agreement theory" is applicable to life: "Now obviously in real life you're not always going to agree with everything everyone says. But the Rule of Agreement reminds you to 'respect what your partner has created' and to at least start from an open-minded place. Start with a YES and see where that takes you. As an improviser, I always find it jarring when I meet someone in real life whose first answer is no. 'No, we can't do that.' 'No, that's not in the budget....' What kind of way is that to live?"<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-8eKdtxNincg/Ta-nmYWd5tI/AAAAAAAABho/iAe8i2wdesg/s1600/Fey%252CTina.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="192" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-8eKdtxNincg/Ta-nmYWd5tI/AAAAAAAABho/iAe8i2wdesg/s200/Fey%252CTina.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>Then there's my favorite Rule of Improvisation that Tina discloses: There are no mistakes, only opportunities. She writes: "In improv there are no mistakes, only beautiful happy accidents. And many of the world's greatest discoveries have been by accident. I mean, look at the Reese's Peanut Butter Cup, or Botox." Seriously, how can you not love this woman?<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Gjxujrvv264/Ta-nvtPM1YI/AAAAAAAABhs/l0WfpGghw-c/s1600/gerald+ford+chase.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="157" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Gjxujrvv264/Ta-nvtPM1YI/AAAAAAAABhs/l0WfpGghw-c/s200/gerald+ford+chase.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>And if you're still clinging to the "pinko-commie-liberal-fascist" belief because of her dead-on portrayal of Sarah Palin back in 2008, then I have this message for you: If you think her portrayal of the former Alaskan Governor was "mean," as many of her opposers have commented, then you must also be outraged at Chevy Chase's depiction of a bumbling, stumbling, accident-prone Gerald Ford. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-1YOEXk-AbhA/Ta-oBVxaAsI/AAAAAAAABhw/kz9v2MvWfjs/s1600/snl-hartman-090110.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="140" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-1YOEXk-AbhA/Ta-oBVxaAsI/AAAAAAAABhw/kz9v2MvWfjs/s200/snl-hartman-090110.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>You must be unforgiving of Dan Ackroyd's impersonation of a toothy Jimmy Carter, hoarding tubes of Preparation H (during the unfortunate public disclosure of the president's hemorrhoid problem). You must condemn Phil Hartman for his portrayal of Bill Clinton, laying across his bed, gossiping with Monica Lewinsky about the latest Dawson's Creek episode, or gorging on Big Macs at the local McDonald's. And do we really need to discuss Dana Carvey and Will Ferrell's version of the silly, "Not gonna do it" "Strategery" Bush boys? (Or Dana Carvey's hilarious Ross Perot impression?) I don't think so! <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-efZCS3386LA/Ta-oTuy0o7I/AAAAAAAABh0/wGKApkIPX2M/s1600/images.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="163" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-efZCS3386LA/Ta-oTuy0o7I/AAAAAAAABh0/wGKApkIPX2M/s200/images.jpeg" width="200" /></a></div>The truth is, everyone understood when these male comedians performed a parody involving political celebrities, that it was just that, a parody. When Tina Fey did the same involving a female candidate, she was tagged as being "mean" and "cruel" and having a political agenda. Unfair? Sexist? You betcha.<br />
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So unclench your fists, place this book in your hands instead, and enjoy the comedic stylings of a refreshingly honest, REAL female American. You'll be AMAZED at how much you've learned (AND how much you've laughed) once you've finished!<br />
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And even if you don't agree with me, I still want you to know that I respect your opinion, and I won't judge you or think less of you for disagreeing with me. Tina taught me that! <br />
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Thanks for Reading!!Anything Fits A Naked Manhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07579409446582399318noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7746510965212586324.post-63231035461073737612011-04-15T21:36:00.007-04:002011-04-15T22:37:23.091-04:00Lucky<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-KHlHPB-_-BI/Taj1JVqaPHI/AAAAAAAABhU/g2Ko-jir_yY/s1600/pouty-baby-image-280x280.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-KHlHPB-_-BI/Taj1JVqaPHI/AAAAAAAABhU/g2Ko-jir_yY/s200/pouty-baby-image-280x280.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>I've been doing a lot a whining lately. That dumb house in York, PA won't sell. The vet recently found a mass on the lung of Trixie, our seventeen year old Jack Russell Terrier, and she coughs like a 90 year old chain smoker. We've been on some pins and needles around here, to say the least. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-_t2Lf6hiemA/Taj09TdM8iI/AAAAAAAABhQ/Z1QlK9QFruU/s1600/Four-Leaf-Clover.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-_t2Lf6hiemA/Taj09TdM8iI/AAAAAAAABhQ/Z1QlK9QFruU/s200/Four-Leaf-Clover.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>But the truth is, I'm really lucky. Way, WAY more lucky than I deserve. I have Alan, my husband, who holds my hand, particularly in times like this. He assures me that everything is going to be OK. I believe him.<br />
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That's why I love this song so much, and why I play it over and over and over on days like this. It's why I want to share it with you now. The chorus is so pretty, so lovely, I can't stop listening to it. This is my wish for you today, that you find someone that makes you feel as happy and as loved as this song suggests! Enjoy!!<br />
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<object height="288" width="512"><param name="movie" value="http://www.hulu.com/embed/BbBz3ebW463iOznFiBILhw"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><embed src="http://www.hulu.com/embed/BbBz3ebW463iOznFiBILhw" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" width="512" height="288" allowFullScreen="true"></embed></object>Anything Fits A Naked Manhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07579409446582399318noreply@blogger.com19tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7746510965212586324.post-37026301166879493642011-04-11T18:39:00.002-04:002011-04-11T22:44:17.123-04:00Cleveland Worries<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-JPWL15RMyqo/TaN3TXL3LaI/AAAAAAAABg4/9qpmq7dpEGo/s1600/PICT0003.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-JPWL15RMyqo/TaN3TXL3LaI/AAAAAAAABg4/9qpmq7dpEGo/s320/PICT0003.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>This is my little red canary, Cleveland Brown. I named him this because he sports the colors of my favorite football team, and I love him with all of my heart! You may remember that I wrote <a href="http://anythingfitsanakedman.blogspot.com/2010/02/singing-praises.html">this post</a> about him several months ago. Cleveland has a beautiful singing voice, and when he begins his melodic arias each day, it's like the entire house is filled with the essence of Spring!<br />
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But Cleveland's joyful trills are a bit deceiving. Although he is provided daily with fresh water, a variety of delicious foods, fun toys, and a bright, sunny location from which to sing, Cleveland worries. A lot. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-0ck6dwIi4Uc/TaOARvWKC6I/AAAAAAAABhA/hMsEAZJEryg/s1600/PICT0001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-0ck6dwIi4Uc/TaOARvWKC6I/AAAAAAAABhA/hMsEAZJEryg/s320/PICT0001.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>When I approach his cage each day, his singing is replaced with frantic, frightened calls. "Bweeep!! Bweeep!! Bweeep!" Even though I do this EVERY day, and he is NEVER harmed, Cleveland worries. Actually, EACH time he is rewarded with fresh water, replenished food, and even a freshly-diced apple treat. But still, Cleveland worries. I understand that it must be very unnerving, indeed, to experience a large hand reaching into your territory each morning and invading your space, but I'm stunned that he hasn't yet learned that these few seconds of discomfort ALWAYS lead to delicious treats. Still, Cleveland worries.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-JmneoT5uGVI/TaOBmmzx-kI/AAAAAAAABhE/65DuRPOZr_8/s1600/i%2527m+not+scared.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-JmneoT5uGVI/TaOBmmzx-kI/AAAAAAAABhE/65DuRPOZr_8/s200/i%2527m+not+scared.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>I hate that I cause this fear in my sweet little songbird. I wish I could somehow make him see that I love him with a heart so big, so full, I couldn't hurt a feather on his precious, tiny head. I wish he could see that I would defend him against anyone or anything that dared tried to cause him harm. I wish he could see that the times when we DO need to cause him discomfort, it tears my heart into little pieces to hear his frightened cries. Like when we have to catch him so we can hold him to clip his nails or put him in a holding cage so we can clean his home. By the time we finally finish the unpleasant task and return him to the safety of his cage, I am a sweaty, useless wreck. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-kiY4u3IAYP4/TaOBys0PuiI/AAAAAAAABhI/G3Y-i3Ucv68/s1600/Jesus%2527_Hand_Reaching_Down.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-kiY4u3IAYP4/TaOBys0PuiI/AAAAAAAABhI/G3Y-i3Ucv68/s200/Jesus%2527_Hand_Reaching_Down.jpg" width="192" /></a></div>As I reached into Cleveland's cage this morning and heard the familiar "Bweeps" of fright, I thought about my own fears in this life. Like the house we still own in York, PA, that's been on the market since last May, and still hasn't sold. Or when we first moved here to Nashville, and I feared I wouldn't be able to find a job or make any new friends. Boy, did I worry. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>I forget about the One who watches over me, the One who is my protector. The One who will defend me, and keep me from harm, and make sure I am clothed and fed. The One who weeps with me when I cry and worry that things will never get better, even though He knows they will. <br />
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I'm a lot more like my little canary than I care to admit, actually. He and I both have it way better than we'll ever know.Anything Fits A Naked Manhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07579409446582399318noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7746510965212586324.post-57907468941413479032011-04-05T14:39:00.002-04:002011-04-05T23:04:09.543-04:00Praise the Lord, I'm Employed!!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-rvtYAwaFstA/TZtUJ72zGyI/AAAAAAAABgc/0LVfB7lUZpc/s1600/exhilaration2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-rvtYAwaFstA/TZtUJ72zGyI/AAAAAAAABgc/0LVfB7lUZpc/s320/exhilaration2.jpg" width="239" /></a></div>I'M BACK!! Did you miss me?<br />
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Boy, I've got to tell you, the last few months have been memorable, to say the least! After weeks of sweat, tears, and intense prayer, I am happy to report that I am gainfully employed! (Hold for applause.)<br />
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For a while there, I was getting so desperate that I would've settled for ANY job, but I've actually landed one that I like very, very much. What's my new position, you ask? I'll give you a hint: if you were to visit Nashville and wanted to take a tour of the presumably haunted buildings in the downtown area, who ya gonna call? ME!! I'm the brand new guide for Nashville Ghost Tours! Yay!! <br />
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Oh, my friends, it's such a wonderful job! I get to meet people visiting from all over the country and share with them the wonderful history and ghost stories of my newly adopted hometown! I just couldn't love it more, quite frankly.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-FQUe9H1xa0s/TZtfOBPROLI/AAAAAAAABgg/qRe82wzpcFM/s1600/0511-0811-0316-4960_Happy_Woman_Running_Barefoot_Through_Flowers_clipart_image.jpg.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-FQUe9H1xa0s/TZtfOBPROLI/AAAAAAAABgg/qRe82wzpcFM/s200/0511-0811-0316-4960_Happy_Woman_Running_Barefoot_Through_Flowers_clipart_image.jpg.png" width="194" /></a></div>But I must say, the process of gaining employment was quite frightening, indeed. I had no idea how impersonal and harsh the job search could be, or how completely it can crush your soul if you're not careful. I'd show up in person at shops and temp agencies, only to be given a business card and sent right back out the door. They'd tell me to apply online and attach my resume, they'd call if they decided they needed me. I spent hours in front of the computer, searching and applying, knowing that everyone who received my "theme park performer" resume was probably having a good, hearty laugh at my expense.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>I actually learned a lot from the process, however. And if you'll indulge me, I thought I'd share my newfound knowledge with you. I know in today's economy, there must be others in the same "employment-seeking" boat as I was just a month ago. Here's a list of a few things I learned:<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ibyjMBrP1p0/TZtgia-Q0jI/AAAAAAAABgo/I-29XhXeSv0/s1600/DownloadedFile.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="149" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ibyjMBrP1p0/TZtgia-Q0jI/AAAAAAAABgo/I-29XhXeSv0/s200/DownloadedFile.jpeg" width="200" /></a></div><b>Don't be afraid to inform everyone you know that you need a job.</b> I was a little embarrassed to admit I was in need, but that quickly faded when I realized I was forming a whole supportive "Team Joan" that was on my side. It was actually my friend, Keith, who heard that the ghost tour people were hiring, and sent me an email with a link to their website. Otherwise, I never would have known and would have missed the interview date.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-CPEuYmP5m5c/TZtgsdBAA5I/AAAAAAAABgs/yA4MC2phC2k/s1600/support+group.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-CPEuYmP5m5c/TZtgsdBAA5I/AAAAAAAABgs/yA4MC2phC2k/s200/support+group.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><b>Find a support group to help.</b> Mine was invaluable. It was a free "business transitions" group that actually met at my church once a week. They specialized in helping people who had recently been laid off or who were new to the area and needed to find work. They presented guest lecturers each week who addressed everything from "How to Network When You Have No Network" to "Personal and Career Branding." Not only was the information helpful, but the support of those who had once been unemployed and had now found work, saying to me, "Don't give up! It WILL happen for you!" was priceless.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-m6PTGa6dFKQ/TZtg8jILL9I/AAAAAAAABgw/8AcMgKEVLfk/s1600/dog_under_covers.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="132" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-m6PTGa6dFKQ/TZtg8jILL9I/AAAAAAAABgw/8AcMgKEVLfk/s200/dog_under_covers.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><b>Resist the urge to "hibernate."</b> After spending several days emailing resumes and filling out online applications, all with no response, I must tell you, all I wanted to do was retreat to my girl cave, lock the door, and pull the covers over my head. I actually did EXACTLY that one day. Then I passed by a mirror and was a little frightened by the unkept, hopeless mess I saw staring back I me. I vowed to try harder and avoid having to see THAT sight again!<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-GyGqFXoviJo/TZthGSaW-EI/AAAAAAAABg0/T4H2cOqVjUU/s1600/rr-kids-being-read-to.-web-.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="133" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-GyGqFXoviJo/TZthGSaW-EI/AAAAAAAABg0/T4H2cOqVjUU/s200/rr-kids-being-read-to.-web-.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><b>Volunteer, it'll change your whole perspective! </b>Determined not to spend another day sitting around the house, I decided to stop feeling sorry for myself and perform some good deeds. Let me tell you, it's really hard to crank the "self pity meter" when you're reading "Fluffy and Baron" to a classroom of first graders who treat you like a rock star! Or see if you have the nerve to shed a tear for yourself after you've learned that the prayer shawl you've just knitted for your church group is going to be wrapped around the shoulders of a 30 year old cancer victim, as she begins her chemo treatments. Suddenly, my problems seemed pretty minor in comparison.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-DRV3YY4LM68/TZtfXmDmUUI/AAAAAAAABgk/B53IsB0McU4/s1600/animals-are-laughing-at-us-behind-our-backs-yarpnews-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="168" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-DRV3YY4LM68/TZtfXmDmUUI/AAAAAAAABgk/B53IsB0McU4/s200/animals-are-laughing-at-us-behind-our-backs-yarpnews-2.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><b>And finally, if you're really weary and ready to give up, come by this blog and visit ME!</b> I'll remind you that you're awesome, amazing, tremendously talented, and DEFINITELY one of the cool people! Hey, you MUST be, you follow THIS blog, don't you?<br />
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Thanks for your patience, everyone, it's just great to be back! And, most of all...<br />
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Thanks for reading!!Anything Fits A Naked Manhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07579409446582399318noreply@blogger.com28tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7746510965212586324.post-56956062161306583202011-02-02T15:39:00.004-05:002011-02-08T23:16:12.354-05:00Time Out<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_K2drfNIMsMo/TUnAUNQv7tI/AAAAAAAABgQ/wz8jL5Oz7o0/s1600/referee-calling-time_%257Ebxp44828.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_K2drfNIMsMo/TUnAUNQv7tI/AAAAAAAABgQ/wz8jL5Oz7o0/s1600/referee-calling-time_%257Ebxp44828.jpg" /></a></div>I've got some work to do, my friends, and need to take a small break from my blog. I promise it will be brief, I just need to focus the majority of my energy right now on getting a job and finding my place here in my new town. This is proving to be a bit more difficult than I had originally planned, and I need to give it my undivided attention. <br />
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I hope you'll understand, and will continue to follow me, as I will for you. I'll be checking in from time to time, reading what you've all been up to in your own blogs, even if I don't comment. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_K2drfNIMsMo/TUnAgfXh85I/AAAAAAAABgU/C1jKwMNUD8o/s1600/iStock_000009242931XSmall.jpg.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="166" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_K2drfNIMsMo/TUnAgfXh85I/AAAAAAAABgU/C1jKwMNUD8o/s200/iStock_000009242931XSmall.jpg.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>I also have a special project that I've been working on, and hopefully when I get back, I'll be able to surprise you all with a big announcement! Keep your fingers crossed!<br />
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In the meantime, play nice, do good, and I'll see you when I get back! Big hugs and...<br />
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Thanks for Reading!<br />
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xo, JoanAnything Fits A Naked Manhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07579409446582399318noreply@blogger.com30tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7746510965212586324.post-76870624110322104932011-01-23T12:15:00.006-05:002011-01-24T22:25:04.934-05:00No Business Like It<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_K2drfNIMsMo/TTxRNpZgwgI/AAAAAAAABfw/5ltt7RxgLaY/s1600/50871934.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="272" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_K2drfNIMsMo/TTxRNpZgwgI/AAAAAAAABfw/5ltt7RxgLaY/s320/50871934.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>"Please don't let it be over, please don't let it be over!!" I chanted the words again and again, until the lights came up once more and my fears were laid to rest.<br />
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I was in elementary school, witnessing a live stage production for the very first time. The high school wherein my father taught was presenting a children's theater production of Peter Pan. The director, one of dad's colleagues and fellow fishing buddies, invited my mother to bring all us kids for an afternoon matinee. <br />
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Looking back, it wasn't a very well-funded production, to say the least. The sets and costumes were homemade, and when the script called upon the actors to "fly," this was accomplished by spreading their arms, jumping off the stage, and running up and down the auditorium aisles. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_K2drfNIMsMo/TTxVa6CgT3I/AAAAAAAABf0/XNihLYsVT90/s1600/Peter-Pan-1-706851.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_K2drfNIMsMo/TTxVa6CgT3I/AAAAAAAABf0/XNihLYsVT90/s320/Peter-Pan-1-706851.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>But I was transfixed. I had never witnessed anything so glorious in my entire, young life. Every time the lights would dim after the completion of a scene, (so the stagehands could transpose the set from, say, the Darling's nursery to the Land of Lost Boys), I would repeat the above mantra. I couldn't BEAR the thought of this magical, wonderful thing coming to an end. I laughed, cried, and clapped my belief of fairies until my hands were raw.<br />
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And when the lights dimmed for the last time, and the house lights came up on the theater, I believe my life had forever changed. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_K2drfNIMsMo/TTxWNgbImoI/AAAAAAAABf4/eY5QkyEWA2k/s1600/images.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="201" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_K2drfNIMsMo/TTxWNgbImoI/AAAAAAAABf4/eY5QkyEWA2k/s320/images.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div>When I entered junior high school, one of the yearly field trips involved a morning when they'd bus all of us seventh and eighth graders over to the high school, to view a final dress rehearsal of the drama department's fall musical. We'd see the musical, then head back to school to attend our regular afternoon classes. After witnessing a rousing (but low budget!) production of Guys and Dolls, I remember sitting back in science class that afternoon, looking around at my classmates. How on earth could they possibly focus on e=mc2 after the magic we'd experienced just a few hours before?<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_K2drfNIMsMo/TTxYEL9WFZI/AAAAAAAABf8/fmy8HhIXPp4/s1600/gif_9_drama_masks.gif" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="172" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_K2drfNIMsMo/TTxYEL9WFZI/AAAAAAAABf8/fmy8HhIXPp4/s200/gif_9_drama_masks.gif" width="200" /></a></div>When I finally reached high school and could be a part of these musicals myself, I worried that some of the "wonderment" of it all would fade, once I saw the non-magical, normal backstage areas and realized the amount of hard work these productions required. Not so. I loved every minute of every rehearsal. All day long, during my classes, I'd count down the hours until play practice. When the threat of school cancellations materialized because of approaching snow storms, I'd whisper a quiet prayer, hoping the blizzards would pass us. If there was no school, there was no rehearsal, and I simply couldn't live without that.<br />
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During all this time, though, I assumed that a career in the theater was out of the question. Surely, a career so unique and amazing could only be held by truly special people. I figured it was like royalty, you had to be born into it.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_K2drfNIMsMo/TTxYgzya7GI/AAAAAAAABgA/-jMYc0CcHEI/s1600/bob_hope_2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_K2drfNIMsMo/TTxYgzya7GI/AAAAAAAABgA/-jMYc0CcHEI/s320/bob_hope_2.jpg" width="217" /></a></div>Then one day, riding home from church in the family car, I overheard a conversation between my parents. They were discussing the actor/comedian Bob Hope. Mom was telling Dad that Hope actually hailed not far from where we lived, in Cleveland, Ohio. She had read that he got his start impersonating Charlie Chaplin outside the Cleveland firehouses. <br />
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That's when it hit me: Bob Hope, the famous TV and movie star, had once been NORMAL?!! You mean, ANYONE could do this? It seemed impossible, but I prayed it was the truth. It was at that moment, in that station wagon, headed home from mass at St. Barnabas Catholic Church, that I made the decision to officially drop all ambition to become the next Ernest Hemingway. I was going to pursue a career in theater.<br />
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As you can probably guess, I never achieved the success of Mr. Hope. I've never lived in LA nor starred in a blockbuster movie. My limited TV appearances have been mostly local, and I can safely go out into public without being recognized or hounded for my autograph. But I can say this: the majority of my working life has been spent performing, and it has been purely GLORIOUS. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_K2drfNIMsMo/TTxbwZLkeVI/AAAAAAAABgE/1E-agGNOE8I/s1600/Boy_With_Stage_Fright.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_K2drfNIMsMo/TTxbwZLkeVI/AAAAAAAABgE/1E-agGNOE8I/s320/Boy_With_Stage_Fright.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Honestly, I don't think I've lost one ounce of the wonderment I felt that afternoon, when the lights came up on Wendy, Michael and John. It's been a terrific ride! Oh, sure, there have been times when I've felt tired and fatigued, and didn't feel like getting myself "up" for a particular performance. But guess what? That feeling always, ALWAYS vanished the second I took one step onstage.<br />
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But it's time to focus on a finding a new career, now. There aren't many roles for women my age, and the live performance opportunities are far fewer in my new city. I'm really just fine with this, and have no problem making theater my hobby rather than my career. Except for one small thing.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_K2drfNIMsMo/TTxe3PZl_2I/AAAAAAAABgI/xQALRtdhDWQ/s1600/intro.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="275" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_K2drfNIMsMo/TTxe3PZl_2I/AAAAAAAABgI/xQALRtdhDWQ/s320/intro.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>I have no idea how to do this. Instead of auditioning for jobs, where I stood in front of a panel and "showed" them what I could do, I must now interview for a job, where I sit at a table with said panel and "tell" them what I can do. Tell them, that is, if I'm actually granted an interview in the first place. The hiring process has become, in my opinion, ridiculously impersonal. The applications must be filled out online, a resume attached to an email. After the employer reviews these documents, then, and only then, will the decision of an interview be made. You can imagine how bizarre my resume looks. I haven't received many interview requests.<br />
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But, unlike the title character in Peter Pan, it's time for me to grow up. I've been ridiculously spoiled so far, career wise. I've had the opportunity to do something about which I was really, truly passionate. I don't know if this next "chapter" will allow the same, but I do know that I am ready for it. If only they'd call me for that interview...<br />
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Thanks for Reading!!Anything Fits A Naked Manhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07579409446582399318noreply@blogger.com27tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7746510965212586324.post-75452222286495838802011-01-12T19:58:00.005-05:002011-01-18T22:45:06.323-05:00My Territory is Yours<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_K2drfNIMsMo/TS45MDSPiFI/AAAAAAAABfg/sxVmU1iyc_Q/s1600/IMG_0095.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_K2drfNIMsMo/TS45MDSPiFI/AAAAAAAABfg/sxVmU1iyc_Q/s320/IMG_0095.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>Isn't this little guy cute? I took this picture of the mockingbird in our yard, our new frequent visitor to the back deck. By frequent, I mean constant, as he is never far away. If he's not sitting on our deck, eating at the feeders, or drinking from the birdbath, he is sitting at the top of the juniper tree in our yard, just a few feet away, keeping watch.<br />
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He's keeping watch quite literally, actually, because true to his mockingbird heritage, our little friend is extremely territorial. He has planted his "flag" on our deck, claiming it as his own. He guards his area at all hours, never allowing any other birds to come near it.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_K2drfNIMsMo/TS5CCY5FQOI/AAAAAAAABfk/b2OwPYotZdo/s1600/IMG_0101.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_K2drfNIMsMo/TS5CCY5FQOI/AAAAAAAABfk/b2OwPYotZdo/s320/IMG_0101.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>Oh, they try, mind you. It's been unseasonably cold and snowy here in the Nashville area, and these poor birds need to fatten-up to make it through the frigid nights. I've seen wrens, sparrows, finches, titmice, and chickadees all approach the feeders, hoping to grab some nourishment. <br />
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They last all of a few seconds before our mean little soldier flies straight at them, angrily shrieking and squawking. When the poor, startled things fly to a nearby tree, this, apparently is not far enough. He again dive-bombs into said tree until the trespasser gets the message and flies far away and out of sight. It's only then that he relaxes, puffy and content once more on his deck rail, victorious once again. (We've appropriately named him "Butch," after The Little Rascals bully who also had social issues!!)<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_K2drfNIMsMo/TS5EjdKWekI/AAAAAAAABfs/-RI7ZFd4HWY/s1600/IMG_0099.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_K2drfNIMsMo/TS5EjdKWekI/AAAAAAAABfs/-RI7ZFd4HWY/s320/IMG_0099.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>I've tried EVERYTHING, people! I put up more feeders, with lots of space between each one, hoping some of them will fall outside the "zone" of Butch's territory. No luck. I've even filled some of the feeders with thistle and other seeds that are undesirable to mockingbirds, only to the smaller, finch-like breeds. Butch doesn't care. Even though he doesn't prefer the food, he doesn't want anyone else eating it EITHER. <br />
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Here's the thing about Butch: there is more food out there on that deck than he will ever be able to consume. With the snow falling, it's going to go bad and soggy before he could EVER finish all of it. But something in Butch tells him, "This is MINE! I don't CARE if you are in need, get your OWN! If you don't, I'll HURT you!" Childish, don't you think?<br />
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Yet, as I've watched the events unfold from this past weekend's tragedy, I can't stop thinking about that intolerant little mockingbird. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_K2drfNIMsMo/TS5EW3Or86I/AAAAAAAABfo/iZzQT3V0RTE/s1600/IMG_0094.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_K2drfNIMsMo/TS5EW3Or86I/AAAAAAAABfo/iZzQT3V0RTE/s320/IMG_0094.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>I made a pact with myself when I started this blog that I would never discuss anything political, and I'm definitely not planning on starting now. I am the LAST person I would go to for advice on any political subject. But those who know me also know of my intense dislike of rudeness, my passionate contempt for hurtful words and violent behavior. I don't know if harsh, hateful words caused the tragic deaths in Arizona this past weekend, I doubt we'll ever find out. <br />
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The fact remains that there are still so many needlessly hurtful, bitter words being used, all in the name of "debate," and one-upping each other as we scream loudly back and forth on "news" programs. We're so much better than this. All of us. <br />
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Like I've been trying to teach poor, territorial Butch: there is sooooo much space for EVERYONE. We may differ in size, shape, and opinions, but can't we still co-exist, and respect the fact that we're all here, in this beautiful place, with plenty of room to hold us all? This is my prayer today, for all of us. (Butch included!)<br />
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Thanks for Reading!Anything Fits A Naked Manhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07579409446582399318noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7746510965212586324.post-85876832221589483092011-01-07T22:44:00.004-05:002011-01-08T18:24:42.847-05:00A Shady Award!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_K2drfNIMsMo/TSeyZFaxScI/AAAAAAAABfE/bnVPldhG1G8/s1600/14.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_K2drfNIMsMo/TSeyZFaxScI/AAAAAAAABfE/bnVPldhG1G8/s320/14.jpg" width="239" /></a></div>My new friend, Shady Del Knight at <a href="http://www.shadydell.blogspot.com/">Shady Dell Music and Memories</a> just bestowed me with this lovely award! Isn't it cool? <br />
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I'm a huge fan of Shady's. He's an exceptional, thoughtful, entertaining blogger, and he's made me feel like a queen with his kind comments and tremendous support of my own writing attempts. This award is just another example of his generosity. His blog is terrific! If you get a chance, be sure to stop by and visit, he'll make you feel right at home. I PROMISE, you won't be disappointed!<br />
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Anyhoo, Shady has instructed me that the rules of accepting this award are to list five things about myself, then pass the award along to five other bloggers.<br />
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Some may say I've been RIDICULOUSLY open in this blog, and there's very little LEFT that one wouldn't already know about me, but let's see what I can do...<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_K2drfNIMsMo/TSfM0WQnXeI/AAAAAAAABfI/H6OJ5Sz_M4Y/s1600/afraid.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="193" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_K2drfNIMsMo/TSfM0WQnXeI/AAAAAAAABfI/H6OJ5Sz_M4Y/s320/afraid.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>1. I was terribly afraid of the dark as a kid, WAY after most children typically get over the fear. My younger sister and I shared bunk beds in our room, and I always made an excuse as to why SHE should be the one to get out of bed and go across the room to hit the light switch each night instead of me. I blame my overactive imagination. Yeah, that's what it was...my imagination! (Pathetic!!)<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_K2drfNIMsMo/TSfQlZ33qZI/AAAAAAAABfM/8GtDM6kd6vw/s1600/tubsy-doll-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="145" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_K2drfNIMsMo/TSfQlZ33qZI/AAAAAAAABfM/8GtDM6kd6vw/s200/tubsy-doll-2.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>2. I am a doll collector, but not in the weird, creepy, always-tuned-to-QVC kind of way. My grandma Simmons (aka: the most awesome person in the UNIVERSE) saved all of her dolls, my mom's dolls, and my dolls in her spacious walk-up attic. When she died, I received this precious stash, and they all reside in my guest rooms to this day. None of them are worth anything, monetary-wise, because they've all been played with a "loved" a great deal. No original boxes here. But they are so precious to me. Especially my sweet Tubsy doll, to whom I actually devoted <a href="http://anythingfitsanakedman.blogspot.com/2009/09/tubsy.html">this</a> entire blog entry. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_K2drfNIMsMo/TSfRsvrXc1I/AAAAAAAABfQ/w8J9U1ef_0U/s1600/DSC00715.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_K2drfNIMsMo/TSfRsvrXc1I/AAAAAAAABfQ/w8J9U1ef_0U/s200/DSC00715.JPG" width="200" /></a></div>3. I have follicular lymphoma. It's lazy and low grade, and I only have to think about it twice a year now, when I undergo a neck, chest, and pelvic CT scan to make sure it's not becoming active. It was terrifying when I got the diagnosis, but for almost four years now, each scan has provided a "no new growth" result, and no treatment has been necessary. It's still a little daunting to know that I have cancer, that it will be with me for the rest of my life, and that I will never be able to call myself a "survivor," but I remind myself daily that it could be much, much worse. (To the left is a picture of me with my second opinion doctor who was convinced I needed to start chemotherapy immediately. She was WRONG!!)<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_K2drfNIMsMo/TSfVN6mGYOI/AAAAAAAABfU/UouTt-OuAKA/s1600/2657_1109372858246_1344576492_303221_7586653_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="179" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_K2drfNIMsMo/TSfVN6mGYOI/AAAAAAAABfU/UouTt-OuAKA/s320/2657_1109372858246_1344576492_303221_7586653_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>4. For thirteen years, I performed at Universal Studios, in the Terminator 2/3D attraction, as Kimberley Duncan (the annoying host in the ugly red suit!). I got "choked" by a cyborg and thrown back onto a hidden mat nine times a day (stunt pay!!), and it was the best job I've EVER had! I loved every day of my thirteen years there, and I only left when my sweet husband was promoted and we were required to move (Alan's the ONLY man for whom I would have left that awesome job!).<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_K2drfNIMsMo/TSfVweloazI/AAAAAAAABfY/JnrPnA0Y6WI/s1600/37657_1386281296445_1214421258_31046319_4797788_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_K2drfNIMsMo/TSfVweloazI/AAAAAAAABfY/JnrPnA0Y6WI/s200/37657_1386281296445_1214421258_31046319_4797788_n.jpg" width="150" /></a></div>5. I run every day, usually around 3.5 miles or so. I don't run because I like it, I run to keep my dress size in the single digits. I wrote <a href="http://anythingfitsanakedman.blogspot.com/2010/06/in-long-run.html">this</a> blog entry about my relationship with running. People thought I was a little "touched" when they read it, but I swear it's the truth. That being said, my husband talked me into entering the 5K Sunset Run in Key West last July when we were there for our yearly trip. I told him I was on vacation and didn't want to run, I wanted to drink margaritas on the pool deck. He persisted, promising me drinks AFTER the run, and I caved. It was 9000 degrees, and the sun was blistering. It was, by far, the worst 24 minutes of my life. Then, I learned that I placed first for my age group! NEXT year, we're skipping the run and going STRAIGHT to the frozen drinks!!<br />
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Well, there you have it, Shady! Five (somewhat?) interesting things about me that you may not have known before. Hope you found it riveting!! Thanks again for your kind words, and for this sweet award, I really do appreciate it!<br />
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Now, to bestow the award to five other blogs I admire:<br />
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1. <a href="http://redshoeschronicles.blogspot.com/">Red Shoe Chronicles</a><br />
2. <a href="http://boomergeekgirl.blogspot.com/">Reforming Geek</a><br />
3. <a href="http://mumsysplace.blogspot.com/">Mumsy's Place</a><br />
4. <a href="http://theblogocheese.blogspot.com/">The Blog O' Cheese</a><br />
5. <a href="http://www.theyardartgame.com/">Along Life's Highway The Yard Art Game</a><br />
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Not only are these blogs terrific, the authors are dear, thoughtful commenters as well, and I greatly appreciate them!<br />
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Hope everyone has a fabulous weekend! Thanks to Shady, mine's already been made!!<br />
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Thanks for Reading!Anything Fits A Naked Manhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07579409446582399318noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7746510965212586324.post-52248093964862899172011-01-03T13:48:00.002-05:002011-01-03T13:51:02.042-05:00Back to Normal...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_K2drfNIMsMo/TSIXYlBjbJI/AAAAAAAABe8/3mWOQy-8aGw/s1600/images.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="287" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_K2drfNIMsMo/TSIXYlBjbJI/AAAAAAAABe8/3mWOQy-8aGw/s320/images.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div>Oh, is there anything sadder than the day you take down your Christmas decorations? I don't think so. You put them up with so much joy, so many high expectations about the approaching holiday season. Then, in a flash, it's over, and all the bright red bows, shiny ornaments and felt snowmen get crammed back into their boxes for another year. Geez, I hate it!<br />
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How was your Christmas? We just returned home this morning from a wonderful trip to see both of our families for the holidays. This was no small feat, since my family is located near Cleveland, Ohio, and Alan's relatives reside much further south in Gadsden, Alabama. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_K2drfNIMsMo/TSIZDAhV21I/AAAAAAAABfA/3ftcRTnqST4/s1600/sad-cheerios.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="160" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_K2drfNIMsMo/TSIZDAhV21I/AAAAAAAABfA/3ftcRTnqST4/s200/sad-cheerios.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>But we saw them all, got to see everyone open the presents we chose for them, shopped the after-Christmas sales, and ate enough high-calorie homemade cooking to last a LIFETIME! So many happy memories were made, so many dear ones we got to squeeze and remind how much they are loved.<br />
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And now, just like that, it's all over. January is here, and my beautiful, festive decorations sit here before me, telling me it's time to pull out the bins and pack them away for another year. I know this, but I feel like the child that wants to cling to the magic of Santa and presents for just a little while longer. Maybe one more night...Anything Fits A Naked Manhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07579409446582399318noreply@blogger.com24tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7746510965212586324.post-6847609855461441792010-12-21T09:53:00.000-05:002010-12-21T09:53:45.262-05:00Phyllis' Christmas Treasures<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: arial, 'times New Roman', helvetica; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px;"><b>REPOST ALERT!!! I wrote this last December when no one was reading my blog except my siblings and a few close friends. I thought I'd bring it back and see what you think. Hope you like it.</b>..<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_K2drfNIMsMo/TRC9a6oYWzI/AAAAAAAABe0/9qfnlYz5VGA/s1600/1_meals-on-wheels-volunteer.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="215" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_K2drfNIMsMo/TRC9a6oYWzI/AAAAAAAABe0/9qfnlYz5VGA/s320/1_meals-on-wheels-volunteer.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: arial, 'times New Roman', helvetica; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px;">Meals on Wheels is a fantastic organization serving countless communities in states across the country. It's premise is simple: provide hot meals to senior citizens and shut-ins who are unable to afford and/or prepare the meals for themselves. During the time that Trixie and I were involved with our nursing home visits, organized through the SPCA of Central Florida, an urgent call came through from the Meals on Wheels people.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: arial, 'times New Roman', helvetica; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px;"><b><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><br />
</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">Apparently, there was a growing concern that many of their clients were not consuming the delivered meals themselves. They were going hungry because they were feeding their rations to their own pets instead. They couldn't afford dog or cat food, so they were giving what they had to their precious companions. The organization asked if there was anything the SPCA could do to help them.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><br />
</span></div><div><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5413329186986767794" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_K2drfNIMsMo/SyACNuqZtbI/AAAAAAAAAqg/2v4ITOXtRbM/s320/header1-1.jpg" style="border-bottom-color: rgb(204, 204, 204); border-bottom-style: solid; border-bottom-width: 1px; border-left-color: rgb(204, 204, 204); border-left-style: solid; border-left-width: 1px; border-right-color: rgb(204, 204, 204); border-right-style: solid; border-right-width: 1px; border-top-color: rgb(204, 204, 204); border-top-style: solid; border-top-width: 1px; cursor: pointer; float: right; height: 161px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 10px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 1px; padding-left: 1px; padding-right: 1px; padding-top: 1px; width: 275px;" /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">I'll always be so proud of how quickly and efficiently the president of the SPCA of Central Florida, Barbara Wetzler, responded. Within just a few weeks, she had convinced Tupperware to donate dozens of large containers, sent out word that dog and cat food donations were being accepted, got a list of names of clients and their mapped-out locations, and rounded up a core of volunteers to make the deliveries. There is a special place in heaven for Barbara Wetzler!</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><br />
</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">When word was sent out about the need for delivery people, I signed up without hesitation. I'm always looking for ways to honor the memory of my sweet Grandma Simmons, and I knew she'd love the idea of taking care of senior citizens' pets this way. At the orientation, the rules were pretty cut and dried: each driver would receive three names with a corresponding map. On the day of your delivery, you simply dropped by the SPCA, dropped off your empty bins, picked up new, filled ones, and set out. They asked you to call each client in advance each month, as many would be hesitant to answer the door if they didn't already know you were coming by. They also advised letting the phone ring several times, old bones take a little longer getting out of chairs and walking to the phone!</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><br />
</span></div><div><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5413329495709364498" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_K2drfNIMsMo/SyACfsvmsRI/AAAAAAAAAqo/6o9SwjF4yIk/s320/PFX+Logo.JPG.jpeg" style="border-bottom-color: rgb(204, 204, 204); border-bottom-style: solid; border-bottom-width: 1px; border-left-color: rgb(204, 204, 204); border-left-style: solid; border-left-width: 1px; border-right-color: rgb(204, 204, 204); border-right-style: solid; border-right-width: 1px; border-top-color: rgb(204, 204, 204); border-top-style: solid; border-top-width: 1px; cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 132px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 10px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 1px; padding-left: 1px; padding-right: 1px; padding-top: 1px; width: 283px;" /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">I was eager to get started and set out as soon as I left orientation. My first two deliveries were very similar. The clients greeted me, let me pat their dog or cat's head from my place on their front stoop, then waved a cheery "good-bye" and quickly shut the door. My last stop was at a tiny house in a poor neighborhood. It looked like it might have been a nice, family community at one point, but that time had long passed. Now the surrounding houses were in disrepair and in great need of new roofs and paint jobs. The house on my list had a decent sized yard surrounded by an ugly chain link fence. I glanced down at the name on my list: "Phyllis -- cat." I grabbed the bin of cat food and lifted the latch on the gate, then proceeded up the front steps and knocked on Phyllis' door.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><br />
</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">After several minutes, I heard the deadbolt turn and watched as the door moved inward. There in the doorway stood a tiny woman with long, grey hair pulled back in a ponytail. She was wearing a house dress identical to my Grandma's, and large, thick coke bottle-lensed glasses. Tight around her neck was the type of apparatus found on patients that have undergone a tracheotomy. She smiled and placed a finger over the front hole to speak in a breathy voice, "You must be Joan! You look just like I knew you would when I heard your voice on the phone! Come on in!"</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><br />
</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">Phyllis led me to her neat, cozy kitchen, sporting wooden cupboards with black hinges and knobs. She told me to just set the cat food under the sink and have a seat with her at the table. On her table sat a large tray containing several prescription bottles. In the course of our conversation that first day, she told me about her many ailments: the tracheotomy, diabetes for which she gave herself daily injections, poor eyesight and hearing (her phone had one of those blinking light attachments that alerted her when a call was coming in), severe arthritis, and some brushes with cancer. It was funny, though, how her "malady listing" didn't come across at all like complaining. Phyllis seemed to accept the fact that her body was wearing down, but was also truly fascinated with the modern medical procedures being employed to keep her going. I found myself recalling all of the Alzheimer's patients Trixie and I had visited at the nursing home. Many of them, despite their severe mental limitations, were otherwise physically healthy as horses. Phyllis was exactly the opposite. Her poor body was breaking down, but her mind remained sharp as a tack. She remembered exact dates when telling stories, often beginning, "In June of 1962...no, excuse me, it was JULY of 1963..."</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><br />
</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">Phyllis became my favorite delivery stop. I'd always save hers for last because I knew she'd expect me to come in and "sit a spell." When I was picking up her cat food, I decided I wanted to bring my new friend a treat as well. I knew with all of her diet restrictions that a food item was out. Then I was at the Hallmark store and spotted a small stuffed animal cat. I had seen similar ones on the shelf of her living room, so I decided maybe she'd like another.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><br />
</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">I entered her kitchen as always that day, placed the cat food bin under her sink, then handed her the gift bag. "Just a silly little nothing for you," I told her. She unwrapped the tissue and held the little cat up close to her weak eyes. She turned to me, gave me a huge smile, and hugged it to her face, cradling it like a doll. I became addicted to that smile. I couldn't get enough of it. So, every month I arrived with a new gift, usually of the stuffed variety. That beautiful, sweet smile was my payment, and she always gave it generously.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><br />
</span></div><div><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5413329918043080386" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_K2drfNIMsMo/SyAC4SDzxsI/AAAAAAAAAqw/bRDlHXh-NUE/s320/plastic.jpg" style="border-bottom-color: rgb(204, 204, 204); border-bottom-style: solid; border-bottom-width: 1px; border-left-color: rgb(204, 204, 204); border-left-style: solid; border-left-width: 1px; border-right-color: rgb(204, 204, 204); border-right-style: solid; border-right-width: 1px; border-top-color: rgb(204, 204, 204); border-top-style: solid; border-top-width: 1px; cursor: pointer; float: right; height: 265px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 10px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 1px; padding-left: 1px; padding-right: 1px; padding-top: 1px; width: 320px;" /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">I should've realized that I was over-doing it with the gift giving, however, because I soon learned that Phyllis felt the need to reciprocate. I arrived one day to find a large cardboard box sitting at my place on her kitchen table. "Have a seat," she instructed me. She explained that she'd been going through some things and came across this box of her Christmas decorations. She said she wasn't going to be putting them out anymore, and she'd like for me to have them (she'd been noticing my holiday sweaters!). I told her I'd be happy to help her adorn her home with the decorations if she'd like, she didn't need to get rid of them. She waved my suggestion away with a wrinkled hand and reached in to pull out her first treasure. It was a six inch soft plastic reindeer. At least that's what I think it was. The paint was very faded and the tip of it's tail was broken off. There was a hole on the underside of it's belly where you could place a small light bulb to illuminate it, but that was long gone. She turned it around in her hand and looked at it with dreamy eyes, then placed it on the table. Then she reached in the box and pulled out the next item, a plastic, faded snowman. She brought out item after worthless item, unwrapping each from it's paper towel, placing it on her table with the delicacy usually reserved for Faberge eggs. She never offered a story to go with any one object. She just smiled while she silently held each of them up to her face, then set it back down again.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><br />
</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">When all the items had been unwrapped, she turned to me and asked, "Well, what do you think? Would you like them?" I told her that I really thought she should hang on to them. "Nonsense!" she quipped, "I'm too old to be messing with them anymore. If you don't take them, I'll just donate them to the poor." I told Phyllis I would take them, thanked her for her generosity, and promptly placed them in my attic when I got home.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><br />
</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">Phyllis' health continued to deteriorate. I arrived one month and she greeted me at the door, clearly distracted about something. After a little prodding, I got her to tell me. She had been losing so much weight that her doctor had surgically inserted a feeding tube into her stomach. She now "fed" herself twice a day with a bag provided by the hospital, and was no longer a candidate for Meals on Wheels. She was terrified that this also meant she would no longer be receiving cat food. I grabbed my friend's sweet, leather hand and told her that as LONG as she needed it, I would be bringing her cat food.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><br />
</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">The next month I dialed Phyllis' number to tell her I'd be by that day. The phone rang and rang. No answer. "Probably just at one of her doctor appointments," I told myself, trying not to think about the alternative. When no one answered later that day, I knew I had to do something. I found the number of her social worker, Mary, who had been providing her general care and rides to the doctor's. She confirmed my worst fears, Phyllis had died. Mary told me that she'd arrived at Phyllis' home one morning and found her still in her bed, no sign of struggle. Phyllis had died peacefully in her sleep.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><br />
</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">When someone like Phyllis passes away, someone who had no family and so many physical ailments, we tend to feel relief that they're no longer in pain and now hopefully reunited with their loved ones in the hereafter. But truthfully, I missed my friend and her beautiful smile.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><br />
</span></div><div><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5413330697798939810" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_K2drfNIMsMo/SyADlq4F9KI/AAAAAAAAAq4/p6dl-laaHZo/s320/2008+christmas+disney+display.JPG.jpeg" style="border-bottom-color: rgb(204, 204, 204); border-bottom-style: solid; border-bottom-width: 1px; border-left-color: rgb(204, 204, 204); border-left-style: solid; border-left-width: 1px; border-right-color: rgb(204, 204, 204); border-right-style: solid; border-right-width: 1px; border-top-color: rgb(204, 204, 204); border-top-style: solid; border-top-width: 1px; cursor: pointer; float: right; height: 240px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 10px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 1px; padding-left: 1px; padding-right: 1px; padding-top: 1px; width: 320px;" /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">I was packing up the house in Orlando last year in preparation for the big move to Pennsylvania when I came across that box of Phyllis' decorations. Such silly, worthless trinkets, but so dear to one. I wished I had prodded her more about the stories behind each of those pieces. We were in the process of some major downsizing for the move, and I knew I couldn't take the box with me, but I also didn't have the heart to throw them away. I decided to honor Phyllis' second wish and take them to "The Poor." I don't know if Goodwill would find any use for a box of faded Christmas trinkets, but I'd like to think that someone found them as beautiful and special as Phyllis did, and have them displayed on their table this Christmas.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><br />
</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">As I write this, I look around my living room at my own decorations. As much as I cherish them and the Christmas memories they invoke, none of my felt santas or folk art angels posses any monetary value, that's for sure. I'm sure someday, after I'm gone, my worthless treasures will all be boxed up and taken to Goodwill. I just hope "The Poor" truly appreciates the intense awesomeness of a fabric moose wearing a "noel" sweater, or a snowman wearing a stocking cap on snow skis!!</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><br />
</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">Merry Christmas, sweet Phyllis.</span></div></b></span>Anything Fits A Naked Manhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07579409446582399318noreply@blogger.com22tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7746510965212586324.post-42180305929876805362010-12-19T21:18:00.003-05:002010-12-20T06:32:07.959-05:00Filling My Purse<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_K2drfNIMsMo/TQ69agLYamI/AAAAAAAABew/YkZJcAj9H6k/s1600/BabyJoan.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_K2drfNIMsMo/TQ69agLYamI/AAAAAAAABew/YkZJcAj9H6k/s320/BabyJoan.jpg" width="227" /></a></div>My mother tells me that when I was a little girl, I never went ANYWHERE unless I had four things: my doll, a string of wooden beads around my neck, a pair of white gloves, and a purse (Imagine the ENORMOUS hit I was in Kindergarden!) I don't remember a whole lot about that time, but I DO remember getting a new purse with Grandma Simmons once. It was one of those shiny white patent leather numbers, VERY elegant! <br />
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A problem arose, however, when it came time to actually FILL said purse. It's not like I had a wallet, I certainly didn't have any money. So, Grandma Simmons gave me a big wad of Kleenex, an old empty compact, a used-up lipstick tube, and a key (no one was quite sure what the key opened, but it helped to add weight to my new purchase!). Needless to say, I rarely opened that purse, unless the need for blowing my nose arose, of course.<br />
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I've been thinking a lot about that purse lately. Let me tell you why...<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_K2drfNIMsMo/TQ6tSKYFMWI/AAAAAAAABeY/D4pqMZ-0lE0/s1600/CIMG1549-1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_K2drfNIMsMo/TQ6tSKYFMWI/AAAAAAAABeY/D4pqMZ-0lE0/s320/CIMG1549-1.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>When we recently moved into our new rented house here in Franklin, Tennessee, we quickly learned that there was WAY more room than we were used to in our former homes. Guests will be VERY comfortable when they visit, there's plenty of spare rooms and bathrooms for ALL!<br />
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But downstairs, in the finished basement, sat a nice big room overlooking the backyard, complete with it's own bathroom and huge walk-in closet. I think it was initially intended to be a mother-in-law suite, but since both our mothers have very comfortable homes of their own, Alan suggested I use the room as my office/sewing room. He encouraged me to decorate it however I'd like (although, since we're renting, painting the walls or changing the carpet is out of the question!). <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_K2drfNIMsMo/TQ6vSum8ieI/AAAAAAAABec/phGx-7ZicUc/s1600/CIMG1548-1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_K2drfNIMsMo/TQ6vSum8ieI/AAAAAAAABec/phGx-7ZicUc/s320/CIMG1548-1.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>The thought intrigued me. You must know that throughout my whole childhood, I shared a room with my sister. We slept in wooden bunk beds constructed by my dad, covered with simple blankets that my grandmother sewed. None of us actually experienced the "girly" rooms our friends all seemed to have. I decided this was my chance to create my very own "Girl Cave!"<br />
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Yellow has always been my favorite color, so I made sure everything reflected a yellow, lacy, flowery theme! And since yellow is definitely not the "in" decorating color at the moment, I had to do a lot of creating on my own! Like the two lamps in the picture above. I covered the shades with yellow fabric, added a ruffle on the bottom, and attached sweet pink ribbon roses around the ruffle! (You can vomit now, I understand!).<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_K2drfNIMsMo/TQ6wdRUwFFI/AAAAAAAABeg/yrExgYhOt3Y/s1600/CIMG1551-1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_K2drfNIMsMo/TQ6wdRUwFFI/AAAAAAAABeg/yrExgYhOt3Y/s320/CIMG1551-1.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>I covered a bulletin board and the border of a dry erase board with yellow floral fabric, then attached all of my family photos to each of them to inspire my writing! The dry erase board has future blog topic ideas scribbled on it. <br />
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Also, for my early readers, that's Tubsy sitting on the shelf, no Girl Cave would be complete without your favorite childhood doll!<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_K2drfNIMsMo/TQ6xUhdbzMI/AAAAAAAABek/f2ZaF0cifY0/s1600/CIMG1552.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_K2drfNIMsMo/TQ6xUhdbzMI/AAAAAAAABek/f2ZaF0cifY0/s320/CIMG1552.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>To the right is a picture of another wall, which holds boxes containing my fabric, laces, ribbons, trims, yarn, patterns and such. A framed photo of Dad, the original spouter of the phrase "Anything Fits a Naked Man," and subject of many of my blog entries, sits in a frame on the shelf, covered with my yellow floral fabric! Now, if I could JUST get better at actually SEWING things!<br />
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So, what do you think? Kinda cool, huh?<br />
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Except, here's the only problem: just like that empty purse Grandma Simmons bought me all those years ago, I look at my new pretty room and think, "Now, I have to fill this room with superlative blog entries!" A room as grand as this can only be used properly if wonderful, thoughtful, high quality ideas are being created there! Talk about PRESSURE!!<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_K2drfNIMsMo/TQ60YYv5MlI/AAAAAAAABeo/WhBi6Qz3NSM/s1600/CIMG1553.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_K2drfNIMsMo/TQ60YYv5MlI/AAAAAAAABeo/WhBi6Qz3NSM/s320/CIMG1553.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>I'll be honest with you, as I write this post, I'm sitting in my living room with my computer on my lap. I used the excuse that I wanted to be near the Christmas tree, and I really wanted to catch the Lawrence Welk Christmas special on PBS (oh, shut up!). But the simple truth is, I'm a little bit afraid of my new room. I've gone down there to read, work on crafts, fill out my Christmas cards, but so far, no writing! Isn't that silly? <br />
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Has this ever happened to you? Where do YOU write? Any words of advice to get me down to my pretty girl cave? I could REALLY use them! Also,<br />
<br />
Thanks for Reading!!Anything Fits A Naked Manhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07579409446582399318noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7746510965212586324.post-63297361143052599082010-12-15T08:09:00.000-05:002010-12-15T08:09:52.102-05:00Weirdest Couple EVER!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_K2drfNIMsMo/TQgOolHCq0I/AAAAAAAABeA/p070mD-aovs/s1600/c4cbc42f57422ae7e5e2f5c482b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="297" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_K2drfNIMsMo/TQgOolHCq0I/AAAAAAAABeA/p070mD-aovs/s320/c4cbc42f57422ae7e5e2f5c482b.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Even if you've only spent five minutes at the mall, supermarket, or doctor's office this past month, you've undoubtedly heard this duet featuring Bing Crosby and David Bowie. I wanted to feature it today and share with you some fun facts I recently learned about this particular performance. Mainly, I just LOVE it, and personally, can never get enough of it, no matter HOW many times it's played during this season!<br />
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The piece was recorded in September of 1977, and appeared on Bing Crosby's "Merrie Olde Christmas" special that year. Apparently, Bing's children were big Bowie fans, so David was asked to appear on the show and sing "Little Drummer Boy" with Bing. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_K2drfNIMsMo/TQi8XJRQCAI/AAAAAAAABeE/t725bkVgwyo/s1600/ziggy-stardust-david-bowie.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_K2drfNIMsMo/TQi8XJRQCAI/AAAAAAAABeE/t725bkVgwyo/s200/ziggy-stardust-david-bowie.jpg" width="149" /></a></div>A problem arose when Bowie arrived on the set, was presented with his music, and declared, "I hate this song. Is there something else I can sing?" This sent producers and songwriters on the show scrambling, but they managed to go off into a corner and quickly compose the "Peace on Earth" melody and words. (Can you IMAGINE?!!)<br />
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There are two things that strike me each time I watch this clip. First, is the mutual respect each of these men show to each other. David Bowie, who was 30 when this was filmed, happily performs the opening corny lines with ease, and Bing, 77, does a great job at poking fun at his age and passing star power. I think it's truly lovely. Second, is how beautifully their voices compliment each other. It's easy to understand why it's such a timeless hit.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_K2drfNIMsMo/TQi8flG-pxI/AAAAAAAABeI/S4E8xpBRH6Q/s1600/bing-crosby-1949.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="176" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_K2drfNIMsMo/TQi8flG-pxI/AAAAAAAABeI/S4E8xpBRH6Q/s200/bing-crosby-1949.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>The last thing you should know is that Bing Crosby died just one month after this was filmed. The first time the public saw the special that December, Bing has already passed away. Such a lovely thing to leave us with, don't you think? My favorite part is the very end, as the last note is held, and Bing simply remarks, "It's a pretty thing, isn't it?" Nice.<br />
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I apologize for the short commercial you have to watch before the clip begins, but I promise it's worth it! Enjoy!<br />
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<b><a href="http://www.dailymotion.com/video/xsisd_bing-crosby-david-bowie-duet_music">Bing Crosby & David Bowie - Duet</a></b><br />
<i>Uploaded by <a href="http://www.dailymotion.com/beautifulcynic">beautifulcynic</a>. - <a href="http://www.dailymotion.com/us/channel/music" target="_self">Explore more music videos.</a></i>Anything Fits A Naked Manhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07579409446582399318noreply@blogger.com22tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7746510965212586324.post-21075033063753812862010-12-10T10:41:00.005-05:002010-12-10T22:39:16.176-05:00Positively Positive<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_K2drfNIMsMo/TQI06CoE6rI/AAAAAAAABdk/wmMnxrFvaoE/s1600/Positive-Attitude.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="311" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_K2drfNIMsMo/TQI06CoE6rI/AAAAAAAABdk/wmMnxrFvaoE/s320/Positive-Attitude.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #181818; font-family: georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">One of the major unpleasantries of finding out you have cancer (besides the obvious!) is the task of informing all of your friends and family. In my case, since my lymphoma is low grade and slow moving, I usually began with something like, "First off, I feel completely fine, and I'm not going to die. Secondly, I have cancer." What usually followed was an open mouthed, wide-eyed gasp, then a plethora of questions. I'd work very hard to put my loved ones at ease, and answer all inquiries as honestly and openly as I could. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #181818; font-family: georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;"><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #181818; font-family: georgia, serif; font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">Usually, after all of the fears regarding my condition and the tests I was undergoing were laid to rest, a different form of questioning would begin. "How did you first notice something was wrong?" "Why did you decide to go to the doctor?" I'd answer, knowing the reason for this particular interrogation was for their own benefit. They were saying to themselves, "Have I ever noticed lumps in MY neck?" or "Should I be going to my doctor for a thorough check-up?" </span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #181818; font-family: georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;"><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #181818; font-family: georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">I understood completely. Cancer is scary. Before my diagnosis, whenever I would hear of a celebrity or friend of a friend who had been stricken with the disease, I'd immediately look for a reason. "Well, he was a pretty heavy smoker," or "Her diet was really terrible, she didn't take very good care of herself." I'd justify their illness, placing my OWN healthy lifestyle on a different level, assured that this would never happen to ME, because I took CARE of myself. Now I realize how ridiculous I was being, but there it is!</span><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_K2drfNIMsMo/TQJG-zDL9WI/AAAAAAAABd8/nvruL0OGpSQ/s1600/positive_article.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="319" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_K2drfNIMsMo/TQJG-zDL9WI/AAAAAAAABd8/nvruL0OGpSQ/s320/positive_article.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #181818; font-family: georgia, serif; font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">So imagine my reaction when I revealed my "cancer news" to one of my coworkers as we sat in our dressing room and prepared for the first show of the day. She reacted much the same as the others, and began with the questions. Then, she said something no one before ever had: "Well, you know, if you had had a more positive attitude, you could've nipped this thing in the bud, right from the start."</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #181818; font-family: georgia, serif; font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;"><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #181818; font-family: georgia, serif; font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">Two things immediately popped into my head (after my initial anger began to subside): </span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #181818; font-family: georgia, serif; font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">1. I am one of the most positive people I know, and </span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #181818; font-family: georgia, serif; font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">2. Did she just have the audacity to accuse me of causing my own illness because I didn't SMILE enough to her liking? </span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #181818; font-family: georgia, serif; font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;"><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #181818; font-family: georgia, serif; font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">It's been over three years since that conversation in the dressing room, and I must admit, it still gets to me a little bit! But it's made me think quite a bit about positive attitudes, and how many of us believe it affects our health. I'm going to give you my own opinion today. It won't be popular, I assure you, but I hope you'll stick with me and hear me out! Here goes...</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #181818; font-family: georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;"><b><br />
</b></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #181818; font-family: georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;"><b>Positive thinking has nothing to do with preventing or curing illness. </b></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #181818; font-family: georgia, serif; font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;"><b><br />
</b></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #181818; font-family: georgia, serif; font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">Wow! Did that ever feel good to get off my chest! Now, let me explain why I came to this conclusion:</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #181818; font-family: georgia, serif; font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;"><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_K2drfNIMsMo/TQJESiJVy5I/AAAAAAAABd0/hJRtmMhCGkA/s1600/positive-attitude-250x300.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_K2drfNIMsMo/TQJESiJVy5I/AAAAAAAABd0/hJRtmMhCGkA/s1600/positive-attitude-250x300.jpg" /></a></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #181818; font-family: georgia, serif; font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">First off, let me say that I'm a HUGE fan of a positive attitude. I DESPISE sullen sad sacs who seem to find great joy in telling you of all the things wrong in their life, preferring to sort of baste in their own misery rather than do something about it. I try very, very hard, on a daily basis to look on the bright side, to count my blessings and focus on the GOOD in people. </span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #181818; font-family: georgia, serif; font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;"><br />
</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #181818; font-family: georgia, serif; font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">I also think my positive attitude has served me well as I accept that cancer will be with me for the rest of my life. I don't sit around moping, dwelling on the fact that I have these tumors in my body. I focus on the fact that they are lazy and low grade, and that I am currently extremely healthy and hardy. When I go to my doctor's appointments, CT scans, and other various testing facilities, I remain upbeat. I joke with the nurses, simply turn my head and ignore the pain that emerges when the needle goes into my arm, and thank the staff for taking care of me as I leave. I KNOW this has helped my overall outlook about this disease I've acquired. But will all of this CURE me? Absolutely not, in my opinion.</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #181818; font-family: georgia, serif; font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;"><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #181818; font-family: georgia, serif; font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">May I provide a few examples to back up my claim?</span></span><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_K2drfNIMsMo/TQI8f7NU5oI/AAAAAAAABdo/GR4xn6T3ANc/s1600/400_pswayze_kumasai_lucas_lniemi_090519_bbraff_DSC0145.0.0.0x0.400x400.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_K2drfNIMsMo/TQI8f7NU5oI/AAAAAAAABdo/GR4xn6T3ANc/s200/400_pswayze_kumasai_lucas_lniemi_090519_bbraff_DSC0145.0.0.0x0.400x400.jpeg" width="200" /></a></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #181818; font-family: georgia, serif; font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;"><b>Patrick Swayze:</b> I was an enormous fan of Mr. Swayze during the Dirty Dancing/Ghost years. Being somewhat of a dancer, I always admired his talent and the way he made dancing cool (even for guys!). I think what I admired about him more, however, was his dedication to his sweet wife, Lisa. They had been high school sweethearts, married ridiculously young, and despite his eventual rise to fame and the knowledge that he could have any young new starlett of his choosing, he still talked about how much he adored his wife. </span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #181818; font-family: georgia, serif; font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">When Patrick was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer a few years back, things looked very bleak, indeed. To everyone, that is, except him. He took on a new TV series, appeared on cancer fundraising telethons, and told Barbara Walters, in an exclusive interview, that he was going to FIGHT this cancer, and he was going to WIN! Now THAT'S positive, ladies and gentlemen! But Patrick didn't win. He gave it all he had, smiled till the end, and finally passed away this year, his sweet wife at his side.</span></span><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_K2drfNIMsMo/TQI-EJqt2_I/AAAAAAAABds/M37qR0B-U48/s1600/Elizabeth-Edwards-Stops-Cancer-Treatment.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_K2drfNIMsMo/TQI-EJqt2_I/AAAAAAAABds/M37qR0B-U48/s200/Elizabeth-Edwards-Stops-Cancer-Treatment.jpg" width="145" /></a></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #181818; font-family: georgia, serif; font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;"><b>Elizabeth Edwards:</b> Do we really need to go into what a strong, positive lady SHE is? My goodness, this woman went through and survived her teenage son dying in a car accident, a cheating husband who fathered an illegitimate child, and learning on the day of her husband's losing the election for vice president that she had breast cancer. Where the rest of us would have been reduced to a pile of soggy, limp tears with just HALF of those tragedies, Elizabeth persevered. She campaigned for health care, wrote two books about her life, hoping to encourage others, opened a furniture business, and raised three children in the process. </span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #181818; font-family: georgia, serif; font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">It appeared she was beating her cancer until recently when she learned it had spread to her liver, and there was nothing more to do. She had hoped to live eight more years, so she could see her youngest child graduate from high school. She lasted only a few more days. </span></span><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_K2drfNIMsMo/TQI_t3QjWmI/AAAAAAAABdw/M96bC44IZIM/s1600/randy-pausch.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="228" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_K2drfNIMsMo/TQI_t3QjWmI/AAAAAAAABdw/M96bC44IZIM/s320/randy-pausch.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #181818; font-family: georgia, serif; font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;"><b>Randy Pausch:</b> I just love this man! If you looked under "Positive Attitude" in the dictionary, surely Randy's picture would be the first to appear. He was a college professor at Carnegie Mellon University and author of the awesome best seller, "The Last Lecture." Although he taught computer science, he was mainly known for his inspirational lectures. He was all about taking chances, going after the thing you really wanted but most feared, and grasping life with both hands. His energy and attitude were infectious.</span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #181818; font-family: georgia, serif; font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">Then Randy was stricken with pancreatic cancer. Although he was determined to fight the disease with everything he had, he knew that his time could be limited, and made every effort to live each remaining day to the fullest. His lectures reflected that. He died in 2008 of complications from his cancer. </span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #181818; font-family: georgia, serif; font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">You would be insulting all three of these amazing human beings if you even suggested that their attitudes had anything to do with their diseases. They were awesome, thriving, positive people, and they passed away anyway. It was, I believe, their time. Nothing more.</span></span><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_K2drfNIMsMo/TQJEd9RSIiI/AAAAAAAABd4/LBEUXybMJx4/s1600/sunshine.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_K2drfNIMsMo/TQJEd9RSIiI/AAAAAAAABd4/LBEUXybMJx4/s320/sunshine.jpg" width="279" /></a></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #181818; font-family: georgia, serif; font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">I know what you're thinking right now. "Geez, Joan, what a DOWNER! Don't you think you're being incredibly pessimistic by saying all of this? Saying that there's no hope, even if you have a good attitude?"</span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #181818; font-family: georgia, serif; font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">I wouldn't blame you if you thought that way, but I'm here to tell you I believe it's just the opposite. Because when I finally realized that my attitude had nothing to do with my cure, I began to RELAX. When I was laying on the table and the nurse was drilling into my hip bone to extract a bone fragment to test, and I thought to myself, "MAN, this really SUCKS," I knew I wasn't dooming myself to certain death. </span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #181818; font-family: georgia, serif; font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">I was so relieved to finally have permission to be afraid, to sometimes hate the process, and not worry about it affecting my health. </span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #181818; font-family: georgia, serif; font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">Will I continue to smile and crack jokes with the hospital staff, and sing "Tell Me Something Good" to my oncologist as he enters with the results of my most recent CT scan? Absolutely. But if I'm having a bad day and the ugly lumps on my neck are visible and terribly frightening, I will allow myself to cry. And I won't worry that I'm committing suicide by doing it. </span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #181818; font-family: georgia, serif; font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">I've probably made a few of you angry today. I want you to know that I understand, and I completely respect your opinion if you disagree. But maybe there's someone out there that is going through what I did, with an illness of their own. Someone who keeps smiling through the pain and fear, and still continues to get bad news, so they're beating themselves up that they're somehow not being positive ENOUGH. I want you to know I release you. You're doing everything right, and you'll get through this, just relax. </span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #181818; font-family: georgia, serif; font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">And if someone ever has the nerve to accuse you of causing your illness because of your attitude, do what I do. Smile, flip your hair, walk away, and tell them, "Have a nice day."</span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #181818; font-family: georgia, serif; font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">Thanks for Reading!</span></span>Anything Fits A Naked Manhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07579409446582399318noreply@blogger.com22