tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-48757223053188826552024-03-14T04:25:44.511-05:00My GramblingRamblings and Grumblings of a GrandmaSusiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05837950105694012888noreply@blogger.comBlogger16125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4875722305318882655.post-3648584517417611382018-05-11T00:29:00.000-05:002018-05-11T09:37:07.541-05:00Something BIG is happening here!<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXaYhmKNyaaGon82Dnnh4SNBF_1LVeSb7xu5KBugtyRlIuW8ljgwT6Y3hnY_Q5DJnK6tb3uj_E0b11FTD8Dew4duC-wjDihvSyZrDN6ikij3FiEz5PUCdtkFLGpbnASIy3HEQfWaVmjrUL/s1600/wyn+sus+jill.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="color: #999999;"><img border="0" data-original-height="432" data-original-width="576" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXaYhmKNyaaGon82Dnnh4SNBF_1LVeSb7xu5KBugtyRlIuW8ljgwT6Y3hnY_Q5DJnK6tb3uj_E0b11FTD8Dew4duC-wjDihvSyZrDN6ikij3FiEz5PUCdtkFLGpbnASIy3HEQfWaVmjrUL/s320/wyn+sus+jill.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div>
<span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="color: #999999; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Growing up, I had only brothers. They were good brothers, but I often thought that I ought to have a sister. Later, they each married, and gave me two excellent sisters, Jill and Wynette. I can’t imagine doing this life without them. They mean everything to me, and we love each other unflinchingly and unconditionally.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="color: #999999; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">God has done a very cool thing for a few of us, and looking back, it’s easy to see that He’s been working on it for a long time.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="color: #999999; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="color: #999999; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Going way back… Our whole Hammer family story intersected at the La Mirada Christian Church. We Hammers had been there since I was a babe in the nursery. The Coopers (Wynette’s family) came along when I was in early elementary school, I think, and then the Cunninghams (Jill’s family) came along later, maybe when I was near junior high. Jill was in college then, and we all just thought she was the coolest (because she actually was). Wynette was three years ahead of me in school, right between Scott and Steve (my brothers), so we didn’t share much space, but it was a small church, so we all knew everyone. Jill was our youth choir leader, and we were all in that choir – Scott, Steve and I, Wynette… everyone! We traveled, gave Jill agony, grew very close to each other, laughed a LOT, and just shared so many sweet moments. (Except for that time that Wynette pranked me, about getting Michael Landon’s autograph in Sonora. Still not funny.)</span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="color: #999999; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwUsAtS3XxSggVGMOKZ6ZRUxWzD5bTbxU97bip3phavi8rJ6IlfLUbcL6LY9tiOM-ikorrn9dbfRlXHaJn-f6Utv6RKYQcu7Dqq8jmo8x37Yu72whkNIsC8aB6bkIKHhfyAVP-pmNJIGYH/s1600/wyn+sus+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="565" data-original-width="720" height="251" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwUsAtS3XxSggVGMOKZ6ZRUxWzD5bTbxU97bip3phavi8rJ6IlfLUbcL6LY9tiOM-ikorrn9dbfRlXHaJn-f6Utv6RKYQcu7Dqq8jmo8x37Yu72whkNIsC8aB6bkIKHhfyAVP-pmNJIGYH/s320/wyn+sus+1.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="color: #999999; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="color: #999999; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">I remember how much I admired both Jill and Wynette, as older Christian young women. They were both people that I wanted to emulate; they were who I wanted to be “when I grew up.” (As if.) Both of them taught me things, and poured themselves into me. The important part about this is that they did it before there was any thought that they would eventually be my family. They weren’t doing it because they wanted to date my brothers, or because they were already dating them. They did it because they were (and are) caring, thoughtful people, and because they loved me. I was blessed with an excellent mother (and father!), and I thank God for them. But I also believe that young people need others, apart from their parents, to model good living for them. And that’s what Jill and Wynette were to me, in my teen years.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="color: #999999; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="color: #999999; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">In the summer after my junior year, Steve married Jill! And the following summer, right after I graduated high school, Scott married Wynette! Can you imagine, from my point of view, how incredible that was? Two years later, I was engaged, and my nephews and nieces started to arrive, all at the time I was married. And then my babies, too… it was a (very) rapid family growth spurt. Between 1981 and 1989, the three families had eleven kids. Family gatherings were loud, fun, hilarious, crazy.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="color: #999999; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="color: #999999; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Jill and Steve lived in northern California (we were in southern California), and weren’t around as much, but Wynette and I got to spend a lot of extra time together. We, along with my mom and grandma, invented a big Annual Shopping Day Event, which folks now tend to call “Black Friday”. We did some crazy-huge craft shows in our homes. We would get together for birthday parties and game nights and anything else we felt like doing. We saw the kids in their church programs, and participated in each other’s lives. We were sisters, because both of us only had brothers in our families of origin.</span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="color: #999999; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8RtE1Zs6dsKKDvEmPThZ1UKKdW_wTXGeIuWDyzJVpXplctLBQVLKiYMBB85-X0Z3LAf-kEYPIn08DOaTKUXiP9LZ1aLfOEz11ae9XLmsmQf1EYMyfi6ftKzple4oBkxCw_-bf-Jk9tatj/s1600/wyn+sus+jill+mom.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="453" data-original-width="604" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8RtE1Zs6dsKKDvEmPThZ1UKKdW_wTXGeIuWDyzJVpXplctLBQVLKiYMBB85-X0Z3LAf-kEYPIn08DOaTKUXiP9LZ1aLfOEz11ae9XLmsmQf1EYMyfi6ftKzple4oBkxCw_-bf-Jk9tatj/s320/wyn+sus+jill+mom.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="color: #999999; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="color: #999999; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Then, it was determined that the South family was moving to Iowa. Iowa. From Southern California --eternal springtime, beach days and palm trees California -- to Iowa. Pre-internet Iowa. Pre-cell phone, smartphone, videochat, instant-message Iowa. It was going to be hand-written letters and long-distance phone calls. And for the uninitiated (anyone under, what, forty?), that means you literally pay for every minute that you’re on the phone. Even when we lived 20 miles apart, we didn’t talk on the phone unless we really needed to, because long distance was too expensive. So this news was crushing. We were two families with four children each, all very busy with life, without a bunch of money sitting around, with no big “travel budget” to run back and forth across the country.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="color: #999999; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #999999; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">In many ways, before that move, I had to “check out” emotionally. I found reasons to look forward to living in Iowa. It was going to be a great adventure. (Side note: It WAS and IS a great adventure, and Iowa is my home now. I love it, and I do not regret coming here. At the time, though, it was difficult.) But I was leaving behind so many people. Steve and Jill had been back in Southern California for a few years, and we had spent so much time with their family, as well. I can barely add this part: During that time, our sweet Cayla had been born (as I’m writing this, it’s May 7, 2018, and it should be her 30</span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: super; white-space: pre-wrap;">th</span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> birthday). But in the time between us finding out we’d be moving, and our actual move, Cayla went home to heaven, at age four, after spending her whole life with a terrible disease called histiocytosis. So to leave, I was walking away from my grief-torn brother and sister and nieces, my parents, my other brother and his family, my beloved church family, my dear, dear friends, a home I loved, the state I’d lived in since birth… and the grave of my precious Cayla, who was as dear to me as one of my own. So I checked out a bit, focused on the details, turned my mind to the future, started woodenly saying my goodbyes.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="color: #999999; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="color: #999999; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">And then Wynette gave me that darned book. Annie Bananie. That book pushed me over the edge.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="color: #999999; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="color: #999999; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Annie Bananie is a children’s book, with delightful illustrations. Annie Bananie herself is a bit of a “pill,” and in the story, she’s about to move away from her best friend. Here’s how some of it goes.</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #999999; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><i>Annie Bananie, my best friend,</i></span><br />
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<span style="color: #999999; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhe4U3Be47VDLCILTDHczbxKKrtBDMuICQ8w-DFUku7F5xD8uxpuhkcChcJ4MuLsL7mTWryhYvLGfsQ-_f3LxpN8nSi-bEXJnrTF31YSg3iXixQlgWgsP6FgBQ9vDX-dXqt6YVFyYBQQcwN/s1600/wyn+sus+3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="934" data-original-width="960" height="311" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhe4U3Be47VDLCILTDHczbxKKrtBDMuICQ8w-DFUku7F5xD8uxpuhkcChcJ4MuLsL7mTWryhYvLGfsQ-_f3LxpN8nSi-bEXJnrTF31YSg3iXixQlgWgsP6FgBQ9vDX-dXqt6YVFyYBQQcwN/s320/wyn+sus+3.jpg" width="320" /></a></i></span></div>
<span style="color: #999999; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><i><br /><br />Said we'd be friends to the end.<br />Made me brush my teeth with mud,<br />Sign my name in cockroach blood.<br />Tie my brother to the trees,<br />Made me tickle bumblebees.<br />Promised we would always play,<br />Now Annie Bananie's going away.<br /> <br />Annie Bananie, Do you think it's good<br />Leaving your whole neighborhood?<br />Who will feed your porcupine?<br />Who will swing from your clothesline?<br />How can you just go away?<br />What about my sixth birthday?<br /> <br />Annie Bananie, Do not cry --<br />Even best friends say good-by.<br />Make some new friends, try to write,<br />And when you are in bed at night,<br />Remember you will never ever ever<br />Find a friend who's half as clever<br />You will never ever find<br />Someone who’s as sweet and kind<br />No you'll never, ever ever<br />Never ever<br />Ever<br />Never<br />Find another friend like me.<br /> <br />Will you?</i></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="color: #999999; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="color: #999999; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">That darn book. It undid me. To this day, I either tear up, or get that tight feeling in my throat any time I think of it. It’s worse for me than “I Love You Forever,” and that one is pretty intense. For more than 25 years, that book has been on my shelf, but I do not open it. I’ve never read it to my grandkids.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="color: #999999; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="color: #999999; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">So anyway… let’s move on with the story. (All of you: “Seriously… let’s move on.”) If this was a movie, you’d see a big whirling montage of Hammer/South family events (but it’s not, so you get word vomit here, hehe). The Souths move to Iowa. Steve and Jill move to Phoenix. Mom gets cancer. Scott gets cancer. Susie gets cancer. The kids grow up. High school graduations and weddings happen. Mom gets cancer again, fights hard, and goes home to Jesus. Steve and Jill move to Pittsburgh. Scott fights cancer for so, so long, but in the end, it takes him, too. Wynette moves to Nevada. Babies happen…lots of babies. Twenty-two babies at this writing. Dad finds, and marries Londa, and we adore her. After 35 years of marriage, I suddenly and surprisingly find myself alone. Wynette retires from teaching. Our children spread out around the country.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="color: #999999; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="color: #999999; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">During that 25 years between when I moved, and now, “the internet” happened. It became my livelihood, but it also became my link with Wynette. I was able to lure her on to AOL instant messenger, and that’s when we started chatting every night. Annie Bananie and her friend finally had a way they could afford to communicate, and it’s been onward from there.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="color: #999999; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="color: #999999; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">People have always said things like, “It’s too bad that you and Wynette can’t live near each other,” and we’d agree. We like to travel together, we have so many similar interests, and we just click. And now, as things have happened, we’re each doing life on our own. And as we’d visit with each other, we’d say, “If only!” but then follow it with, “But your kids are there, and my kids are here… so we’ll just visit.”</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="color: #999999; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="color: #999999; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Last fall, I went on a fun trip with my childhood friend Janine, and wasn’t doing my nightly chat with Wynette. During that trip, she texted me and told me that when I was on my way home, I should call her, because she had some things to tell me. (And of course, she told me “everything is fine!” because otherwise, she knew I’d worry.) So, I called her when my flight landed, and after some chit-chat, she said, “Well, with Justin’s family in California, and Zach’s family leaving to travel the country in their RV, I figured it’s time for me to move to Iowa.” WHAT. My whole life screeched to a halt. Never once did I imagine this could happen. I never even DREAMED it. I screamed like crazy (sorry about your ears, Sister). She had talked to all of her people, and everyone was onboard with it.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="color: #999999; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="color: #999999; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Annie Bananie is coming to stay.</span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="color: #999999; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaHo8ViGG9RaSEGEgVvo5Jwh1_94i58LlWeh76QaZ58b8a2C010x2hEoSv8JQYMElTBlqFthxQjZ-rWyszDAV7lSeGemTUalnpn5jWZ5iUFP7vAzBVRnNt2lnBWdI0dZmEQCMmUbHs8_56/s1600/wyn+sus+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="903" data-original-width="960" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaHo8ViGG9RaSEGEgVvo5Jwh1_94i58LlWeh76QaZ58b8a2C010x2hEoSv8JQYMElTBlqFthxQjZ-rWyszDAV7lSeGemTUalnpn5jWZ5iUFP7vAzBVRnNt2lnBWdI0dZmEQCMmUbHs8_56/s320/wyn+sus+2.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="color: #999999; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="color: #999999; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">When she was here last month, we looked at houses in person (we’d been stalking them on real estate apps for months, and I’d been doing “drive-bys”), and she made an offer on a great house. It’s exactly one mile from my house. It closed this week. She’ll be here in two weeks.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="color: #999999; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="color: #999999; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Annie Bananie is coming to stay.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="color: #999999; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="color: #999999; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">It’s not that we’ll spend every minute together. I’m still in the workforce, full time. She has interests, things she wants to do. We aren’t joined at the hip. But we can be near each other, spend important times together, enjoy each other’s families, like we did when we were young mothers. We can travel together to see Steve and Jill, and our parents and other family. We can have holiday time. We can help each other when it’s needed. It’s a life-changer.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="color: #999999; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="color: #999999; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Annie Bananie is coming to stay.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="color: #999999; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="color: #999999; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Who would have thought that wayyyy back, probably close to 50 years ago, when the Cooper family first set foot on the grass of the La Mirada church in California, where I was probably turning cartwheels, and my family was scattered around, that God would lead us here, to a place where two of those little girls would grow up and have families that are related, and would love each other dearly like Sisters do, and would live a mile apart in Iowa. Annie Bananie is coming to stay.</span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6UeoJ5U45o1epNuTv1w1T8zeJxV9m3_5ygslSjCuUoDI-CaVrZV5m-1s-seXEptRNOWvkuG7o-iFhtHGCN79hhT2N3-Wq74hM8FRAaXzxdoH3GKZ3dAY0EibqcEl6ZoxkD-o90Zu8L0vk/s1600/wyn+sus+4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="color: #999999;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="960" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6UeoJ5U45o1epNuTv1w1T8zeJxV9m3_5ygslSjCuUoDI-CaVrZV5m-1s-seXEptRNOWvkuG7o-iFhtHGCN79hhT2N3-Wq74hM8FRAaXzxdoH3GKZ3dAY0EibqcEl6ZoxkD-o90Zu8L0vk/s400/wyn+sus+4.jpg" width="400" /></span></a></div>
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="color: #999999; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">“’For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the Lord, ‘plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.’”</span></span></div>
<span id="docs-internal-guid-2fd17b91-4d83-8130-218a-01275eda9b16"><br /></span>Susiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05837950105694012888noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4875722305318882655.post-74473116713936466122017-05-01T00:23:00.000-05:002017-05-01T00:23:07.470-05:00Goodbye, House on the Hill<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Today I said a rough goodbye. I said goodbye to a home I have loved and never intended to leave, as well as a life that I loved, and never intended to leave.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">I moved out of the house a few months ago, and I’m happy where I am. But until today, I hadn’t yet said goodbye.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">I sat on the floor of the living room and wrote a letter to the family who will move in tomorrow, the new owners. I had prayed that a young family would buy the house, and fill it again with love and laughter. I don’t know much about them, except that they seem to be young, and they love the house.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">When we bought the house, our kids were 5, 7, 9 and 10. We’d just moved to Iowa. We were all adjusting to so many new things. New church, new job, new schools, new friends, new weather (“seasons,” what??), a new, slower culture and lifestyle.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Hard things happened there, but mostly it was a place of joy and fun and love and laughter.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">As I sat in the living room today, listening to the intense quiet that I’ve always loved there, I looked at the front window, and remembered dozens of years of Christmas trees. They needed to go exactly in the center of that window… except that one year when we accidentally chose “Jabba the Tree,” and nearly had to move out of the house to make room for him. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">I remembered hilarious gatherings of teenagers in that living room, playing games like “Catch Phrase” that always turned raucous. I remembered two marriage proposals (both accepted!) that happened in that living room. I remembered dozens and dozens of couples standing in front of the big painting, having pictures taken before prom, Homecoming, and other events. I remembered Halloween costumes, Easter baskets, important conversations, movie nights. I remembered.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">I looked into the dining room, and remembered so many dinners. Regular dinners, with everyone in their “usual places,” and holiday dinners, where we were joined by others. I heard whispers of people like my Grandma near the end of her life, confused by the reflection of the Christmas tree lights in the back window. “Now whose lights are THOSE?” I heard my mother, sitting at the table playing dominos with the kids. I saw my dad, snickering and painting a few of his fingernails with my daughters’ polish, in order to horrify and amuse them.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">I saw the table, surrounded twice with a young bride and her friends, preparing invitations, favors, even food for their weddings. I saw countless card games, board games, sewing projects, homework papers, team rosters, spread across that table. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">I walked through the bedrooms, and remembered prayers, tucking in, a set of bunk beds in each room. I heard sounds of one boy doing a particular high pitched, unstoppable giggle as he read Dilbert books when he was supposed to be sleeping, and the other boy, in the bunk below, calling out his name in a tired, slightly frustrated but slightly amused voice. I heard peals of laughter from the two girls in the other room. I heard one tell the other that she couldn’t find something, and the older sister finding it for her. Always. I remembered the nights of sleeping with the windows open, listening to the owl outside my window, and the breeze blowing through the big trees.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Downstairs, in the basement family room, I remembered the place where we gathered for family time in the earlier years. I remembered the old tones of dial-up internet, as I started the journey into online moderation. I remembered when our only shower was downstairs, and how in the winter it felt so nice to stand in front of the little wall heater to warm up after bathing there. I remember a teenaged son coming in to tell me he’d just hit a deer with my first new car. I remembered another son coming home so damaged after a terrible bike accident. I remember school backpacks, coats, gloves, and hats piled on the floor. I remember carrying loads of laundry out the door to the clothesline. I remembered a little girl sitting on my lap, begging to look at the Beanie Baby website with me. I remembered a very scary night when I had a stroke in that basement family room.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">I went outside, and remembered four graduation parties, with friends and family gathered under the big tree. I remembered a preteen boy hitting a golf ball from the back lawn out over two neighbor’s houses and into the road. I remembered fireworks in the driveway (just kidding, that isn’t legal). I remembered Baby the Wonder Dog, and Rufus Bighead. I remembered Bob and Chia, the hedgehogs, and their hoglets Wedgie and Melvin. I remembered the kitties, Jimmy (who we thought was Jenny), Shirley Goodness, and Mercy. I remembered all the gardens. I remembered bonfires, rainy slip-and-slides, snowmen, basketball hoops. I remembered my dad building the steps into the terraced wall, so we could get to the upper yard more easily. I remembered the many, many times I’d stand behind the shed, under the crabapple tree, gazing out onto tranquil woods and farmland, just to pray in peace and solitude.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">I stood again in that spot behind the shed, with recent rain dripping down on me from the tree, and let myself remember more. I remembered confronting some hard things, long after the time when I should have. I remembered the terrible lonely time of being alone with pain, staying quiet in order to give the hard things a chance to heal without interference. I remembered some final conversations, when I learned that love and commitment was gone, and life was changing totally, completely, and forever. I remembered the most terrible part -- having to share that news with my dearest people, who had been completely in the dark. It was a brutal sucker punch that had to be administered one after another, to the people I love most.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">I remembered how God (and His people) had sustained me, and I praised Him for it.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">And then I thought… that’s enough looking back.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">I thought about my future, which, honestly, is hard to do, but getting easier. I love my home, the place that one of my grandchildren spontaneously dubbed “Nonny’s happy house.” There is still a lot of sadness, even some shame -- this isn’t in line with my belief system, after all. I’ve worked through much of that, and I have hope. I’ve done things that I never thought I’d do. Sure, I didn’t want to do those things, but I did them. I’m abundantly blessed by my four children, their four spouses, and my ever-expanding group of (nearly) perfect grandchildren. My brother, my sisters-in-love, my church, my friends… I can’t even mention my Dad and stepmom without choking back tears. Their love has sustained me.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">So, it’s goodbye to the house on the hill, the place where cardinals visited often, and deer danced just out back. The place with the “four season view,” the woodpeckers, and the croaking frogs after a rain. The place with the tree that held the best fairy house my grandchildren ever saw. The place where four precious children learned and grew and left, then returned with a beloved spouse, and sweet babies in their arms. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Goodbye, house on the hill. You’ve been good to me.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
Susiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05837950105694012888noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4875722305318882655.post-87030443523771605792016-03-25T15:27:00.000-05:002016-05-09T19:06:20.013-05:00Rules of Peeps: Listen and Obey<div>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1L7W5SdP5NR7d2ISVQzMbTWv-rTBVtb4vlZ5ke-r5XiGxcm5xR95HRVBxH81DKaEZTzI4kxoUWaps97CDjj1G70309ChPnhcG5-qKD4p-WJtoHAdLF2T_GlsJjBg7JrftbixYF_GwyCMe/s1600/peep+bunnies.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1L7W5SdP5NR7d2ISVQzMbTWv-rTBVtb4vlZ5ke-r5XiGxcm5xR95HRVBxH81DKaEZTzI4kxoUWaps97CDjj1G70309ChPnhcG5-qKD4p-WJtoHAdLF2T_GlsJjBg7JrftbixYF_GwyCMe/s320/peep+bunnies.JPG" width="320" /></a>I suppose every person has some sort of expertise. Some have
memorized random baseball stats. Some know every line of every episode of
Gilmore Girls. Some are experts in finding the perfect route around
traffic. I know a man who has memorized the entire Bible, and can start
at any point or reference you give him. I’ve had many surgeries,
and the people who performed them definitely had skills. My special expertise, however,
surpasses all of those. I am the World’s Leading Expert and Holder of the
Peep Knowledge.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">And this is your lucky day, because I intend to share my secrets with you, my peepy peasants.</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<h3>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">
The Rules of Peepage</span></h3>
</div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizyYMuhyphenhyphenrr3HwnozQgKtQoek0CZg51qalchpJ29MxOzphsqRoWGynJG0tehbGZc6ZkhM3PlSxKl0ZnrakLqIQ_72h3g2i16j8CXn1tgpz-7qvZFLkAEDcaRmCqW3235pZuDG9QQINniERt/s1600/peeps+no+chicks.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizyYMuhyphenhyphenrr3HwnozQgKtQoek0CZg51qalchpJ29MxOzphsqRoWGynJG0tehbGZc6ZkhM3PlSxKl0ZnrakLqIQ_72h3g2i16j8CXn1tgpz-7qvZFLkAEDcaRmCqW3235pZuDG9QQINniERt/s320/peeps+no+chicks.JPG" width="314" /></a></span></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">A pile of evil.</span></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"> We
shall start with the most basic, but vitally important of the Peep
Rules: <b>Do not eat the chicks.</b> Only the bunnies are pure and sinless.
The chicks are evil. They will poop in your stomach. They will cause
you to commit unspeakable acts, such as wearing white before Easter,
driving the speed limit in the fast lane, forgetting to “spring
forward,” and doing the Chicken Dance. Ward against their spell -- it
is a mighty one. “All who partake of the marshmallow chick will not
enter the kingdom of heaven.” (I Susiekiel 4:7) Take heed.</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Next
Peep rule: No flavored peeps! One must only consume the bunnies, and
they must never be of any “flavor.” One may occasionally partake of the
new chocolate-covered peep (bunny only), but never, never, never be
drawn into consuming a chocolate, strawberry, gingerbread, or any other
flavored peep. This is an abomination. Thus sayeth’ the Suz.</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Rule
of Peep Order. The order of Peep preference, by color, is as follows,
with no room for variation: purple, pink, yellow, blue, green. Do not
partake of the orange peep, as they are a crime against nature, and
should be heartily shunned.</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">There is a proper method or ritual for Peep-eating:</span></div>
<ul>
<li><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Hold the bunny facing you. Smile at him.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Chomp off the ear on the right (his left ear).</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Whisper a kind word while he can hear, and then chomp off the remaining ear.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Eat the top of his head, to just above his eyeballs.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Smile at him again; this is the last thing he will see, so make it good.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Nibble off the right eye, then the left, in quick succession. Eat his nose.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Eat the rest of his faceless head.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Consume his body in three bites. No more, no less. </span></li>
</ul>
<div>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">There is to be NO deviation from this routine. Bad things can happen. Do not doubt me. </span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Don’t
bother trying to call or email “Mecca,” aka “Holy Ground,” aka the
Peeps factory in Bethlehem, Pennsylvania to ask (beg, plead, or grovel)
for a tour. A hideous troll by the name of Martha lives there, and will
flat-out turn you down, or try to shuffle you over to a tour of the
nearby crayola factory. No thanks. NOT COOL, MARTHA, YA FUN-HATER.
There’s really no reason to discuss how I know these things. No, I’m
not still bitter. I just clench my jaw like this sometimes.</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Many
enjoy a slightly “cured” texture to their peep. This can be achieved by
opening one end of the peeps box, and letting them sit on your desk for
a few days (if you can stand the temptation). Just a day or two, and
you’ll have the perfect texture for your favorite crunch. This takes
some practice, so don’t expect to get it just right the first time. But
believe you’ll do it, and your Peepy dreams will come true.</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhk_4YncJIo_H1p8L3rKFKioD6ycdpwg-BOBCJoGVhDJlNurOshu7mnGlpaPiC9U0qLAgEfCOj2AUbeFEJNeopOQFZp_EE1GE9hFLTMEefbWuZsArBi3Nx3E5Q4N221CSBlJP3GEW5zHbRi/s1600/peeps+gen-gens.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="296" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhk_4YncJIo_H1p8L3rKFKioD6ycdpwg-BOBCJoGVhDJlNurOshu7mnGlpaPiC9U0qLAgEfCOj2AUbeFEJNeopOQFZp_EE1GE9hFLTMEefbWuZsArBi3Nx3E5Q4N221CSBlJP3GEW5zHbRi/s320/peeps+gen-gens.JPG" width="320" /></a></span></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Use the handy arrows to determine that the blue peep is a male.</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">All
peeps sold in the wild are male peeps. You can often discern their
little peep genitalia by looking at the front lower section of the
bunnies. You just have to examine the package (pun totally intended)
prior to purchase. Some prefer less-endowed bunnies, so choose
carefully. If you are having a rough time believing this one, I assure
you it’s true. I also know you’ll all check. You may want to purchase a
tiny latex glove.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Occasionally on the Interwebs-n-tubes you will see
sick and wrong people who are doing terrifying experiments on Peeps.
This is permissible for the chicks, but NEVER the bunnies. The chicks
are asking for it by existing.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Please, let me know if you have any Peeps questions. I’m here for you, young grasshoppers.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><i>--Susie “The Goddess of Peeps” South</i></span></div>
Susiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05837950105694012888noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4875722305318882655.post-1409179398174705482013-10-26T00:23:00.000-05:002013-11-09T18:17:20.640-06:00I Get It, Mama<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">I had a moment of “oneness” with my Mama tonight.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">It’s been quite a day.
My precious daughter is hospitalized, and we don’t really know what’s
wrong. I spent part of the day with her,
part of the day with my sweet grandchildren, and most of the day worrying and
praying about my beloved girl.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Mason and Jubilee, my grandbabies, were at daycare most </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIJzrvQ3aiiKb1I7hIPiPzm1zpHvnEYWL7h7r0fNgiaeeY-HsHradgUX12yJ0q-Oy8s8JAFgIHPgqUjK2RtI6-dO14fDWqGRnWUyM9l806xXhhyFGACHJ2YWZRXpmcWT0Fmt6Wi6-CxUrD/s1600/mason+and+jubi.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIJzrvQ3aiiKb1I7hIPiPzm1zpHvnEYWL7h7r0fNgiaeeY-HsHradgUX12yJ0q-Oy8s8JAFgIHPgqUjK2RtI6-dO14fDWqGRnWUyM9l806xXhhyFGACHJ2YWZRXpmcWT0Fmt6Wi6-CxUrD/s320/mason+and+jubi.JPG" width="320" /></a></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">of
the day, so it’s not like </span><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: large;">they’re the ones that exhausted me… but wow, I’m
beat. I played with them all evening,
fed them dinner, got them ready for bed.
Jubi is getting some new teeth, so she was a little more weepy than
usual, but nothing too extreme. I wanted
to get the dishes done and the kitchen tidied.
I was in there working, Jubi was asleep, and Mason was watching some Ninja
Turtles when it happened. He came in and
said in a plaintive voice, “Nonny, I need you.”</span><br />
<br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Well, that was it. I
melted. When he says that, it doesn't mean,
“I need for you to do something for me.”
It means, “I need to be with you, right now.” He usually says it to his Mom, but she wasn't there, because she was in a hospital bed down the road. I was there, so he needed me. I stopped what I was doing, and went and
held him and watched some Ninja Turtles, and everything was better. For both of us, I think. The dishes still aren't done, but that will
happen.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">While I sat with him, I thought about another night. It’s a night that is lost to me, and a night I've really only heard about second hand, for the most part. Here’s how it went.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">It had been quite a day.
I was in the hospital in California, where we had been visiting my
parents. They didn't know for sure what
was going on yet, but they knew, at age 33, I’d had a stroke earlier that
day. My mom had spent part of the day
with me, part of the day with my four school-aged children, and most of the day
worrying and praying about her beloved girl.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgF-w1BHibwgmEYgoEr_pV4weoSFYfzHpRiYgrP45qYURZKlwF5iyRZRIapXpT6BH7IuHjMCFnVcjS4NXOb97W74R8Gg3wXmYgAfhxJ8yRNDyKHsISqsjDedSHKbJi35JZrXbvU_eNA2Lu3/s1600/kids.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgF-w1BHibwgmEYgoEr_pV4weoSFYfzHpRiYgrP45qYURZKlwF5iyRZRIapXpT6BH7IuHjMCFnVcjS4NXOb97W74R8Gg3wXmYgAfhxJ8yRNDyKHsISqsjDedSHKbJi35JZrXbvU_eNA2Lu3/s320/kids.jpg" width="214" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">My brothers and their families were also in town, and all
the kids had been to the beach that day.
My mom had planned a family birthday celebration, so they all had cake
and sweets that night. I’m sure my kids
were sugared up, wound up, giddy from fun with their cousins, and out of their
element with their mom being gone, and I doubt they’d been told what was really
going on. My mom put them all to bed in
one room, an "adventure" even on a good night.
There was giggling and chattering and laughter, and she went in several
times to tell them to settle down and go to sleep. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">There’s a reason we have babies when we’re young – we’ve got
more energy then. Mom, that night, was
out of energy, exhausted and worried, and she wasn’t in her 20’s any longer. She’d had it.
And the kids just wouldn’t quit.
She finally went in that room, and said in a sharp voice, “I want you to
SHUT UP, and go to sleep.” And with
that, there was dead silence. She stood
outside the door, feeling awful, and she heard Bonnie’s little elf voice say, “Ooooh,
Nonny was fussing!” (Which meant “cussing,”
because at our house, “shut up” was as bad as cussing.) That caused some snickering, and my Mom
opened the door, went in, and apologized to them. There was a lot of loving, and some
explanation of how she was a “little worried,” and finally the kids went to
sleep, safe and warm and loved.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">I didn’t get aggravated with Mason and Jubilee tonight, and
I didn’t “fuss,” but I was stressed, and worried, and focused on getting everything
done. I suddenly have new understanding
for how my Mama must have felt that night when I was the one in the hospital,
and my kids were the ones who were, in their own way, saying, “Nonny, I need
you.” I'm so glad she taught me through example that there's a time to set everything aside, and just love those babies.</span><o:p></o:p></div>
Susiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05837950105694012888noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4875722305318882655.post-66824380639177928222012-11-11T03:14:00.000-06:002013-03-03T12:21:06.576-06:00Oh, What a Night<br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">This is going to be a good story, I promise. I only hope that I can give it the proper care and verbiage it so deserves.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEha1e7awBKHSJHNmaMBFKJ-k4ZspJHstbHxG5vmZsma1NhZfUh9_DbCK05-Pc7muBt95ZHSMZny9QbS_EqJOgYMvQnbsLVkxKw_ohT-1KPVyeWsMPMNIAoWIaaDrSU8NFDt12i-sQ_CtyMK/s1600/grey+plume2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEha1e7awBKHSJHNmaMBFKJ-k4ZspJHstbHxG5vmZsma1NhZfUh9_DbCK05-Pc7muBt95ZHSMZny9QbS_EqJOgYMvQnbsLVkxKw_ohT-1KPVyeWsMPMNIAoWIaaDrSU8NFDt12i-sQ_CtyMK/s320/grey+plume2.JPG" width="320" /></span></a><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">We had a craft show again today. I know that no good story begins with those words, so trust me, it will only get better from here. Bonnie and Natalie are my craft show cohorts. We call ourselves "Velocicrafters." We find that very funny, but that doesn't really mean other people will. They work so hard alongside me, and I couldn't do it without them. They're so awesome. Today, I really wanted to do something special for them, and had the perfect idea.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">In previous blog postings, I have mentioned my email group. We send multiple emails around daily, keeping up a continuous dialog. We talk about nearly everything. Sometimes (well, usually) things get out of hand. We have this weird habit of calling each other rude names, even though we don't mean it -- usually. There is a twenty year span in our ages, we live in different states, we come from different backgrounds. A few of us have met a few others, but we've never all been in the same room together. We love each other dearly. When my brother passed away about six weeks ago, they wanted to do something for me, so they sent a generous gift certificate for a restaurant in Omaha called The Grey Plume.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">My big idea for something special for Bonnie and Dawg (oh, by the way, we call Natalie "Dawg") involved taking them to dinner at The Grey Plume. They were excited, and so was I. It had all the markings of the perfect post-craft show wind-down and chill session. We called for a reservation, and found that we could only get in rather early, at 5:15. Fine with us.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">We looked up information about the restaurant. Their mission statement on the website is intriguing: "Seasonally-driven, contemporary cuisine from
locally-grown produce and livestock. <span class="body">The
life-cycle of food begins even before the seed and </span>should always end with an emotional connection. Understanding the
journey to the plate evokes a deeper appreciation and respect for the meals we share.
We seek to inspire and elevate the way Omaha thinks about food through culinary
excellence, the promotion of local foods and growers, and a commitment to community."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Well, this may surprise you, but we can be a bit prone to poking fun. We joked that we should ask really great questions, like "Can you tell me what this chicken's name was?" or "Did someone hug this cow daily?" or "How often did someone sing to my carrots?" But off we went, excited for our evening.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">So there we were. We were seated at a table in the window, and were assured it was the best table in the house, and they had saved it for us. (I think she said that to everyone, though.) There was a small vase on the table, with a sprig of rosemary in it. We liked that. They immediately brought us tall, narrow glasses, opened a bottle of water, and poured. No Omaha tap water for us. I never did ask if the water was local. Actually, it seems like Omaha tap water is already pretty local.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">We studied our bamboo-encased menus. There were words there that the three of us, all avid readers, all "word people," really didn't know. Fortunately, there was a sort of "food glossary" on the table. Our server told us a little about the restaurant, and we were fascinated. Then the "Wine Director" came over to have a chat with us. Wow. There is such a job as a "Wine Director." I had no idea. I don't even drink wine, but was hanging on her every word. Her descriptions included words like "meaty," "nutty," "earthy," "supple," and "woody." Many of those words are known to make me snicker, so I had to contain myself. At some point, I said, "Could I just get a Diet Coke?" It was one of those moments you see in movies, where the music stops, all chatter ceases, and everyone in the room gasps and stares at the offender. I think I may have offended the Wine Director with my question. She quickly recovered, though, and told me that they didn't serve it, but could make me an Italian soda. Her descriptions again held me enraptured. She began to suggest a mint and rosemary blend, and I mentioned that I'm allergic to mint. Oh dear! She excused herself quickly, grabbed a notebook, and jotted down this important medical information about me. She then scurried off and apparently alerted the bar, our server, and possibly everyone in the place. No mint would DARE try to reach our table. The Wine Manager strictly forbade it. At her suggestion, I had a citrus-infused Italian soda that had a sort of flowery lilt to it. Or something like that. Either way, it was heaven in a tall, skinny glass. (But I still got a Diet Coke on the way home.)</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">While we were still examining the menus, our dear server brought us a complimentary plate of... something. I have no idea what it was, although she did describe it. It was sort of a little cream puff, but was filled with cheesy, garlicky heaven. I nearly wept. They brought us brioche, which translates to "a really good roll with a fancy name." So good. Also, our bread plates were made from colorful repurposed wine bottles.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">The moment of truth came, and we made our selections. I chose the Majinola Farm Wagyu beef tri-tip, which was served with potato, wilted kale, carrots, beef belly (think "bacon," only beef -- oh my) and local oyster mushrooms. I said that I'm not a fan of mushrooms, and she said that they're very good, and "foraged locally." She gestured toward the window with her hand, as though they were discovered growing near the Mutual of Omaha building. Bonnie chose the Blue Valley steelhead trout, because it reminded her of being in Africa, served with creme fraiche spatzle (Gesundheit.) and seasonal veggies that had once been rocked to sleep by fairies. Dawg went with the Bluff Valley Lamb, with potato gnocchi, beets, butternut squash, and jujube (which are NOT the movie candies, as it turns out). </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">She suggested an appetizer, which was not called an appetizer. It was called a "first plate." We had duck fat fries. They were pieces of potato (like french fries) cooked in duck fat, which made them very rich. They were covered with some sort of creamy, light, cheesy goodness, and there was a fried egg over all of it. I wish I had the vocabulary of a food critic, because these were some incredible fries. I never thought to ask for details of the duck who supplied his fat, however.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">By this time, we had been there for about an hour. We were just so relaxed, and having such a good time. We checked out the people around us. We watched an awkward first date, and listened to other people's conversations, while pretending we weren't. We had our own conversation, and hopefully no one was listening.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEe-PGsKkZWw8YdCNkbFgJqy0smmyWq1st2UWyBypvbT-gvkasflAHoM6Sj5Lxmro4hl1df3Am6oYED-dnqTG5I7LcH4Komk2FjMFDkedyNU8FZdMiLgmjATGB_YAu5EqLqph2-pBfGdNe/s1600/grey+plume3.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEe-PGsKkZWw8YdCNkbFgJqy0smmyWq1st2UWyBypvbT-gvkasflAHoM6Sj5Lxmro4hl1df3Am6oYED-dnqTG5I7LcH4Komk2FjMFDkedyNU8FZdMiLgmjATGB_YAu5EqLqph2-pBfGdNe/s320/grey+plume3.JPG" width="239" /></a></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Our food arrived, cradled tenderly in the arms of our servers. They told us about each item on our plates. Dawg and I had large, white, square plates, but Bonnie's enormous trout came on plate that was the size of a huge 2x4. No, bigger than that. It was handcrafted from Nebraska clay. Cool. Each dish was a work of art in presentation alone, and there are no words to describe how wonderful they were. We moaned and groaned, tasted each other's food, made inappropriate commentary, and so enjoyed ourselves.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">We ordered French press coffee, and scoops of pear-anise sorbet, vanilla ice cream, and chocolate ice cream. Oh my. Again, we tasted each other's, and discovered that the combination of the pear-anise sorbet and the chocolate ice cream together was just so wonderful. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">When the check came, I reached for my gift certificate -- and that's when I remembered. Oh dear. I remembered what was written on the gift certificate. Whichever member of my precious email group who actually called and ordered the gift certificate -- and I think I probably know who that was -- she had asked for these words to be written on it: "For Susie... we love you! From -- Your whores." It was then that I realized that I was going to have to hand this certificate over to these gentle souls, who are so proud to work at the place that earned the distinction of being the greenest restaurant in the nation.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Oh dear.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">I agonized with Bonnie and Dawg. They thought it was hysterical, of course. I said, "You realize that one of these sweet people is probably the person who actually wrote this, right?" And they laughed more. So when our server came over, I said, "My dear, dear friends gave me this gift certificate, and there is something written on it that may be a bit shocking. I am so sorry." She laughed, said it was fine, and walked away with it. Phew.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">We resumed our coffee and conversation. Earlier, I had seen a young man emerge from the back, and he made eye contact and smiled at me. The same young man now approached our table. I quickly noticed that on his uniform was the name "Clayton Chapman" -- he was the owner and the head chef. Coming to OUR table. He said, "I just had to come and meet you... I have been waiting to see who would come in and use this gift certificate!" If I was a person who blushed, I would have been Husker red. I laughed and laughed, and he said that HE was the one who took the call, and filled out the gift certificate. He said he hesitated, but was assured that it was "safe." He chatted with us a little, we told him how much we had enjoyed everything, and he retreated. He was a delight. He was also, I kid you not, 25 years old. I googled him.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXrgBwhU4SACZpVI4qudT7sqqjQIqPKRgUsa-vAbX-iFFpGzc3fFQr2pXmuPtNsTZnnjzt_SCU4QsfFRFiC_zGySASyKfVrlVRBcCgR-ZazfgoLDUABW1xelA7PZ-PH5p_RXb_h7rY5cfZ/s1600/grey+plume4.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"></span></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXrgBwhU4SACZpVI4qudT7sqqjQIqPKRgUsa-vAbX-iFFpGzc3fFQr2pXmuPtNsTZnnjzt_SCU4QsfFRFiC_zGySASyKfVrlVRBcCgR-ZazfgoLDUABW1xelA7PZ-PH5p_RXb_h7rY5cfZ/s1600/grey+plume4.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="238" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXrgBwhU4SACZpVI4qudT7sqqjQIqPKRgUsa-vAbX-iFFpGzc3fFQr2pXmuPtNsTZnnjzt_SCU4QsfFRFiC_zGySASyKfVrlVRBcCgR-ZazfgoLDUABW1xelA7PZ-PH5p_RXb_h7rY5cfZ/s320/grey+plume4.JPG" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Eventually, we realized we had been there 2 1/2 hours, and decided we should peel ourselves away from this little green slice of heaven, with its recycled steel framing, its vegetable-based to-go boxes, its low-flow faucets, and its reclaimed barnwood furniture. As we left, Clayton (the owner-chef) met us at the door and sent us off with lovely little pastries to enjoy with our morning coffee. Bless his heart.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiboesJkZoXyGKJn7xQ_JqalQGWhwaJfpuEpcesXK6WuAHagNApTx9I7Xp9EglMmlSJXMS7FnQ5Xbq1iQM3Ff_SgMf4ViITV7wI0fc_p9raDJBaMUvroGRI_LwqdyWnCLjLJi1_CJ0qi7zM/s1600/grey+plume1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"></span></a><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">We took a picture in front of the place, because such a memorable evening needed a photo.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiboesJkZoXyGKJn7xQ_JqalQGWhwaJfpuEpcesXK6WuAHagNApTx9I7Xp9EglMmlSJXMS7FnQ5Xbq1iQM3Ff_SgMf4ViITV7wI0fc_p9raDJBaMUvroGRI_LwqdyWnCLjLJi1_CJ0qi7zM/s1600/grey+plume1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="263" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiboesJkZoXyGKJn7xQ_JqalQGWhwaJfpuEpcesXK6WuAHagNApTx9I7Xp9EglMmlSJXMS7FnQ5Xbq1iQM3Ff_SgMf4ViITV7wI0fc_p9raDJBaMUvroGRI_LwqdyWnCLjLJi1_CJ0qi7zM/s320/grey+plume1.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">I am beyond blessed, to be so well-loved by a group of women who would seek to bring me cheer from afar, by providing me with the gift of this evening. It is humbling. I love you, my whores.</span></div>
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Susiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05837950105694012888noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4875722305318882655.post-49745434644771066382012-07-22T01:20:00.002-05:002012-07-22T02:57:18.919-05:00Accosting a Candidate... Maybe<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: large;">I really should be writing a blog post about the Stupendous Grandma Trip of 2012, a tale of two grannies (my sister-in-love, Wynette, and I) trekking across the country. But I'm afraid that once I tell the story of how we visited the World's Biggest Ball of Twine, everyone will get over-excited, and stop reading completely. And I really need to tell this pertinent, timely story first.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: large;">I feel I must preface this by saying that this will not be a political story, although it will involve a political person. If you've known me for longer than five minutes, you know I love politics, and certainly don't shrink from discussing it in the right setting. But I don't want to be that obnoxious person who uses Facebook and her blog as a boring platform. My social media outlets encompass friends from work, church, community, school, etc., so I usually keep my politics more private, unless I'm asked. Luckily, I'm asked often. :-) If you want to know how I feel about something and why, then hit me up privately, and I'll spill. Oh, I'll spill -- as many of you know, and sadly, encourage.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: large;">ANYWAY.... the story.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: large;">So there I was, tooling down I-70. I'd left Wynette's place in Henderson this morning, and was making good time. I was in Utah, between Salina and Green River. If you travel that stretch, you know it as "the section where there are no services for over a hundred miles." It's also the stretch where Bonnie and Natalie and I almost died a few years ago.... but that's a story for another blog posting, right, girls? I was zipping along at 80 miles per hour. (Yes, 80!! There were signs up saying they were doing "speed limit testing" or something, so I got to go fast!) Hmm, I can see I'm going to be quite easily distracted while telling this tale. I'd best start over.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: large;">So there I was, driving in Utah. I got a text from one of my "work peeps," saying that my assistance was needed quickly. I was approaching a "scenic overlook" area, which was around a bendy road that curved around a hill. I whipped in, snaked around and parked, glanced to my left, and what to my wondering eyes should appear, but Mitt Romney's bus. It was large and navy blue. Wow!</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: large;">Okay, I know it's annoying, but I have to pause again to say something else. I'm kind of a freak about meeting political candidates, because you just never know which one is going to turn out to be President, and we'd all like to be able to say we've met the President, right? And because of my unique blend of "living in first-in-the-nation caucus state of Iowa," "formerly having a super specialized job with CNN," and "being a political junkie," it turns out that I've met or talked on the phone with most of the political candidates since the Clinton era. So to just happen to get called by work at that minute, and to just happen to whip into a random "scenic overlook" in the middle of butt-nowhere, and happen to see Romney's bus... that's fun.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: large;">So in an instant, my razor-sharp (ha) mind noted that there was a small group of people gathered around the steps of the bus, as though they were boarding for departure. Obviously, there would be no time for planning my approach. With no regard for my personal dignity (as if I EVER have such regard) I hopped out of my car, which was parked right at the back side of the bus, and called out, "Mister Romney!" (It probably should have been "Governor" Romney... but that's the least of my embarrassment, I suppose.) Mind you, I didn't actually see Romney in the group of people... but I assumed he was probably there.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: large;">For some reason, the group paused and looked over. I realized I didn't see him, although I'm not super familiar with his appearance. But they were sort of looking into the bus, and then this head popped out. I realized I was on the spot to say something, so I called out three words. Oh dear. I can't even bring myself to tell you, dear readers, what they were. You'll have to hit me up in private if you'd like to know. But let's just say I was pressed to say something quickly, and quickly I said something.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhputPnh-G9qNOLrLH2nczPS0wS-8h4thi0uyl9SkiiGgb12nue_oTYqol2bihPGR6tYKjoGIHgTgJeOrqLBhaKTAXAZtqBKfRtiZ_9DviU_avDGlio4D7n0BG_x4gVCpCsn3HPuUl70LNN/s1600/bus.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhputPnh-G9qNOLrLH2nczPS0wS-8h4thi0uyl9SkiiGgb12nue_oTYqol2bihPGR6tYKjoGIHgTgJeOrqLBhaKTAXAZtqBKfRtiZ_9DviU_avDGlio4D7n0BG_x4gVCpCsn3HPuUl70LNN/s320/bus.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: large;">The people sort of chuckled and the head popped back in the bus, turtle-like. They all quickly boarded, and I grabbed my phone and snapped a picture. The bus pulled out and was gone. There were three touristy-type "regular folks" standing there watching, and I called out, "Was that...?" and they nodded real big, and got in their car and left. I just stood there scratching my head for a minute, then remembered that I had stopped for an actual reason.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: large;">I got back in my car, and handled the work situation. ("Another life saved.") Side note: Turns out that I get pretty slow internet when I'm parked at a scenic overlook a quarter mile from the Interstate, at least 50 miles from any sort of town civilized enough to even have fuel or other "services." Crazy.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: large;">So here's the thing... I'm not even sure that was Mitt. The lateness in the day and the direction of the setting sun made it hard to see that side of the bus, and you can see in my photo. While I was sitting there with my slow internet, I was googling to find out where he is today. The best I could find out was that yesterday, when he made a statement about the Colorado shootings, he was in the Northeast. The head was Mitt-shaped, certainly, but that doesn't mean much. Maybe the people chuckled because they thought I was nuts, and might charge them if they didn't act pleasant. For all I know, they jotted down my license plate number, and I'm now on (yet another) FBI watch list. Great.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: large;">After I finished my working and googling, I headed back out, and later I caught up to the bus. I have to tell you that they drive at a very safe speed -- nowhere near 80 miles per hour. I was careful to not make eye contact with the bus driver (it wasn't Mitt, by the way), or even look too closely at the heavily-tinted windows, in case they really did think I was a loon.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: large;">So, I exchanged words with yet another Presidential candidate. Maybe. Either way, it was a fun story.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: large;">Sometimes my life is surreal, even to me.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: large;">UPDATE: After a few Facebook comments, I realize that I'd better just admit the three moronic words that I called out. Okay, here we go. I cheerily said, "Go get 'em!"</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: large;">Of course, I meant a general, "Go take on the democratic process, and show the world the glory of free and fair elections!" The people who were gazing at me, especially if that wasn't Mitt in the bus, probably thought I said, "Go get him!" And that will only contribute to my name being added to the FBI watch list. In fact, don't be surprised if I disappear from this hotel room tonight. Wish me luck.</span>Susiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05837950105694012888noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4875722305318882655.post-58228700110984041902012-05-21T12:50:00.000-05:002012-05-21T12:52:04.600-05:00Another blog for Metaverse...<br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Trebuchet MS","sans-serif";">Well, it was my turn to write the blog post for my company.
It always stresses me out, because it's hard to pull out just one topic from
the scary tangled mess that is my brain. I got lucky this time, because I
wrote some stuff in an email group I'm in (which happens to include the company
CEO... who was my friend long before she was a CEO), and after she read it, she
said, "Looks like a blog post to me!" And now it is.
Phew. Easy-peasy. So, here's the post:</span></span></div>
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Offline Advice: Tips for Sports Parents</h1>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Trebuchet MS","sans-serif";">Yes, we’re all
techno-geeks. We can’t get enough of our electronic gadgets. But
eventually, we all have to pull away from our computers long enough to do
something else. Well, most of us do. Okay, some of us. If
you’re a parent, it’s likely that you get pulled away fairly often. Kids
have a funny way of expecting to eat a few times a day. And if you’re a parent
whose children are involved in sports, there’s even a regular schedule you’re
supposed to follow. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Trebuchet MS","sans-serif";">As a sports mom,
I’ve got some street cred. Four athletic kids (one’s an All-American!), plus a
coach for a husband – that all counts. And while volleyball is my family’s
“thing,” we sure aren’t a one-sport bunch. Oh no. Football, basketball,
track, cross country, wrestling, soccer, bowling (yep, that’s a “sport”),
baseball, softball… and that doesn’t even include their “fine arts”
endeavors. Oh yes, I’ve put in my time in the bleachers.</span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCKnlvGi5s1u7Q2H8_GNDE2UIMVDZzxUuqcflmIguzQtKE3QeycX9T3xkSXeUPdYJlwG5utFXaAY9ZbhZ5w1CY2sgMiroVFjBGTJZ2hKnPi9BjEhYWvLUtwTrHz-EZjbGTTlkTsB0YuxlO/s1600/sportsday.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCKnlvGi5s1u7Q2H8_GNDE2UIMVDZzxUuqcflmIguzQtKE3QeycX9T3xkSXeUPdYJlwG5utFXaAY9ZbhZ5w1CY2sgMiroVFjBGTJZ2hKnPi9BjEhYWvLUtwTrHz-EZjbGTTlkTsB0YuxlO/s320/sportsday.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Trebuchet MS","sans-serif";"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Trebuchet MS","sans-serif";">So, here is some
offline advice for sports parents. You’re welcome.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Trebuchet MS","sans-serif";">First tip:
Go. Your kid wants you there, even if he feigns disinterest in your presence,
or acts like you are an embarrassment. (Bonus tip: If you’re sporting a jersey
with his picture on it or waving a big foam finger – any finger — you ARE an
embarrassment.) Learn the appropriate things to call out. If you don’t know the
rules and intricacies of the game, keep your mouth shut until you do, except to
be encouraging. Take your cues from the more seasoned parents, but remember…</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Trebuchet MS","sans-serif";">Second tip:
Most parents are idiots when their kids are playing sports. Don’t let
them drag you into their lunacy. If it’s more fun to sit somewhere else,
then sit somewhere else. But don’t sit with the other team’s parents,
because they’re even bigger idiots.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Trebuchet MS","sans-serif";">Third tip: Be
kind to the refs. They really don’t hate your kids. They’re
probably calling the game the way they actually see it. Sometimes they
get it wrong, but games are almost never lost because of bad calls, even if it
seems that way. Even if a “bad call” happens at the end of the game,
there were still plenty of missed opportunities, turnovers, or incidents of
poor execution that might have changed the outcome.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Trebuchet MS","sans-serif";">Here’s a bonus tip
about basketball, when your team is playing: If your team is on defense,
and one kid bumps another, you’ll see it as an offensive foul. If your
team is on offense, you’ll see it as a defensive foul. You just can’t
help it… you see it as the other team’s fault. Keep that in mind before
you stand up and scream about the inequity of it all. And remember: It’s a lot
more fun to quietly mock the parents from the other team who are standing and
screaming about the inequity of it all if you haven’t already engaged in that
behavior.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Trebuchet MS","sans-serif";">Tips for
immediately after the game: Ask your child what she felt she did well,
and what she thinks she can improve on. Find a skills-related thing to
compliment your kid about, and a character-related thing to compliment her
about. Save your skills critique for later, and save your character
critique for later. BUT! Be sure to see my next two paragraphs regarding
the critiques.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Trebuchet MS","sans-serif";">About the skills
critique: Think it over before you choose to discuss skills and
technique. Talk to the coach if you’re not sure about something — they
might be teaching a method that you don’t know. It is okay to show your child
another way, but do your best to not undermine the coaches, or sabotage their
system.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Trebuchet MS","sans-serif";">And about saving
the character critique for later: Get to it, but not immediately after the
game, when emotions may be running high. But don’t make the mistake of never
addressing issues you see in their character. If you’re lucky, the coach
might help in that area, but ultimately, it’s your problem. If you
disagree with the coach, talk to him — don’t tell your kid to do something
different than the coach tells him to do. (Example: we taught our kids to
put out a hand and help up an opposing player if someone got knocked down — one
coach didn’t allow that, because he thought it could start a fight, or put the
kids in danger of being punched.) Whatever you’re noticing — back-talking the
coach, rolling eyes at the ref, laughing at the other team, not being
encouraging to teammates – address it with your child, and work with them to
overcome these things.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Trebuchet MS","sans-serif";">And my top tip:
Remember why you’re doing this. It’s not about building an athlete; it’s about
building your child’s character. Except for a few very rare exceptions, our
kids are never going to “go pro.” But they are going to have to function in the
real world, where there are wins and losses, fairness and inequity, good skills
and poor skills. What they learn about managing those things will be far more
important than anything they can learn about a sport.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Trebuchet MS","sans-serif";">– Susie South |
Chief Moderator | Metaverse Mod Squad, Inc.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">[Originally posted </span><span style="color: black; font-family: "Georgia","serif";"><a href="http://metaversemodsquad.wordpress.com/2012/05/21/offline-advice-tips-for-sports-parents/" target="_blank"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS","sans-serif";">here.</span></a></span><span style="color: black; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">] </span><span style="color: black; font-family: "Georgia","serif";"></span></span></div>
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<br /></div>Susiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05837950105694012888noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4875722305318882655.post-43530525211913239932012-02-24T23:59:00.000-06:002016-01-21T14:32:50.828-06:00This One's For the Squirrels<span style="font-family: 'trebuchet ms', sans-serif; font-size: large;">One reason I don't blog often enough is because of my email buddies. I have had an "email group" for, hmmm, probably at least 15 years. The participants have changed over that time, with some fading in, and some fading out, but it's always been a place where many stories have been swapped. I love my email girls. They remind me that even though we have different ideas, skin colors, economic backgrounds, religions, likes, dislikes and STD's (just kidding), underneath, we're just women with mutual love and respect for each other. And we share a weird, irreverent humor. Plus, the subject lines of our emails are so stinking funny sometimes. Oh, but back to the point... the reason I don't blog often enough is because THEY get all my words. Lucky them. But tonight, they get NOTHING (unless they happen to read my blog) because what I was going to tell them is about to get blogged. I shall begin with the four words that comprise the beginning of every good story I tell...</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">SO THERE I WAS, sitting in the drive-through of Culver's, after ordering a salad and a one-scoop Flavor-of-the-Day. I was on my iPhone, catching up on my email group's daily yappings. Earlier in the morning, I had read A's first contribution, which was in response to some great news I had shared... my cancer scans came back "clean" this morning. Woohoo! A's contribution was this: </span><br />
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<pre wrap=""><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace; font-size: large;"><i>We saw a squirrel in a parking lot yesterday. Sitting in one of the spaces, which was a little weird. Then it ran into one of the bushes and M </i>[her adorable 6-year-old daughter]<i> said "That is because squirrels like to be alive." Same with Susie!</i></span></pre>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Now, that is such a great story, isn't it? It made me smile like crazy, because I love A, I love M, and I love to be alive, too. Just like the squirrels. Then I read T's email, which also contained a squirrel story:</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace; font-size: large;"><i>Yay for you, Susie!! That's the best news I've heard all day!! (of course it's early, so keep the good news coming).I saw a fat squirrel in a tree the other day and my thought process went like this: "Hey! There's a kitty in that tree! What a funny looking kitty! I hope he doesn't get stuck up in that tree - I'd have to call in some handsome firemen to save him... maybe he's on an incredible journey with his dog friend that I can't see.... wait... that kitty is not just funny looking... wait... that's not a kitty! HOLY *%$# THAT'S A SQUIRREL! OMG! IT'S THE FATTEST SQUIRREL I'VE EVER SEEN! I need to put this on the internet!!! I need a fat squirrel meme!!! Crap... he's gone..."</i></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Now, I can't even explain how much this made me laugh like a maniac, right there in the Culver's drive-through, awaiting my salad and my FOTD. (But you know I'll try.)</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">I just have this "thing" with squirrels. It all started when I was 16 or 17, and a squirrel committed suicide by flinging himself under my car. This was very traumatic for me, I assure you. I saw him approaching, and had slowed a bit, because it was safe to do so. Then he stopped, so I continued on, and he just FLUNG his squirrelly body under my car. There was a thump, and a wee scream (I might have imagined that part), and I was too traumatized to look in the rear view mirror to see the carnage. So I went home, and called my mom, who happened to be at my grandmother's house with my aunts. I was telling the story tearfully, all the while knowing how ridiculous I sounded, and she was trying hard not to laugh, but finally gave up and just howled. She had been repeating enough of what I was saying that my aunts knew what was happening... and that was that. I was Susie the Squirrel Slayer. They have never let me live it down. There were squirrel cards, squirrel statuettes, secret messages from traumatized squirrels. You can only imagine what a living hell my life has been.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">So, fast forward to this past fall. There I was, taking a walk near Iowa School for the Deaf. It was a gorgeous day, with all the fall colors blazing. I noticed a cute little squirrel by a tree, and (because I'm a dork who documents nearly everything with my handy iPhone camera) I took a few pictures of him. He ran up the tree and I walked on. I had only gone a few steps when I heard all this commotion up in the tree, so I stopped and looked. My little squirrel friend was falling out of the tree. Mid-fall. He was mid-fall in mid-Fall. (Get it?) He was all stretched out, legs extended, slowly rotating, with an expression on his face like, "What the heck?!? I'm a squirrel, and I'm falling out of a tree." I think I must have flashed back to Suicide Squirrel, because I just couldn't watch him land. I looked away, heard the thump, and then gave a quick peek, praying I wouldn't see exploded squirrel carcass all over the ground. (This was necessary, because I was going to be walking back the same way I'd come, and if there was going to be exploded squirrel carcass, I was going to find an alternate route.) But no, he was scampering off to another tree. Phew.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Okay, now fast forward to TODAY. Today started off weird, with a pretty substantial snowfall that I hadn't realized was coming. (I was pretty sick and out of it yesterday.) We had to be at the hospital early for my scans, so the snow had to be cleared off my car before we could leave. Then the day turned all sunny and bright, and by noonish, the snow was all gone. But then, mid-afternoon, it started snowing again! So weird! Almost blizzard-like! So there I was, on the phone for a pretty important client conference call, sitting in my recliner, paying attention and taking notes and exchanging info with my colleague (also on the phone call) via AIM (that part will only make sense to some of you), when suddenly, something in the tree outside my window caught my attention. I'll bet you can guess what it was. Yep, a squirrel.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Now, at this point, I had read A's email with the cute anecdote about what her daughter said, but I had not read T's email. And I hadn't thought about the squirrel I murdered 30 years ago, nor the kamikaze squirrel from last fall. (Last fall... get it?) But still, I became immediately transfixed (while continuing to pay attention to the phone call, of course) and watched him. He frolicked about, and then jumped from the tree branch to my roof. I'm sure he's done that many times. But this time, there was snow, then melted snow, then snow again, which was already melting. I honestly don't know what the problem was. Maybe he was just a really poor roof-leaper. But I saw him glide out of sight into the space that should have been "on my roof," and then there was all this scrambling and little brown legs and whatnot. And then he was briefly clinging to my roof by his two little front paws, and I kid you not, we had eye contact through the window in that split second before he did the splayed-out, slowly rotating thing. Yes, with a silent scream of terror, he fell from my roof. I don't know if he hit the porch, or the ground, or the bush, but he fell. And I couldn't shriek, or yelp, or offer to perform squirrel CPR, because I was on a pretty important conference call. It's a good thing it wasn't a video conference, because I'm sure my face was not particularly business-like at that moment.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">By this time, you might be wondering, what is the point of all this? Well, so am I. There is no point. It's just that I love my life, a life that has days when one friend is so happy for my good news that she tells a precious story about her daughter and relates it to my great blessing, which causes another friend to remember and relate her weird squirrel story, along with her happiness for me... and then in the same day, a squirrel falls off my roof while staring me in the eye. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">There is no point, except that my life is great, and I am so blessed to be the one living it. Not so great for the squirrels, I admit, but for me? Awesome.</span><br />
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</span>Susiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05837950105694012888noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4875722305318882655.post-91061477370118750032011-11-26T11:17:00.000-06:002011-11-26T11:17:13.331-06:00Jubilee!!<div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: large;">I just want to say that I am so, so happy to be fifty years old! I know I’m supposed to be dejected, and feeling old and useless, but I don’t feel that way. Not one little bit. I’m not one to spend time whining about what’s happened before, but for the sake of remembering with thankfulness, I’ll say that there were many times when we all wondered if I’d see thirty years old. Or forty years old. Or fifty years old. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: large;">In my mid-twenties, there was the tumor (while I was pregnant) that the doctors were so sure would be cancer that they told me to begin settling myself with ending my pregnancy. They were so sure, but they didn’t know what my God can do. I didn’t end the pregnancy (I wouldn’t have, regardless), Brad was born, the tumor wasn’t cancer, and I made it. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: large;">In my early thirties, I started having strokes. Wow, not fun. Not what you expect when you’ve got four school-aged kids. I had a pronounced foot-drag, my left hand didn’t work so well, and I forgot words sometimes. I worked HARD to improve those things. About the time I got better, I had another, larger stroke, this time while home alone with my kids. Frustratingly, no doctor could really determine what was causing this to happen. Migraine headaches? The weird hole in my heart? A clotting disorder? Even the esteemed Mayo Clinic couldn’t figure it out, although I spent one very lonely Thanksgiving and birthday away from my family, in the Mayo rehab unit. They did help me walk better, though, so that was good.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: large;">My late thirties brought many issues with trying to control the strokes, taking blood thinning medications, then figuring out how to manage the issues the medications brought. A routine check up found a lump on my thyroid, and a series of tests found it to be cancer. Two surgeries in five days revealed it to be the most serious type of thyroid cancer, and determined that it had left the bed of the thyroid. Treating it was not fun, but pretty awesome to me, since it’s a cancer that actually has a pretty safe and effective treatment. However, it has to be checked yearly, which requires weaning off of the thyroid replacement meds. That makes me pretty sick and weak and tired for about six weeks each year. Not fun, but manageable.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: large;">With my forties came a return of the cancer, treatment, some heart surgical testing, blood transfusions, a hysterectomy, and eventually a giant tumor removal. That one “should have been” cancer as well, and wasn’t. Another bullet dodged.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: large;">I can’t even count all the surgeries I’ve had… I get lost somewhere around fifteen. I honestly don’t understand why God keeps saving me. I’m very much ready to see heaven, and live forever with Jesus. I really am!! (I hope you are, too, and if you’re not sure that you are, I’d love to talk to you about it.)<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: large;">OK, now that I’ve talked about all that, I never need to mention it again! Hey, there was no need for you to applaud that I’m shutting up about it.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: large;">A year ago, on my 49<sup>th</sup> birthday, I posted a Facebook note <a href="https://www.facebook.com/note.php?note_id=10150330618405007" target="_blank">here</a> about my “year of Jubilee.” Here’s part of what I said:<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 12.0pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">In the Bible, the year of Jubilee happened every fifty years, and was about freedom and inheritance. If a person had fallen on hard times and sold himself as a slave, in the year of Jubilee he became free. If he had sold his family's land, it was returned to his possession during the year of Jubilee. This was how God provided perpetual freedom and inheritance for His people. The year of Jubilee happened (usually) just once in a person's life, so it was not something to be used casually.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 12.0pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 12.0pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">So, how does this work for me? I haven't sold myself as a slave, or surrendered my inheritance. But I have been in bondage to some destructive thought processes. I've been a slave to habits. I've surrendered some of the joy of my existence. It's time for me to celebrate my Year of Jubilee by releasing my hold on all things negative, and reaching out toward the good things that God has for me.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: large;">Unfortunately, I didn’t accomplish everything I meant to accomplish. I did not complete my reading of the Bible, for instance. I’m still working on it, and hope to complete it in my 50<sup>th</sup> year. It’s been a great year of study, and I will be finishing it, even though it’s taking me longer than I’d planned. I did a very honest assessment and found an area in which I was holding on to some “hurt.” I’ve let it go, and have forgiven. Soon, I will have also forgotten. (Maybe that’s a benefit of being “old.”) :-) I’ve always been a person who finds joy easily, but this year I’ve been even happier, and focused on being more positive. I’ve worked on expressing gratitude more often.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: large;">I’m ready to take on the next part of life. I’m surrounded by God’s love, by (and I mean this quite literally) the best family ever, and by a safe, warm, and happy home. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: large;">It’s OK if you call me “old”… I’m quite proud to be fifty. I’ve laughed so much that it’s wrinkled my face, worried enough to cause some gray hairs, and managed to wake up every day for fifty years. When the day comes that I do NOT wake up, I know beyond a shadow of any doubt that I’ll wake up face to face with the God I’ve served my entire life, I’ll see the faithful ones who have gone ahead, and my loved ones will soon join me there. I’m going to live forever, so the number here is just that… a number. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: large;">Go ahead… call me old. I’m honored.</span><o:p></o:p></div>Susiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05837950105694012888noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4875722305318882655.post-16999718250861828702011-09-25T22:47:00.000-05:002011-09-25T22:47:43.056-05:00Best Movie Ever...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhlRkBxstcm-pMiCQm22pER3fXAQBrebNpqaXw7LC2t4rjbzaXvDwB7uPf7WPVulVxM4LmlpSyVzh0MEgAP8wbWxMagJ1JSNSZQT2P6avu4oHP9wQWFFxrJ9ZYnIcK2La_xVG5xhzNFJ9p/s1600/gone-with-the-wind-265x400.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhlRkBxstcm-pMiCQm22pER3fXAQBrebNpqaXw7LC2t4rjbzaXvDwB7uPf7WPVulVxM4LmlpSyVzh0MEgAP8wbWxMagJ1JSNSZQT2P6avu4oHP9wQWFFxrJ9ZYnIcK2La_xVG5xhzNFJ9p/s320/gone-with-the-wind-265x400.jpg" width="212" /></a></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">Bonnie and Natalie (who will always be Dawg to me) decided that we needed to have a Mom/Daughter date today, and that we needed to watch The Greatest Movie Ever, which is, of course, Gone With the Wind. So Bonnie, Dawg, Belinda ("Dawg Mom") and I gathered in the Jacoby's family room with a supply of pop and snacks, and watched the Blu-Ray version on their super-cool new 55-inch TV. The Blu-Ray made it almost TOO realistic. Wow! At one point I said that it was so real, it was like there were slaves picking cotton in the Jacoby's garage (which is right behind the TV). In some ways, I wish there were, because then we would have had someone to send to Sonic. Inappropriate, Susie. Sheesh.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">The first time I saw GWTW, Lori Graham (from elementary school... wonder whatever happened to her!) invited me to see it. I was in fifth grade. For some reason, they were screening it in a school cafeteria, and we paid a dollar to get in. Best dollar ever spent. I loved everything about it. During the Intermission (yes, there was an actual intermission!), Lori filled me in on some of the other details, and soon my Mom loaned me her copy of the book. That was when the real fascination began.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">Wow. Not only the Best Movie Ever, but also the Best Book Ever. Gone With the Wind is what caused me to love Civil War history, and to love that period in general. For several years in a row, I read GWTW every summer. Sitting on the front porch in a lawn chair with my feet up on the post and a glass of RC Cola next to me, holding that thick blue book in my lap, absorbing the persona of Scarlett O'Hara of Tara... thoughts of it can carry me back, to the point that I can feel the sun on my legs, hear my Mom rustling around in the kitchen behind me, and smell the tang of the cut grass and the slightly musty odor of the book that was already old when it was given to me. My bookmark was a florist's business card, which my Mom had left in the book from when she read it in her own teen years. Ahhh, memories.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">My love of all things GWTW was pretty legendary. My brother bought me the Scarlett O'Hara Madame Alexander doll... so, so pretty in her white dress from the first scene of the movie. She was displayed in my room, along with other GWTW memorobilia (including a dollar bill with Clark Gable's face where George Washington's face should be) in a corner cabinet that now lives at my Kacy's house. In an age where every girl had posters of rock stars and teen heart-throbs on their bedroom walls, my only two posters were a huge GWTW movie poster on the wall, and a full-sized, six foot tall poster of Rhett Butler gracing the back side of my door.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">I don't like to say that my baby Bonnie was named after the Bonnie in GWTW, because, well... Bonnie Blue Butler didn't exactly live a long and full life. But that, and a grade school friend named Bonnie, are what made me start loving the name. </span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9WQyf6VRQ0Xkb8phyphenhyphenLvQNovApTpNuwKQE96eO03eyAWyDTe9-Lu4T05Zl23BhveKQN9Qfr_QbpiHpIirj9aZo4t2bPBqW-Xwx1OHyGdaRD94NDCgdBOBF9g3n_QsnxoaRKCXSRGUNgUSB/s1600/gone-with-the-wind-clark-gable-1939.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9WQyf6VRQ0Xkb8phyphenhyphenLvQNovApTpNuwKQE96eO03eyAWyDTe9-Lu4T05Zl23BhveKQN9Qfr_QbpiHpIirj9aZo4t2bPBqW-Xwx1OHyGdaRD94NDCgdBOBF9g3n_QsnxoaRKCXSRGUNgUSB/s200/gone-with-the-wind-clark-gable-1939.jpg" width="150" /></a></span></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Rhett. Yes.</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiS4s9ks4xeqvSd6V6zcGxz5NaDS-5dHdSpsJpP4f2ZnxpT5YUpc5SM2M1GHF-pTP1-Yed1nVG1Bu0cIsKxrt3WGQrtxgkVAo-7Nj3VOrE7sYks7EBhOIMq3j-xWHi-P726TwyvFaR_Ktbi/s1600/ashley.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiS4s9ks4xeqvSd6V6zcGxz5NaDS-5dHdSpsJpP4f2ZnxpT5YUpc5SM2M1GHF-pTP1-Yed1nVG1Bu0cIsKxrt3WGQrtxgkVAo-7Nj3VOrE7sYks7EBhOIMq3j-xWHi-P726TwyvFaR_Ktbi/s200/ashley.JPG" width="184" /></a></span></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Ashley. No.</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: small;">We weren't too far into the movie today when (my) Bonnie said, "I can't quite decide if I'm Team Rhett or Team Ashley." I suggested that she wait a little longer into the movie to decide. If she had chosen Team Ashley, I might have disowned her. Thank goodness, by Intermission, we had all completely agreed that we are making Team Rhett t-shirts, and will wear them proudly.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">About ten years ago, when I was still with CNN Online, we had a conference in Atlanta. My parents drove there, and after I had finished my conference, we embarked on what Mom and I called our "Gone With the Wind Tour" of the South. We saw antebellum mansions, former plantations, took tours of Savannah, Charleston, and other points. But the coolest thing (besides just an awesome, memory-making trip with my beloved parents) was what happened on our very first day. We went to Stone Mountain, Georgia, and toured their plantation exhibit. Meanwhile, there was a Civil War reenactment going on there. But then, like some sort of a miracle, we went into this building, and they just happened to be hosting a traveling Gone With the Wind exhibit! What?!? We had no idea it would be there, and we'd been calling this our GWTW Tour the whole time we'd been planning the trip. It was just so cool. They had props and costumes from the movie, and tons of other cool stuff to see. I will always treasure that day, indeed the entire trip, with my Dad (who was in charge of driving and paying) and my precious Mama, who was the one who first gave me my GWTW book.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">My love of this movie and book is all wrapped up with my love of my mother, and her love of the movie and book, which, incidentally, was written the year she was born. I'm just so glad that my girls also love the movie along with me. It feels right. Now if I can just get them to read the book!</span></div>
Susiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05837950105694012888noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4875722305318882655.post-79451138969027906892011-08-28T19:47:00.001-05:002011-08-28T20:28:22.068-05:00MMS Blog<div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">I am Chief Moderator of Metaverse Mod Squad. I love saying that, because I'm proud of it.</div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">If you know me even a little, you know how much I love my job. Metaverse Mod Squad is absolutely the best company in the world. We do just about anything that needs doing, in the online world. There are roughly 200 of us spread around the world, and two brick-and-mortar offices (Northern California and Brooklyn, NY). Our motto is "Yup, we do that." We "keep the peace" in virtual worlds, we moderate content, we develop growing online communities, we generate buzz, we handle customer support, we write customized chat filters, we manage social media, we keep kids safe. I wasn't kidding when I said we do just about anything that needs doing. Heck, I was once a virtual bodyguard for Newt Gingrich.</div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">Recently, it was my turn to write a blog post for the company blog. The management team each took a turn through the summer, and when my turn came, I had some tips for parents. I hope you find them helpful.</div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><br />
</div><h1 class="entry-title" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">Parents: Stand Firm</h1><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"> </span> <br />
<div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><a href="http://metaversemodsquad.files.wordpress.com/2011/08/keyboard.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" class="alignright size-full wp-image-1891" height="160" src="http://metaversemodsquad.files.wordpress.com/2011/08/keyboard.jpg?w=120&h=160" title="keyboard" width="120" /></a>Being a parent is not for the faint-of-heart. It’s arguably the toughest job in the world. Sure, you’re going to get hugs and kisses and a shout-out during their wedding toasts, but before that, you’re going to get puked on, pooped on, drooled on, peed on, whined at, whined about, and whined because of. Most parents are able to strike a balance between evil ogre and best buddy, but we all know that there are areas in which we simply MUST stand firm, for the protection of our children.</div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><br />
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<div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">None of us would let our kids play on the freeway, and really, we don’t let our kids navigate ANY road on their own for quite a few years. Unfortunately, too many parents are simply releasing their kids on the ol’ Information Superhighway without much in the way of warning or protection. In fact, many parents don’t even seem to realize that it could be dangerous.</div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><br />
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<div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">So, what do we do? Do we just forbid our kids to use the Internet? Unless you’re Amish, this is not a practical plan. (Two sub-thoughts: One — Even Amish folks have access to the internet at times. Two – If you’re Amish and reading this blog, I want to say hello.) Face it: This whole “internet fad” is here to stay, and you need to get onboard and figure out a plan.</div><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"> </span><br />
<div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">So, here are some tips for families:</div><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"> </span><br />
<ul style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><li>Discuss in advance your expectations about your child’s use of the internet, then have your child write down his passwords. Check them occasionally to ascertain that they have not changed. You don’t necessarily have to use them, but having them lets the child know that you MIGHT use them. Decide in advance what the penalty will be if the child changes the password without letting you know, or if he is caught in a place online where he has agreed not to be.</li>
</ul><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"> </span><br />
<ul style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><li>Educate yourself. Do not say “My child knows more about the computer than I do,” even if it’s true. Make sure you learn how to do everything that she is doing. No excuses. If your child developed diabetes, that would be her “new reality,” and you would learn everything there is to know about diabetes. Well, the Internet is her “new reality,” and you need to get informed. Do not be disheartened by this next bit: this process will never end. A few years ago, it was desktop computers in one room, then it was laptop computers all over the house, and next thing you know, every mobile phone is connected to the Internet. By next week, there will be something new. Get informed, and keep getting informed.</li>
</ul><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"> </span><br />
<ul style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><li>No computers behind closed doors. Set up a place for the computer, so that the monitor is facing into a well-used room in your house, such as the family room. Walk past often enough to see what your child is doing (in general), but don’t hover. Ask a few questions, like “Is that a new site you’re on?” “Who’s that you’re chatting with?” Gauge their responses and demeanor when answering, according to what you know about your child. An overly casual or overly angry response might tell you that you need to investigate further. Every so often, stop behind them to chat about something, and see if there’s a rush to close windows or block the monitor.</li>
</ul><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"> </span><br />
<ul style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><li>Password-protect the computer, so that the kids need to ask permission before using it. If you have to be the person to physically enter the password, you know when they’re on. It also keeps them from the temptation to “sneak on” when you’re away from home, asleep, etc.</li>
</ul><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"> </span><br />
<ul style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><li>Decide what information the child CAN share with strangers online. Gender and age range (such as “tween”) are probably fine, but you can discuss other things. If you live in a large, populous state, you might allow that to be shared. Otherwise, you might decide that a region (the South, the Midwest) is allowed. The less common the information is, the more dangerous it is to share it. 14-year-old Marigold from Monowi, Nebraska whose hobby is sword-swallowing is much easier to “find” than teenager Emma from the East Coast, who likes fashion. Kids like to talk about themselves, so help them decide in advance what details are safe to share. And never let your child share any information that is in violation of a site’s terms of service, most which prohibit any personally identifying information for children under 13.</li>
</ul><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"> </span><br />
<ul style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><li>Check out every online community in which your child participates. Find out what the moderation system is. If you find the community to be inappropriate for your child, suggest other interesting choices. Consider joining the site, and friending your child, but don’t overdo it.</li>
</ul><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"> </span><br />
<ul style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><li>Enforce the rules. That seems obvious, but many parents are willing to be talked out of any consequences, because they just aren’t on sure footing, or don’t want to be the bad guy. Don’t be that parent. Even if the child has a reasonable excuse (“I wrote down the new password for you, but someone moved the paper.” “Someone must have hacked my account.”), there still must be consequences, and you need to be more vigilant in the future.</li>
</ul><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"> </span><br />
<ul style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><li>Be a sleuth. Find out what sites your child visits by using the browser history, cookies and cache. You aren’t spying; you’re spot-checking. Google your child’s name and see if it turns up on social networking sites. You love him and want to trust him, but you need to check on him sometimes.</li>
</ul><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"> </span><br />
<ul style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><li>Delay smart phones and any other device with Internet access until your child has proven that she is mature and trustworthy. Even then, let them know that the device belongs to YOU, and can be removed at any time for any infraction of the rules. Remember, these devices are just small computers, and have the same dangers for your child that “the big computer” has. Probably more. Think this one over a long time, and do not let yourself be swayed by the “everyone else has one” plea.</li>
</ul><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"> </span><br />
<ul style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><li>Discuss your family guidelines with anyone that monitors your child for any length of time. Grandma, a parent with shared custody, his friends’ parents, and babysitters need to be aware and onboard with the guidelines.</li>
</ul><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"> </span><br />
<ul style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><li>Be ready to adjust what is allowed. At my house, it is about trust and freedom. You have all the freedom that is appropriate to your age, as long as I trust you. Any violation, and I do mean ANY, results in a step back in freedom. As you show me you can handle that level of freedom, I trust you more, and you have more freedom. Any major violation of trust results in a major reduction of freedom. “I forgot” is a violation. A lie is a violation. A visit to an unsuitable website is a violation. Not telling the parent about a request for personal information from a stranger is a violation. Loss of freedom should be equal to the level of gravity of the violation. The child quickly learns that it is in her best interest to live up to our expectation of trust.</li>
</ul><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"> </span><br />
<ul style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><li>Perhaps the best thing you can do to help your child prevent victimization is to increase his self-esteem. The lower a child’s self-esteem, the more likely he is to be a target for a predator or bully. The typical predator will seek out a child who lacks confidence, and who will respond positively to their advances.</li>
</ul><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"> </span><br />
<ul style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><li> If your child uses social networking sites, stress to them that their popularity is not determined by the number of “friends” they have. They should never accept a friend request from someone with whom they are not personally familiar. The personal information they share, even through casual status updates, is like gold to a predator, and can be used to gain their confidence and elicit more information. Parents should occasionally sit with their child and help them cull their friends list.</li>
</ul><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"> </span><br />
<ul style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><li>Don’t freak out, unless it’s really time to freak out. If your child tells you that a person on the game they’re playing keeps asking for his phone number, don’t go into a rant and scream, “It could be a kidnapper! You’re never going online again!” Just calmly help your child block that person, report it to the game administrators, and thank your child for being wise enough to tell you. Your reasonable reaction now means your child is more likely to tell you things in the future, and could be the difference between safety and disaster.</li>
</ul><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"> </span><br />
<ul style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><li>Watch for warning signs that your child has been victimized, or is in danger of victimization. Some warning signs: Your child is online too much, often at night. Your child receives phone calls from people you don’t know, or he makes these phone calls. You find pornography on his computer. He withdraws from the family. He turns off the monitor or minimizes windows when you approach the computer. If, heaven forbid, you find evidence that your child has been victimized, contact your state or local law enforcement agency, the FBI, and the National Center for Missing and Exploited Children, and turn the computer off to preserve evidence.</li>
</ul><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"> </span><br />
<ul style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><li>Be the person that you want your child to become. While this advice applies in every area of life, it certainly also applies to Internet and computer use. If you can’t be bothered to listen to him talk about his baseball game because you’re chatting with Aunt Jane, or feeding your pigs on Farmville, then don’t be surprised when he ignores your calls to supper while he’s playing online.</li>
</ul><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"> </span><br />
<div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">Some good news: There WILL be a day when you can breathe a little easier. The bad news, though… by that time, you’ll need to be concerned about your grandchildren.</div><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"> </span><br />
<div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">Good luck, parents!</div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><br />
</div><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"> </span><br />
<div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">-Susan South</div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">This post first appeared <a href="http://metaversemodsquad.wordpress.com/2011/08/18/parents-stand-firm/">here</a>.</div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><br />
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</div>Susiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05837950105694012888noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4875722305318882655.post-79037026372027334592011-08-04T12:14:00.000-05:002011-08-04T12:14:47.732-05:00NOM!!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuqzUHUspegKKLdIMPJRmQYc2nqJXxCxc3c_lDrztD3UsXBIPnATguAoKO8OLaJZKIfkEyY7fRdXCXFVte_TIUrqtE1_Xv0YJ4U0xjZoA9YFXc8FcEnKJLyKNsSSUhxvhmQoBTZl6Q_llq/s1600/nom.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="233" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuqzUHUspegKKLdIMPJRmQYc2nqJXxCxc3c_lDrztD3UsXBIPnATguAoKO8OLaJZKIfkEyY7fRdXCXFVte_TIUrqtE1_Xv0YJ4U0xjZoA9YFXc8FcEnKJLyKNsSSUhxvhmQoBTZl6Q_llq/s320/nom.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Since posting a picture on Facebook, some have asked for this recipe. I'm not a food blogger, and didn't make up this recipe, but I can share! So, from Susan Noel's Kitchen, here you go!</span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="clear: right; float: right; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="176" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxEAlSFeEIzd_JkdsWJI5ihrYP1johS5t9tz1WhFQiPxHD-7NFwpPXMwHGPUstUIlxuuYc5dcuZf9a40fCum559hHAK7yL9V89crzH0Ryk8qrZ9ZBXgPfEztarjpLqG2ZiuRpNZDjWBs6O/s200/snap_crackle_pop.gif" width="200" /></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Cake Batter Rice Crispie Treats</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">4 Tblsp butter (1/2 of a "stick")</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">1 bag of mini marshmallows (about 10 oz)</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">1/3 cup yellow cake mix</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">6 cups of rice crispies (I use the store brand... sorry Snap, Crackle and Pop)</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">1 container of colored sprinkles (about 1.75 oz)</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Melt the butter in a large saucepan or dutch oven, then add the mallows. As they start to melt, add the cake mix, a spoonful at a time, and stir it up real well. When the mallows are melted, remove from heat, and add the cereal slowly, coating it with the mallow mixture. Add half of the container of colored sprinkles, and mix in well. Spread in a 9x13 dish, or even a larger, lower sheet pan. Put the rest of the sprinkles on top, and press down just a little. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Tip: If you spray your hand with non-stick spray, it's easy to press the treats into the pan.</span><br />
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</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Another tip: If you bake these when no one is around, then burn some scented candles, you can successfully hide them from the rest of the family, and keep those pigs out of your stash.</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgr20_ueXW7CzZq4yXQoDaa1_s9fziI8aUGs6V6f2hRaTunFCjxs8ZLs7LCUoHIavNF2_-YReQmLcEopYd0pIL8nW_9n0ABZgkaAKoK31ZtQgKS4Y5wZyUbLR2xXakUYy7XTxliznfVjxnh/s1600/Snap+Crackle+Pop+2008.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="220" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgr20_ueXW7CzZq4yXQoDaa1_s9fziI8aUGs6V6f2hRaTunFCjxs8ZLs7LCUoHIavNF2_-YReQmLcEopYd0pIL8nW_9n0ABZgkaAKoK31ZtQgKS4Y5wZyUbLR2xXakUYy7XTxliznfVjxnh/s320/Snap+Crackle+Pop+2008.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Untimely Demise</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Susiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05837950105694012888noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4875722305318882655.post-79906086816912962492011-07-28T15:41:00.000-05:002011-07-28T15:41:40.468-05:00I Wish I Were an...<div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">So, Bonnie and I went to lunch today. She works at the school near us (same school she attended), and so I get to see her most days, either before, during, or after work. Or all of the above. We went to Fazoli's, ordered the same thing, texted the same person repeatedly through the meal, and laughed a lot.</span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">In some ways, I think Bonnie got the best of my mothering years. I had more time alone with her than I did with the others. To me, it seems logical that she would have gotten the least time, but it didn't turn out that way. Kyle only had sixteen months to be the "only child" before Kacy came along, and neither Kacy nor Brad was ever the "only." But Bonnie had quite a bit of time after everyone else moved out, and I think that's why we have this weird, crazy bond. We already know what the other person is thinking, usually, and sometimes we start laughing before it even gets said.</span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEha2Y-qqeLPUOsW46WLoXpgn3sOAxlld7NRWUiJ9-8rhaRf-CydJVAI7LBh9cmLySZj8GEgtZHJUcarL_jlh5fJ6LDxqP8PUkoq7SYn5Gp5rFHDWdYgrWohmCJ5iU-LEmuOOhZGBxUL28Jf/s1600/100_6757.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEha2Y-qqeLPUOsW46WLoXpgn3sOAxlld7NRWUiJ9-8rhaRf-CydJVAI7LBh9cmLySZj8GEgtZHJUcarL_jlh5fJ6LDxqP8PUkoq7SYn5Gp5rFHDWdYgrWohmCJ5iU-LEmuOOhZGBxUL28Jf/s320/100_6757.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">We often do this thing where one person starts something, and the other person is contractually and morally obligated to finish it. In our family, that's called "answering the pepperoni." It comes from a scene in The Epic Classic Television Drama "Gilmore Girls." The scene went something like this... Daughter Rory's boyfriend was having a conversation with mother Lorelai's boyfriend about how to get along best with the girls. Dean said something like, "If you're having pizza with them, and Lorelai decides that the pepperoni is mad at the mushrooms because the mushrooms have an attitude, and she holds up the pepperoni and it asks for your opinion, don't just laugh. Answer the pepperoni." It just means "always go along with the bit." In our family, not answering the pepperoni is a borderline mortal sin. Go along with the bit. Just do it.</span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Right now, I'm not even sure why I brought that up. Hmmm, where was I going with that? I guess I was just gonna say that Bonnie can always be trusted to answer the pepperoni, and it means that we spend a LOT of time laughing, because life is a "bit." There's always something funny. Always.</span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">So today, there we were. We'd had lunch, and then on the way back to the school, my car decided to have an odor. At first I imagined it to be an "I need oil" (which we pronounce "earl"... because life is a bit) sort of smell, and we called Dennis. Why, you ask? Because that's what we do. Bonnie called her dad, who was at the gym (where we were headed), and told him of our dilemma. We got back to the school, texted him that we were outside, and then we sat in the car and chatted while waiting for him to show up. I really don't know what we were doing... we just weren't done being together yet, and the whole "car odor" was just a pretext for hanging out a little longer. Bonnie opened her door, glanced under the car, and noticed that there was drippage, which we already knew to be condensation from the AC, but still... it might have been a problem. Ya never know. She's a good car-problem-diagnoser, obviously.</span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">So eventually, Dennis came out, and while he was walking toward us, we discussed whether or not there was any creature on earth that walked slower than he does sometimes. I told her that I once saw a sloth go flying past him. By then, he was in earshot, so we changed the subject. Neither one of us had so much as budged from our positions in the front seats, mind you. I did pop the hood opener thingie for him, though... with my foot. Then we discussed whether or not my toenail was cut crooked. Bonnie thinks no; I think yes. Dennis checked the oil (the earl) and it was fine. Then he said I needed some antifreeze, and at that precise moment, I realized it wasn't an "I need oil" odor, it was a "I'm a hot car" odor. Dennis said he would add some antifreeze tonight, and I said that I'd try not to let it freeze in the meantime. He said, "Antifreeze helps with the heat, too..." and Bonnie and I looked at each other and snickered, because of course I was being a smarty-butt. Then I told her a story that is much too personal to share here, but trust me, it was stinking funny. Dennis went in to get some water to add to the car's water thingie (I have no idea), and still, we hadn't moved.</span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">So that was when Bonnie laid it on me: I hadn't blogged in a few days, and this is unacceptable. Oh dear. So we discussed some things to blog about. It was decided that I should tell The Wiener Story. And no, it has nothing to do with Anthony.</span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">(Troubling side-note: I always want to spell "wiener" like "weiner." It's a very commonly misspelled word, and I do not like to misspell. So, just now, to be sure, I Googled weiner. Big mistake. Whoa. But, I did find that it's for sure spelled "wiener." It comes from the word "Vienna," so I hope this helps you with your wiener-spelling in the future.) </span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Anyway... The Wiener Story.</span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">So there we were, driving over to Bucky's to get a pop. That was when we heard harp music, the clouds parted, and a beam of sunlight shone over on the HyVee parking lot. And what did we see, you might ask?? We saw The Oscar Meyer Wienermobile. It was like a dream come true, a vision from heaven. Admit it, you would love to just happen to see the Wienermobile on your daily travels. I mean, who wouldn't?!?</span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvvZ8CaRykPKpe2bk5rRCtvtnY5sU9AW8JE_X7pcVp3rm7uCQhyO8E_PJKuo_vv5vzv_UvowKkA8v0ZsSpkD2vwaUD4YkgSgNFLhOKEiPqcTHMjNd2_-HPGkigptDvVdWFtqZbQ_DNBW9B/s1600/OM+wiener.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvvZ8CaRykPKpe2bk5rRCtvtnY5sU9AW8JE_X7pcVp3rm7uCQhyO8E_PJKuo_vv5vzv_UvowKkA8v0ZsSpkD2vwaUD4YkgSgNFLhOKEiPqcTHMjNd2_-HPGkigptDvVdWFtqZbQ_DNBW9B/s320/OM+wiener.jpg" width="320" /></a>Bonnie yelled for me to pull over, and so I veered across several (or one) lane of traffic to make our pilgrimage to the holiest of all vehicles. She kept saying, "I need to hug The Wiener! I need to hug the Wiener!" We whipped into a parking space, and leapt out. Well, she leapt, I sort of rumbled. There were two Wiener Attendants squatting in front of The Wiener self-taking pictures of themselves. Bonnie ran over and said, "Can I hug your Wiener??" They were a bit confused, I guess, and said, "We don't have any hot dogs... we only have whistles." (Huh??) And Bonnie said, "No, can I HUG. YOUR. WIENER?" and pointed at it. They said, "Oh... sure." And she hugged that Wiener. And I took her picture. I hugged it too, and we admired it for a bit. Then they gave us Wiener Whistles. (It just occurred to me that perhaps The Wiener Attendants thought we were strange. Well, THEY were the ones self-taking pictures of themselves with it. Pffft.)</span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinRzV2_3fuSkQJlvUI2Kc5OGtdYevAtLYKUr7vNqe849mGF3WzuNHcbafAbil-rdyGTsQna0t2GapejqWJXzws08f6zx_q3tndpEtbNLvSH352VE7UuAHc03TcAs-HBK-lTfS5yU2WVsXS/s1600/wiener+whistle.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinRzV2_3fuSkQJlvUI2Kc5OGtdYevAtLYKUr7vNqe849mGF3WzuNHcbafAbil-rdyGTsQna0t2GapejqWJXzws08f6zx_q3tndpEtbNLvSH352VE7UuAHc03TcAs-HBK-lTfS5yU2WVsXS/s200/wiener+whistle.jpg" width="200" /></a>To this day, that Wiener Whistle on a stretchy string, dangling from my rear-view mirror. Somehow, it became a "bit" that whenever we go through a yellow light, someone yells, "Blow the whistle!" (or something like that) and the other person has to blow the whistle. Life is a bit, ya know.</span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">So, that is The Wiener Story, subtitled "One of the Best Days of My Life." </span></div>Susiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05837950105694012888noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4875722305318882655.post-41307067063464743242011-07-25T01:04:00.000-05:002011-07-25T01:04:12.843-05:00Happy Accidents<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Today is my girl's birthday. (Well, by the time I get this posted, it will be yesterday.) Kacy Rae was born on Wednesday, July 24, 1985, in Escondido, California. She was 7 pounds, 12 ounces of perfection. For some reason, I thought I was destined to have all boys, so her lack of "equipment" was a big surprise to me.</span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixYMUiKDvg2WqKDwvWUFFqyTlHwzKero_jVfnReEo21NIlHsiAraZrbaiupb2Jlghr9n7SyzcJJyeYEzDKZpRS9FlQ7JQN_x908vP8OlXJwMSJGtzO8mEkDtW5_8TfF-sc_2m_aVJX0kRj/s1600/kacy+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixYMUiKDvg2WqKDwvWUFFqyTlHwzKero_jVfnReEo21NIlHsiAraZrbaiupb2Jlghr9n7SyzcJJyeYEzDKZpRS9FlQ7JQN_x908vP8OlXJwMSJGtzO8mEkDtW5_8TfF-sc_2m_aVJX0kRj/s200/kacy+1.jpg" width="188" /></span></a></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Of course, there are no "bad babies," but Kacy was just SUCH a good baby. She was sweet and happy and precious... people just couldn't help but smile at her and tell us how cute she was. She stayed tiny for a long time. In fact, she only weighed 14 pounds, 9 ounces on her first birthday, so it was odd to see her walking. Her huge, dark eyes just drew you in. She so easily could have manipulated everyone, but she was so sweet. When other kids would take a toy from her, she would just move to something else... I had to actually encourage her to stand up for herself. That spirit stayed with her, and she grew into a sweet, giving woman.</span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDZCNSG4Bdmloiw8imF8VQDugoghaTWQ7EGNaRTSwU6KD7CO7EIV7rPuswVLr1OCn0tC4ya_qe2yvIOquYYrJHiV-GJ5qN-0mQl8C_Mth6y0DtbaDvI_mZ2w5xqbhOxdfeetI0ap01JH9A/s1600/kacy+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDZCNSG4Bdmloiw8imF8VQDugoghaTWQ7EGNaRTSwU6KD7CO7EIV7rPuswVLr1OCn0tC4ya_qe2yvIOquYYrJHiV-GJ5qN-0mQl8C_Mth6y0DtbaDvI_mZ2w5xqbhOxdfeetI0ap01JH9A/s320/kacy+2.jpg" width="209" /></span></a></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">But before I fast forward to that, I have to admit something. Kacy was not "planned." When I became pregnant with her, Kyle was seven months old, Dennis was out of work, and we were uninsured. We had purchased our first home before the "unemployed thing" happened, and we were struggling. In fact, when I first realized I was "late," I didn't even tell Dennis. I figured I had my dates mixed up or something, and my first thoughts were not giddy-happy-baby thoughts, I'm ashamed to say. I don't think I prayed one way or the other, but in my arrogance, I probably suggested to God that this wasn't the right time for a second child. Right now, that very thought sickens me.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">But over the next few days, I guess God softened my heart. Without being too graphic... every woman who has ever wondered if she could be pregnant knows what I'm talking about... but every time I'd go to the bathroom, it was about "checking." And within about 24 hours, each "check" resulted in a sigh of relief, rather than a groan of dread. By the time I told Dennis, and took a pregnancy test, I was so happy about this child.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I just can't imagine my life without her. In fact, I can't imagine any member of our family without Kacy's influence. She was Kyle and Brad's strongest supporter, and honestly, most of the good in Bonnie comes from Kacy. Anyone she loves, she loves thoroughly... her Daddy, her cousins, her aunts and uncles, her grandparents and great grandparents. I can't even start to mention her relationship with my Mom without fighting tears. She is tenderhearted and funny and kind... she is a far better person than I am, and sometimes I'm baffled as to how that happened. I admire her in so many ways.</span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9vjPiJRDSFy-P3zMpVnWwhltONbY8_5vxMMxnxrrZvDKvsYvEwltyLhAJ-c1UZmvDLSO-lzylZU1hC7zQueMjQzFoCKjAbDq7uRQulEhFdg1_FmFrfV2nbb47ilIkEZaQJEAX30FhsfPm/s1600/kacy+3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="281" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9vjPiJRDSFy-P3zMpVnWwhltONbY8_5vxMMxnxrrZvDKvsYvEwltyLhAJ-c1UZmvDLSO-lzylZU1hC7zQueMjQzFoCKjAbDq7uRQulEhFdg1_FmFrfV2nbb47ilIkEZaQJEAX30FhsfPm/s320/kacy+3.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">So, fast forward a few years. She met her Arick just before her senior year of high school. She had already decided she was going to attend Nebraska Christian College, and that's where he was attending. It was fairly soon that we realized that this was probably "the one." If she could have skipped her senior year of high school, she would have, in a heartbeat. That year was rough, but she survived, and then off to college she went, 2 hours from home. At Christmastime, Kacy and Arick were engaged... she was 18 years old. Wow. Yes, she was young, but we felt like the most important thing was that she made the right choice, and it was obvious that Arick was the right choice. So, she turned 19 on July 24, and was married a week later. </span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEja4Uzl3utbXgAmWISlV17d9aTUSIxuQjCafQ09rOAE8ZIhOAHALa9FRhHkAiu8jinQFXuMWqFYLJlSnBuDE8zmX1oAwJuTaL9fOvqpDm4z3WyU8Rf8lD92STZ0XZiaIF0AMwrC1yq4g8eF/s1600/kacy+arick+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="252" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEja4Uzl3utbXgAmWISlV17d9aTUSIxuQjCafQ09rOAE8ZIhOAHALa9FRhHkAiu8jinQFXuMWqFYLJlSnBuDE8zmX1oAwJuTaL9fOvqpDm4z3WyU8Rf8lD92STZ0XZiaIF0AMwrC1yq4g8eF/s320/kacy+arick+1.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Around her birthday that year, I wrote a little poem about her. I suppose I was just feeling all the emotion of wedding-planning, and everything it entails, but I had really been reflecting on how much joy she brought me, and how we hadn't exactly been planning for that joy when she was conceived. Somehow, I cannot find the completed poem (Kacy has it somewhere, but couldn't put her hands on it today when I asked), but I do have my hand-written "rough draft" right here. So, I'll close with the poem (and hope to edit this post to include the real final draft later), and I hope you all remember that sometimes the best things that happen to you are happy accidents.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Happy Accident</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">by Susan South</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">The stick was blue</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">A baby was due</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">This is certainly not what we'd planned.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">One babe in the fold</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Just seven months old</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">How could we face the demand?</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Attitude change</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">So much to arrange,</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">And that belly just grew and grew.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Though work was scarce</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">And the mortgage was fierce</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">In July, she made her debut.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Our tiny surprise,</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">With huge hazel eyes</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Is Mommy and Daddy's pride.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Diapers and toys </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Turn to dating and boys</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">In a heartbeat, my baby's a bride.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">She found him so soon,</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Her affable groom,</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Their happiness told the tale.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Focused above,</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Sharing laughter and love,</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Now her face is beneath a white veil.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Hazel eyes glowing,</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">While Mommy is knowing</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Childhood's moments are spent.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">My girl, you can bet,</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Not a single regret,</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">For the happiest accident.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">If we'd got what we'd wanted,</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Our lives, perhaps haunted,</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Might have been so cheerless and bland.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">But the stick turned blue,</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">And the baby was due,</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">She's exactly what God had planned.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I love you, my Schwummy-girl!</span>Susiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05837950105694012888noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4875722305318882655.post-29504648309260571072011-07-20T20:44:00.003-05:002011-07-20T21:11:54.471-05:00California, There I Went...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghz-67s_Zx_Z4aZbsjHLzwV791TI2xsGNsHv0lTMcwHFdXiQ-bJmvWKV4U8ydBTTq5iFLCeRdrR8uMFfY4HNGcLx_Am96EqvMsLtbjaX9CZ5NHcN0yhafRQVs_y5lDIK_VzIzz7qyEf-CK/s1600/family.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghz-67s_Zx_Z4aZbsjHLzwV791TI2xsGNsHv0lTMcwHFdXiQ-bJmvWKV4U8ydBTTq5iFLCeRdrR8uMFfY4HNGcLx_Am96EqvMsLtbjaX9CZ5NHcN0yhafRQVs_y5lDIK_VzIzz7qyEf-CK/s320/family.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
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</tbody></table><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;"></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;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I just got back from a trip to California to see my Dad. The extended family is trying to make it an annual thing, to be there over the Fourth of July holiday, or in that general time frame. My brother, Scott, and wife, Wynette, were there almost the whole time we were there, and brother Steve and wife Jill were there for about three days overlapping with us. My husby, Dennis, couldn’t go, unfortunately, due to work commitments. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4hMND0EEtwjYAUG7jpfPOx80Ms4gftf6_6gRlalCa7GNb8p6uCRJf7k2G6mm3ujq2-RfPyG3whsbSqbm6UTDvGudxRJRm96MG4ndwQIJDrqULDOYQFrWPTQ0XOAsX0IDUwFm297iqRJQI/s1600/mason.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="133" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4hMND0EEtwjYAUG7jpfPOx80Ms4gftf6_6gRlalCa7GNb8p6uCRJf7k2G6mm3ujq2-RfPyG3whsbSqbm6UTDvGudxRJRm96MG4ndwQIJDrqULDOYQFrWPTQ0XOAsX0IDUwFm297iqRJQI/s200/mason.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><span style="font-size: small;">Of my kids, only Kacy (and husband Arick) and Brad (and girlfriend Jen) could go. And of course, along with Kacy and Arick came my Little Bit, Mister Mason, one and only (so far) grandchild. Woo hoo!! I was just so excited to experience Mason’s “beach firsts” along with him. I sort of like him.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Highlights of the trip:</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"></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="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidZ9YDc17M_o7QHBHiyVG0floS4_ya_WCeh4trysAnEWRgUE6ZjSsjY97C1Wtd3EeyFQXdmPhftQpI9JXsdndmMbTKEUn-4Abxa9bbknVADiVgraESdaEzJIDFnhcnPQRhQ1v1u5du51Tm/s1600/hollywood+stars.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><br />
</a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7ELwJXbHW_diMZ1WrKegjLFb6WGGV_46EKZjUlo7VzbxZPK_ugiTG1gdyL61pHmZ32ekaJlzEWs3LE7SuarXlAhmqy3rlNzyX8Xi5FDVDg7nTOd9M-tyjiBUzix5McPOGNBD4NClifU01/s1600/gma+mason.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br />
</a></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtuW-s5MYQHgOA4qMNkXRXkq04OSaaWZjKfJ62MAeLZsxI8V0q4aEb0FhA5mSlGFfDpUCGVy0ytTvfTUOz-E4N0_mA00i1VA1Ny6bHIm89M5XTv61AW_4LC3gzNuMFh0C4EN4G0uWCvmPo/s1600/noah+mason.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFNChuF1PLmH4LAM6BYUHYpLBW73xCrdmobk0HrkF68OVN53azgySlP6Kb6pWlsnYMqu4Rdz2HUGPmmXf6vfpPMdzjyUlFUCItafcWULYVdokQnDPFGZu7K9jQyZEydLp5F-wWQJ0fRHo4/s1600/mason+on+beach+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFNChuF1PLmH4LAM6BYUHYpLBW73xCrdmobk0HrkF68OVN53azgySlP6Kb6pWlsnYMqu4Rdz2HUGPmmXf6vfpPMdzjyUlFUCItafcWULYVdokQnDPFGZu7K9jQyZEydLp5F-wWQJ0fRHo4/s320/mason+on+beach+2.jpg" width="214" /></a><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: small;">--Singing Mason to sleep on the second flight. His favorite in my repertoire is “Hush Little Baby,” but I also did “For Baby” (yes, the old John Denver song… it was his Mommy’s favorite, too), “In the Garden,” “As the Deer,” and “Day is Done.” I love the way he watches me so intently, totally relaxed, but won’t fall asleep until I stop looking at him while I sing.</span><span style="font-size: small;"><br style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;" /></span><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: small;"> </span><span style="font-size: small;"><br style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;" /></span><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: small;">--Days on the beach. The first day, most of us ended up at the beach at the end of Grand Avenue. (I never know if that’s Pismo or Grover, so we just say “End of Grand.”) Steve, Jill, Wynette, Dad, Kacy, Arick, Brad, Jen, Mason and I had a blast. I thought Mason might be a little afraid of the water, but the waves were breaking pretty far out, and the water wasn't rough at all. He ran straight in, even though it was colllllddddd. The movement of the water seemed to confuse his walking skills a little (he’s only been walking for about 6 months, after all), but there was always someone there to help him stand. Another day, we went to Pismo (by the pier), and another day we went to the Dino Caves. There were other shorter times at the beach, of course, but those were my favorite.</span><span style="font-size: small;"><br style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;" /></span><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: small;"> </span><span style="font-size: small;"><br style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;" /></span><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: small;">--Watching Mason and Noah together. My youngest nephew, Zach, and wife Heidi traveled all the way from Missouri, by car. Their baby, Noah, is 10 months </span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtuW-s5MYQHgOA4qMNkXRXkq04OSaaWZjKfJ62MAeLZsxI8V0q4aEb0FhA5mSlGFfDpUCGVy0ytTvfTUOz-E4N0_mA00i1VA1Ny6bHIm89M5XTv61AW_4LC3gzNuMFh0C4EN4G0uWCvmPo/s1600/noah+mason.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="133" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtuW-s5MYQHgOA4qMNkXRXkq04OSaaWZjKfJ62MAeLZsxI8V0q4aEb0FhA5mSlGFfDpUCGVy0ytTvfTUOz-E4N0_mA00i1VA1Ny6bHIm89M5XTv61AW_4LC3gzNuMFh0C4EN4G0uWCvmPo/s200/noah+mason.jpg" width="200" /></a><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: small;">old, and a little butterball of cuteness. He outweighs Mason, who is almost 18 months old, but regardless, is still in that littler-baby, crawling stage. So, so, so, so cute. He and Mason just hit it off, of course. I loved watching my brother (Scott) be a grandpa, and sitting with Wynette with our grandbabies. It brought back wonderful memories times in the past when we’d sit together with our own babies on our knees.</span><span style="font-size: small;"><br style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;" /></span><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: small;"> </span><span style="font-size: small;"><br style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;" /></span><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: small;">--A fun afternoon in San Luis. Downtown San Luis Obispo is a great place to walk, shop, browse… and we did it all. </span><span style="font-size: small;"><br style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;" /></span><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: small;"> </span><span style="font-size: small;"><br style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;" /></span><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: small;">--Dogs, dogs, dogs! Molly (Dad’s Pomeranian) is queen of the castle, of course, </span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfwYyfEXrlFH6rZX9iUSLN5RhOW8BuHuVE19o8YRp7WIG0jkxLgFM92bIDytIJWoF7GWWenxTxz1acXeamfaUniOzX9aIKJsglBb4Q2_k_d47hmi3pLDVbWjB0SbsuKNKH49lZPNxtDFlE/s1600/brad+jen+dd.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfwYyfEXrlFH6rZX9iUSLN5RhOW8BuHuVE19o8YRp7WIG0jkxLgFM92bIDytIJWoF7GWWenxTxz1acXeamfaUniOzX9aIKJsglBb4Q2_k_d47hmi3pLDVbWjB0SbsuKNKH49lZPNxtDFlE/s200/brad+jen+dd.jpg" width="133" /></a><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: small;">but she (mostly) welcomed Scott and Wynette’s three Chihuahuas, Sweet Pea, Merle and Jasmine. None of them was quite sure about Ozzie, Adam and Melody’s Australian Cattle Dog. It was junior high all over again, with all the little dogs ganging up on poor Ozzie. Lots and lots of barking and yapping was heard.</span><span style="font-size: small;"><br style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;" /></span><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: small;"> </span><span style="font-size: small;"><br style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;" /></span><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: small;">--Tour of Hollywood: The day we arrived in LA, it was early enough that we had some tourist time. We rented the car for the week, and headed to Hollywood </span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidZ9YDc17M_o7QHBHiyVG0floS4_ya_WCeh4trysAnEWRgUE6ZjSsjY97C1Wtd3EeyFQXdmPhftQpI9JXsdndmMbTKEUn-4Abxa9bbknVADiVgraESdaEzJIDFnhcnPQRhQ1v1u5du51Tm/s1600/hollywood+stars.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="133" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidZ9YDc17M_o7QHBHiyVG0floS4_ya_WCeh4trysAnEWRgUE6ZjSsjY97C1Wtd3EeyFQXdmPhftQpI9JXsdndmMbTKEUn-4Abxa9bbknVADiVgraESdaEzJIDFnhcnPQRhQ1v1u5du51Tm/s200/hollywood+stars.jpg" width="200" /></a><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: small;">Blvd. We ate lunch at California Pizza Kitchen, with the legendary Hollywood sign in sight. We sat on the patio and watched all the “freaks and geeks” walk by. Best people-watching place ever. We wandered around, saw the stars in the </span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidZ9YDc17M_o7QHBHiyVG0floS4_ya_WCeh4trysAnEWRgUE6ZjSsjY97C1Wtd3EeyFQXdmPhftQpI9JXsdndmMbTKEUn-4Abxa9bbknVADiVgraESdaEzJIDFnhcnPQRhQ1v1u5du51Tm/s1600/hollywood+stars.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: small;">sidewalk on the “Walk of Fame,” saw the set-up for a movie premiere, saw the creepiest Michael Jackson impersonator ever (let’s just say he really did look like MJ), and took a lot of pictures. We got back in the car, and drove up Sunset Blvd, seeing all the sights along the way. Then we hopped on the freeway and headed up to Dad’s. Great day.</span><span style="font-size: small;"><br style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;" /></span><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: small;"> </span><span style="font-size: small;"><br style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;" /></span><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: small;">--Other highlights: Fireworks. Fro-yo. Quirkle. Sunsets. Hot-tubbing. Getting felt up by TSA. Watching the Casey Anthony verdict (don’t get me started). Church at Oak Park. Sharing a room with four others. Jen’s sleep-talking. Old Juan’s. Watching my brothers and sisters-in-love meet Mason.</span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7ELwJXbHW_diMZ1WrKegjLFb6WGGV_46EKZjUlo7VzbxZPK_ugiTG1gdyL61pHmZ32ekaJlzEWs3LE7SuarXlAhmqy3rlNzyX8Xi5FDVDg7nTOd9M-tyjiBUzix5McPOGNBD4NClifU01/s1600/gma+mason.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="133" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7ELwJXbHW_diMZ1WrKegjLFb6WGGV_46EKZjUlo7VzbxZPK_ugiTG1gdyL61pHmZ32ekaJlzEWs3LE7SuarXlAhmqy3rlNzyX8Xi5FDVDg7nTOd9M-tyjiBUzix5McPOGNBD4NClifU01/s200/gma+mason.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Ten days of fun with family… hard to beat that. There were only two negatives, for me. One, </span><span style="font-size: small;">we had some delays on our flights home, but we were thankful that we didn’t end up spending the night on the airport floor.</span><span style="font-size: small;"> Two, </span><span style="font-size: small;">I had a bit of a meltdown when I first walked into Dad’s house. Mom’s been gone for two years, but somewhere deep inside, I still expect her to be standing there at the door waiting for me. I’ll just have to wait for Heaven, where I know she’s standing at the door (probably shoving poor Peter out of the way) waiting for me. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvVbeFsJL6DjVaWmxuW6dn6m6hzqS02xUm3uu2weFbNLy3SarmmY2AKYc_4CwX8952jEOAIOCCbqnQSO9nGrJ94e3H01Omym2TKfKv8jDhQZfSQDXicZ6dh2MeWS1pmE4bTUJmBbHIMR8n/s1600/dad+babies.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvVbeFsJL6DjVaWmxuW6dn6m6hzqS02xUm3uu2weFbNLy3SarmmY2AKYc_4CwX8952jEOAIOCCbqnQSO9nGrJ94e3H01Omym2TKfKv8jDhQZfSQDXicZ6dh2MeWS1pmE4bTUJmBbHIMR8n/s320/dad+babies.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Great-Grandpa with Noah and Mason</td></tr>
</tbody></table></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I know I said I’m a “story-teller” in my initial blog post, and that this blog is sadly lacking in actual stories. This is why I have to blog quickly after events. Otherwise, I get very boring. Sigh.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Arick said something that, for me, summed up the whole trip, and I shall close with it. There we were, gathered around the table, being loud and hilarious, all 14 of us. Arick: “How do we not have our own reality show?!?”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfwYyfEXrlFH6rZX9iUSLN5RhOW8BuHuVE19o8YRp7WIG0jkxLgFM92bIDytIJWoF7GWWenxTxz1acXeamfaUniOzX9aIKJsglBb4Q2_k_d47hmi3pLDVbWjB0SbsuKNKH49lZPNxtDFlE/s1600/brad+jen+dd.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br />
</a></div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxyt7R171ZMR6_gsAgphxr_bUB_TIppJ0xMHaKvaM64RemALEJLBCQ5CrjT0hiiywPWZwyM86U9arKFX1L16qEpF-8nIXH8HVf74YWnvvaq5WyMRt1EFVs16A2HCjhwlwEzvuvcQy5O8a7/s1600/sunset+2.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="267" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxyt7R171ZMR6_gsAgphxr_bUB_TIppJ0xMHaKvaM64RemALEJLBCQ5CrjT0hiiywPWZwyM86U9arKFX1L16qEpF-8nIXH8HVf74YWnvvaq5WyMRt1EFVs16A2HCjhwlwEzvuvcQy5O8a7/s400/sunset+2.jpg" width="400" /></a> <br />
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(All pictures in this post were taken by Kacy)<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxyt7R171ZMR6_gsAgphxr_bUB_TIppJ0xMHaKvaM64RemALEJLBCQ5CrjT0hiiywPWZwyM86U9arKFX1L16qEpF-8nIXH8HVf74YWnvvaq5WyMRt1EFVs16A2HCjhwlwEzvuvcQy5O8a7/s1600/sunset+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br />
</a></div></div>Susiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05837950105694012888noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4875722305318882655.post-57945203720697570692011-07-20T17:41:00.001-05:002011-07-20T17:42:02.918-05:00The Time Has Come.... to Blog.<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">It seems that when someone starts to blog, the first post is always all about why they decided to blog. I really ought to be more original that that, but...</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I'm going to blog, because my youngest daughter, Bonnie, said I must. If this whole thing is a bust, blame her. But if it's awesome, credit me. Actually, today we had lunch at Buffalo Wild Wings, and she presented the whole idea as if it was something she'd been thinking about. It wasn't just a random, throwaway comment. She started out with, "Mom. You know how you have to write a book?" (This is something my family, especially my husby, has been saying for years, yet I haven't agreed to do it.) </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">So, here I am, blogging.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I do tend to be a "story teller." Some might say I just plain talk too much. (Actually, more than "some" would say that.) But I can usually make a story out of even the most every day things. I like to start my stories with the phrase, "So there we were..." We'll see how that works out, in blog form.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">OK, that is enough about "why I'm blogging," and all that blah blah blah. The next one will be a real post.</span></span>Susiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05837950105694012888noreply@blogger.com0