tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32139604890262334732024-03-13T10:46:27.727-04:00Why are all the good blog names taken?Random Thinkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07424966921651648450noreply@blogger.comBlogger258125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3213960489026233473.post-12031453975996244682016-04-19T19:04:00.002-04:002016-04-19T19:04:54.564-04:00The Long Haul<br />
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This is the final post about mom's memorial lunch. We asked dad beforehand if he wanted to speak and he said no. That didn't surprise us. Mom's loss has hit dad hard. He's not much of a speech maker either, more a man of action. <br />
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Nobody sees the inside of a marriage quite like the kids. It's part of being a family. Both the good times and rough times. I won't talk about the rough times other than to say what my parents taught me is you don't give up on your partner or your marriage. People are flawed, be there for them because you ain't always a grand prize yourself. A lesson that has allowed me to build my own loving marriage. <br />
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Mom had many major heart surgeries during her lifetime. One or all of us were always there in the recovery as she woke up or very soon after. Everyone was always overjoyed that she had made it through one more time. This last one was especially tough. My mom was convinced she had pushed her luck one too many times. She was convinced she would be put under and never wake up again. In the recovery room after that last surgery, as she came to my dad had stepped out for a minute. She immediately started to ask for him insistently and wouldn't stop until he came back. He was back right away. She immediately calmed down as they held hands, then looked into each other's eyes with no words and finally hugged. I'll never forget the look that passed between them. I realized how deeply and profoundly they loved and relied on each other. Before that moment I always put the "mom and dad" label on them when I thought of them. In that moment I saw them as a "husband and a wife".<br />
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At the memorial lunch we asked dad again if he wanted to say anything, just to make sure he hadn't changed his mind. He said this, and this only "Love like there's no tomorrow."<br />
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<a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" target="_blank"><img src="http://signatures.mylivesignature.com/54487/147/91691594198D413A8EB14D6C97AC1FC3.png" style="background: white; border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; border-right: 0px; border-top: 0px;" /></a>Random Thinkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07424966921651648450noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3213960489026233473.post-73167495435978047112016-04-16T17:00:00.000-04:002016-04-17T09:25:29.209-04:00Alle Ist Gut<i>This is the last picture shared at Mom's lunch. Chosen by my sister and followed by what she said. The last sentence says it all. Mom's last unprompted words. I hope to pass from this world with as much dignity and self determination as my mother did. She was an inspiration to me until her last breath.</i><br />
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<span style="font-size: 18.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I’ll never
forget my mother’s heart surgeon telling her there was nothing else they could
do for her. We knew then it was the beginning. She and I would talk about
dying, questions like, does everyone get to a point that they </span><span style="font-size: 18pt; line-height: 107%;">know they are
ready? Do I think she will get to see her father?</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 18.0pt; line-height: 107%;"> We had many times this past year when we
thought we would have to say goodbye. But she kept fighting. She wasn’t ready.
She had more living to do. One thing she told me she wanted to do was see her
great-grandchildren. In this picture you see the first time she got to meet her
first great granddaughter, Claire.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 18.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Even though
I wasn’t ready for her to go, in the end she made it very clear that she was.
That comforts me so much to know she found out the answer to that question. As
far as finding out if she will get to see her father, I can only believe she is
with him now and I myself will learn the answer to that question one day.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 18.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I’ve heard
people say to me recently, “She lives on in your heart.” My first reaction is
to say so what, I don’t want her to live on there, I want her right here in the
flesh. What good does living in my heart do? But I know in the days to come this
will be what keeps me moving, going, living, growing.” Amongst many things in
my heart will be what I learned from my mother.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 18.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I learned
how to be a mother. I learned that the will to live is a powerful thing. That
no matter how poor you are you can always be clean. To never buy clothing full
price, always wait for it to go on sale. I learned how to fold fitted bed
sheets, make a bed with hospital corners and keep a clean house. To always wear
clothes that have been ironed. I learned that I am not a wonderful cook like my
mother so marry someone who is. I learned how to make oxtail soup. I learned
that how we treat people and what we do is more important than how we look, as
she said, pretty is as pretty does. I learned that you can love your children
equally. That you do anything for your family. I learned that being sick does
not stop you. That if you truly want something you will do what it takes to
achieve it. I learned not to whine. I learned that we don’t need religion to
lead a spiritual life. I learned that there is no reason to apologize for being
a strong willed, opinionated, fierce woman in this society. I learned how to be
a Lauchstaedt woman. That you never hate people, only the devil hates. I
learned that even though it is not cool, holding your mom’s hand while walking
through the mall as a teenager is nice. To always have a good book to read. I
learned that death can be a beautiful thing and you don’t have to say goodbye.
I learned that everything is alright, as she told me that last night alles ist
gut.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Random Thinkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07424966921651648450noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3213960489026233473.post-70180428456505804642016-04-14T21:23:00.001-04:002016-04-14T21:24:01.323-04:00Have A Seat.<i>This is the third of four pictures my sister and I shared at Mom's memorial lunch. To read my blog you would think I am overtaken by this grief. It's not like that. I laugh. I socialize. I have fun. I don't dwell on my loss. But every day, multiple times during the day, I see or hear something that reminds me of my mother and I am deeply sad. I miss her. </i><br />
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This picture should be a familiar one to anybody who visited
the Wade household. It’s my parents in
their kitchen, sitting across their kitchen table from each. This picture seems ordinary enough at first
glance but to me this picture represents the constancy of my family’s love and
support. As we went through pictures
to share today we were struck at how many of them were taken in this room with
one or both my parents at this table. How many times have I sat at the table
with them? Good times and bad. Laughing, arguing and just living life. <o:p></o:p></div>
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When Erica was a little baby I took her to visit my
mother. As I carried her in her cloth
baby carrier from the car one of the handles slipped from my gloved hand and
Erica tumbled to the ground. I quickly
picked her up. She was screeching at me
angrily and had some scratches on her face.
I panicked and did the only thing I could think to do. I rushed her into the house, holding her in front of me with two outstretched arms, yelling for my
mother to help. There she was sitting at
the table. I held Erica out to her
saying “Is she okay?” over and over again.
My mother calmly took her, checked her over and told me everything was
fine. Only then could I stop panicking.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Many stories have played out at this table. For my mother the last was this past Monday
when she chose to leave the hospital and
come home. When she was carried into the
house she demanded to be taken to her kitchen table. She sat at her side of the table long into
the night, surrounded by the love of her family. Determined to do things on her terms. Strong until the end. <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" target="_blank"><img src="http://signatures.mylivesignature.com/54487/147/91691594198D413A8EB14D6C97AC1FC3.png" style="background: white; border: 0px;" /></a>Random Thinkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07424966921651648450noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3213960489026233473.post-72820808528795788182016-04-12T20:40:00.000-04:002016-04-12T20:55:07.164-04:00Hug Me<i>Below is the second picture from my Mom's memorial. Chosen by my sister Sabrina and followed by what she said. Sabrina and I did not share beforehand what we would say at Mom's memorial. I think hearing my sister's love and grief for our mother was one of the hardest things I dealt with that day. My sister lives across the street from my parents. She was there for Mom day in and day out. My sister is a wonderful person.</i><br />
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How does a
child sum up the life of a mother? Sweet, cuddly, mushy, charming, cute, these
are not words to describe my mother. My mother was stoic, sedulous, proud, classy,
and intelligent.<br />
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<span style="line-height: 107%;">We did not hug much in our family. This never bothered me,
though my sister and I made a conscious decision to start hugging more when we
got together. I didn’t need a hug to
know my mother loved me. </span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 107%;">My mother’s hugs were when my mom would sit with me after
bathtime and work the tangles out of my fine hair, letting me stay up past my
bedtime with the family watching tv together as I very slowly sipped the glass
of water I needed as if I’d been on a desert island for weeks, wrapping my
sister and I up in blankets and her fur coat one winter night because the
furnace had gone out, watching her work so hard to get a college degree even
though she had been told by her teachers in Germany that she was not smart,
coming to my house to clean it when I was a new mother, making oxtail soup
every Christmas Eve even though it took all day and it was not my fathers’
favorite, letting me see her cry when she lost her own mother, calling me in my
young adulthood when life got too busy to tell me she forgot what I looked like
so I would go visit her, sitting with her countless times at the kitchen table
and just talking, about anything and everything, making sure I learned about
God and how to live a spiritual life that is not defined by religion, getting
together for family dinner night, walking together with her hand holding the
crook of my arm, letting me care for her as she became ill. </span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 107%;">These are some of
the hugs my mother gave me. <span style="font-size: 18pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<br />Random Thinkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07424966921651648450noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3213960489026233473.post-23217251792152301242016-04-10T09:06:00.001-04:002016-04-14T21:48:44.709-04:00Determination<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>At Mom's memorial lunch my sister and I each chose two pictures that were special to us. This is the first picture I shared and what I said about it.</i><br />
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I chose this picture because it reminds me how my mother’s determination and resolve has been an inspiration to me throughout my life. This picture was taken in 1970, right after my mother returned from a long visit to Germany. Before that trip she had reached a crossroad in her life. She was restless and unhappy. She loved her family and regretted none of her choices but she wanted something more than she had. She wanted to go to college. She wanted to be out in the world. She wanted to shape her own destiny instead of being led by the circumstances in her life. But there were obstacles. Her own fear and self doubt. Society’s expectation that being a housewife and mother should be enough for her. Where would they get the money? And the seemingly impossible logistics of going to school when she had two young children and a husband who traveled for work. </div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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I believe her trip to Germany was to take stock of where she came from before she stepped forward to create a new life. I remember the adults in my life giving me vague answers about why my mother went away. I remember how excited I was when I found out she was coming home. This picture is the day she returned. Even at my young age I realized when I saw her that there was something very different about her. It wasn’t just her stylish new wardrobe and hairdo. It was her resolve. Here was a woman who had had taken charge and was going to get the things out of life that she wanted. And she did. She went to school, got a degree and then got a job. She was outspoken and independent and she experienced life on her terms. It was such an example to me throughout my life. This was the moment my mother taught me the only thing that could stop me in life was myself. <br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" target="_blank"><img src="http://signatures.mylivesignature.com/54487/147/91691594198D413A8EB14D6C97AC1FC3.png" style="background: white; border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; border-right: 0px; border-top: 0px;" /></a>Random Thinkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07424966921651648450noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3213960489026233473.post-31844559415112137522016-04-07T21:22:00.001-04:002016-04-14T21:48:13.850-04:00Unmoored<i><br /></i>
<i>My mother passed away on January 27th. It was not unexpected but it was nevertheless a shock to lose someone so important in my life. I feel like some of the glue in my life is gone and I need to work hard to keep all the pieces from floating away.</i><br />
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<i>Every day I wake up and at some point within the first 5 minutes it hits me that my mother is dead. And I think "Oh mother." Because I miss her so. I want her back. I'll never have her back.</i><br />
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<i>Over the next few posts I'll share the memories my sister and I shared at </i><i>her memorial luncheon.</i><br />
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<u>Opening</u><br />
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My father, sister and I thank you for joining us today to
share memories of my mother Gisela.
Please bear with my sister and me if we cry a little bit while we’re up
here speaking to you. We’ll simply take a moment to
collect ourselves and then carry on - like our mother taught us to do.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Many people use the word strong when they describe my
mother. She fought a hard battle against
her body for most of her life. She faced those battles with a seemingly endless
supply of courage and a desire to live the life she wanted in spite of her
health. It would appear to most people that her body
won this battle in the end. I tell
you that it didn’t. Her spirit was
strong and noble and good and in the end it triumphed over her body as she
controlled her own destiny until the very end, coming home to spend her last days surrounded by the love of her family.<o:p></o:p></div>
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My mother was more than strong. She was curious and intelligent, always
reading and learning. A deep thinker,
she loved carrying on long conversations and debates about a wide variety of
topics. If you wanted to debate her though,you had better be well prepared,. If you weren't she'd eat you alive. </div>
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Those closest to her know she also
had a love of laughter and fun. In so
many of the pictures around this room she is laughing. The best payoff for me when I told a funny
story was her laughter. When I could
get her to laugh uncontrollably it was the best feeling in the world. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My mother will always be a part of me. I am
comforted by the fact that so much of who she was carries on through her
grandchildren. She was so proud of them
and I see so much of her in them. A
smart, funny and strong group of people. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Please know that she cared deeply about so many of you here. In the last few months, as she talked about
memories, so many of you came up. You were
an important part of her life and I know she’d be happy that you were here to
honor those memories. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’d like to share a poem.
My mother had a special relationship with her father-in-law Marty. They loved many of the same things. This poem was one of them. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: blue;">Invictus <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: blue;">by William
Ernest Henley<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: blue;">Out of the
night that covers me,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: blue;"> Black
as the pit from pole to pole,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: blue;">I thank
whatever gods may be<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: blue;"> For
my unconquerable soul.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: blue;">In the fell
clutch of circumstance<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: blue;"> I
have not winced nor cried aloud.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: blue;">Under the
bludgeonings of chance<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: blue;"> My
head is bloody, but unbowed.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: blue;">Beyond this
place of wrath and tears<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: blue;"> Looms
but the Horror of the shade,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: blue;">And yet the
menace of the years<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: blue;"> Finds
and shall find me unafraid.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: blue;">It matters
not how strait the gate,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: blue;"> How
charged with punishments the scroll,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: blue;">I am the
master of my fate,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: blue;"> I
am the captain of my soul.</span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That was my mother.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9Xz43bC8VL6jmXkKfNcsoHmrBb5HQ_SLJr-M5M9ynbMqIpN20SxEQKAx-XCr7JSfvzYazCWNAfNIhlbdlWBi8kMVYGGhwWyl2HCLHSMWLPTQPtE6FeuyGxP475P5sanhUjYRs6sACQNw/s1600/mom+in+norway.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9Xz43bC8VL6jmXkKfNcsoHmrBb5HQ_SLJr-M5M9ynbMqIpN20SxEQKAx-XCr7JSfvzYazCWNAfNIhlbdlWBi8kMVYGGhwWyl2HCLHSMWLPTQPtE6FeuyGxP475P5sanhUjYRs6sACQNw/s320/mom+in+norway.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" target="_blank"><img src="http://signatures.mylivesignature.com/54487/147/91691594198D413A8EB14D6C97AC1FC3.png" style="background: white; border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; border-right: 0px; border-top: 0px;" /></a>Random Thinkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07424966921651648450noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3213960489026233473.post-37079619493873275002014-08-21T21:14:00.001-04:002014-08-21T21:15:01.965-04:00Shut My Mouth<br />
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<br />
I don't feel qualified to speak about what is going on in Ferguson. I don't know what it's like to be targeted as suspicious simply because of the color of my skin. I don't know what it's like to be pulled over by a police officer for no other reason than being who I am. <br />
<br />
I don't like the police. I don't know why. I just know that they raise in me an instinctual distrust, a drawing in and at the same time a whole lot of defiance. A luxury I'm afforded as a white female. Wonder how brave I'd be if they pulled out their guns on me as I gave them my stoic, evil eyed stare and my smartass mouthiness. Probably not very. <br />
<br />
Saw a post of a friend of a facebook friend about Ferguson that made me just shake my head. "Unlike them, we're civilized. Get your gun and be prepared to shoot to kill those who would harm your life, family and property." Oh the irony.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" target="_blank"><img src="http://signatures.mylivesignature.com/54487/147/91691594198D413A8EB14D6C97AC1FC3.png" style="background: white; border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; border-right: 0px; border-top: 0px;" /></a>Random Thinkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07424966921651648450noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3213960489026233473.post-28487774706247040522014-08-05T20:49:00.001-04:002014-08-05T20:50:32.287-04:00Couldn't Do It<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
<br />
Deleted my last post. I'm actually ashamed of how sappy it was. I can't explain why I lost the desire to blog. At some point the ideas seemed forced and the entries dwindled. Has my life become boring, over-examined, have I said all I have to say? Maybe.<br />
<br />
I know that part of it is I lost interest in posting anything related to my political viewpoint. The more deep the divide between left and right has become the less sway I feel anything I have to say will hold. The political discourse these days is brutal. I read the comments of any story posted to any internet news source and it doesn't take long for me to be both sad and scared. Sad that it to deteriorates into name calling almost immediately. Scared of the extreme opinions of the right who seem to truly believe that our world is about to collapse because of our President's actions. And there's no reasoning with them. Facts are immaterial. So in the face of that I guess I ended up at "Why bother?"<br />
<br />
Well, I know why. Because every single voice that stands in opposition of the madness will eventually drown them out, I hope. So, you know what. Don't send me your campaign literature where you call yourself a "Job creator." To me that means you oppose raising the minimum wage, something that is long overdue. Don't proudly proclaim that you support "Protecting Life." That means you want to control what women do with their bodies. And your 2nd amendment mantra about the right to protect yourself must surely have some boundaries. Why not just let everybody have tanks, and missiles and grenades. Hell, let's arm everyone to the teeth and let it all play out however it goes. The innocents killed along the way are just the necessary collateral damage offered at the altar of "freedom". Do you people hear yourselves? <br />
<br />
Today I voted in the primary election. Every Democrat ran uncontested because they have slim chance of being elected in this gerrymandered district. They'll all be on the ballot in November, I'll vote for them then. Today I hoped to vote for two Republicans to get them on the ballot. The Republicans spots all had at least two candidates for each spot (except Governor and Senator). Some of them are real crackpots. My plan was to vote for two Republicans today. Normally this is done to bring the nut job to the ballot in November and increase the Democrats' chances. No, I wanted to keep the far right fringe as far away from the real ballot as I can. A "normal" Republican would be refreshing for a change. Sadly, in Michigan you can only vote all Republican or all Democrat and I couldn't bring myself to vote for Rick Snyder and Terry Lynn Land. I'm keeping the faith that the Republicans in this district have some sense and don't vote for Kerry Bentovolio or Matthew Edwards.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" target="_blank"><img src="http://signatures.mylivesignature.com/54487/147/91691594198D413A8EB14D6C97AC1FC3.png" style="background: white; border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; border-right: 0px; border-top: 0px;" /></a>Random Thinkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07424966921651648450noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3213960489026233473.post-818713181714916512013-07-15T21:10:00.000-04:002013-07-15T21:17:10.442-04:00Meddling MotherMy lovely Miss Erica, eldest child, only daughter and one of the absolute joys of my life is single again after only two years of marriage. How that happened is not my tale to tell other than to say that this change was gut wrenching for all concerned, each in their own way. My advice from the start has been to dust yourself off, learn the lessons you need to learn and move on. Nothing else to do. You can't change the past so it's wasted time to wish you could.<br />
<br />
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<br />
<br />
Now, about Mike Schramm. I first heard him years ago on a podcast called Wow Insider. It's about the World of Warcraft, a game which I love and play to this day. At that time I was part of a raiding guild that spent a good deal of time trying to defeat digital "bosses". It took coordinated effort and a dedication to achieving the goal. I was mediocre at best but they needed me because I was a healer and not many people are willing to do such a thankless job. I tried to improve by learning as much as I could about the game. That's why I started listening to this podcast.<br />
<br />
I liked Mike Schramm's style. He is easygoing, smart, funny, eager to learn, open minded and not afraid to laugh at himself. All good qualities in a person. When he left that podcast and moved on to another I followed. It was a different format, less formal but a lot of fun to listen to. <br />
<br />
Then Mike took a trip to Europe and that's how I discovered his blog. He's a really good writer, not surprising given the easy way he talks to his podcast audience. His writing is the same. At some point I facebook friended him. His posts make me smile. When I read and heard he was going to Berlin I messaged him some recommendations for his visit to one of my favorite cities. He took my advice about a restaurant and I was thrilled to hear him actually mention it on his podcast. Silly I know, but it was nice to have a semi-personal connection with someone whose work I admired.<br />
<br />
Back to my daughter, at some point, during a discussion with her about plenty of fish in the sea I think I said something like "There are plenty of Mike Schramm's out there." She responded with a sigh and asked who Mike Schramm was. I told her the tale I just told you and then suggested she FB friend him. She did and she's noticed the same qualities I have, especially his great sense of humor. I kept telling her I'd be happy to message him that if he liked my restaurant tip he would love the one about meeting my daughter. She absolutely forbade me from doing it. Fine.<br />
<br />
Then Mike started planning a driving trip out west. He crowd funded his trip as a travel blog and I backed him. My motive was to support and encourage a great writer. I really enjoyed reading the blog posts from his European vacation. I chose the level where I would receive a souvenir from his travels. Then I received an email from Mike asking me to forward my request for a personal picture since I had qualified for that on top of my souvenir. That's when the wheels started turning.<br />
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<br />
I requested the picture above and the affable Mike Schramm happily complied. My daughter was mortified, well a little embarrassed at least. Maybe they won't ever have dinner but my message remains the same.... there are plenty of Mike Schramm's out there - fours on the four point scale..... smart, funny, handsome and tall..... .sorry, we're a tall family so it merits a point.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" target="_blank"><img src="http://signatures.mylivesignature.com/54487/147/91691594198D413A8EB14D6C97AC1FC3.png" style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; border: 0px;" /></a>Random Thinkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07424966921651648450noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3213960489026233473.post-59362822155909134632013-04-09T20:43:00.002-04:002013-04-24T21:44:35.891-04:00RawWords come hard when you lose someone you cared about. But I feel like they need to be said, or written. Scott was one of the most genuine people I have ever met and also one of the most intense. He was like a roller coaster, thrilling and scary and raw. He died this week after a year long battle with cancer. Sad. But as he wrote to me once, "So long as your memories of me live so do I."<br />
<br />
Scott was a music lover. He loved all types of music and felt it in his soul. To this day I've never seen someone get lost in the music like he did. I'll never forget the day we were riding in the car and heard on the radio that John Lennon had been shot. He was heartbroken. He felt it. Music would never be the same and he knew it. He was depressed for weeks. Genuinely depressed. That's what I mean about real.<br />
<br />
He was a writer too, though he came late to it. When he wrote from the heart that raw intensity of his came through. I was lucky enough to read his writing over the last few years. He brought tears to my eyes sometimes. "I wonder when I die will I become a dream?" <br />
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<br />
<br />
Scott's roller coaster ride was one I couldn't take with him. He and I broke up thirty years ago. We both knew it wasn't going to work. That doesn't diminish what we shared. It also doesn't make our lives after each other any less meaningful. He had an impact on who I am today and I can't change that. Wouldn't want to. When I have to steel myself to say what needs to be said to someone, no matter how hard, it's Scott behind me. He never cared what anybody thought..... anybody. When I hear certain songs I hear him singing them, even today. <br />
<br />
I wish him well on the journey he travels today. I'm sure he's telling somebody what's what with a spark in his eye and with a heartfelt passion that is so real it's a wonder to behold.<br />
<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" target="_blank"><img src="http://signatures.mylivesignature.com/54487/147/91691594198D413A8EB14D6C97AC1FC3.png" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: white; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; border-bottom-color: initial; border-bottom-style: initial; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-left-color: initial; border-left-style: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-color: initial; border-right-style: initial; border-right-width: 0px; border-top-color: initial; border-top-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px;" /></a>Random Thinkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07424966921651648450noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3213960489026233473.post-28798011798955566132012-12-18T19:53:00.000-05:002012-12-18T19:53:24.355-05:00Heedless of the Wind & Weather<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
Today I drove by the spot where I lived when my first child was born. It was back in 1986. So long ago I have a hard time remembering much from back then. I do remember that the love for my new baby girl was immediate and complete. I gazed upon that sweet little monkey face and hoped she would have a happy life. I still do, every day. She is a strong young woman who makes me proud. She'll have her ups and her downs but she can get through most anything.<br />
<br />
You never know how things are going to turn out. You start down a path that you think could only lead to one place, then boom, you find yourself in a completely different spot. Sometimes it's your own doing, sometimes not, but either way it can be a shock. It's life though, isn't it? Moving forward, adjusting, adapting, doing the best you can. All while you have the time. Because as we see every day, our time is finite.<br />
<br />
Hug the people you love while you can and then eat, drink, and be merry. Fortunately, tis the season for it. <br />
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<a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" target="_blank"><img src="http://signatures.mylivesignature.com/54487/147/91691594198D413A8EB14D6C97AC1FC3.png" style="background: white; border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; border-right: 0px; border-top: 0px;" /></a>Random Thinkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07424966921651648450noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3213960489026233473.post-16030577570761920252012-09-12T22:52:00.001-04:002012-09-12T23:02:53.594-04:00Artist<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8ccRfWZNi0N81RI7pREmFxFVIoPQfDM5gZqxLUSeEI3LHUCOQl4maQ0vL9m0dsmwEpevTkSoLw-gpBtKxCO_C5f2JWjlJd_RZ1BCoDwagd62VlnsOGplqNKo6sHGtfZMxAYo6NUKx3GE/s1600/musician.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8ccRfWZNi0N81RI7pREmFxFVIoPQfDM5gZqxLUSeEI3LHUCOQl4maQ0vL9m0dsmwEpevTkSoLw-gpBtKxCO_C5f2JWjlJd_RZ1BCoDwagd62VlnsOGplqNKo6sHGtfZMxAYo6NUKx3GE/s320/musician.jpg" width="226" /></a></div><br />
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I had a conversation with my husband recently about music. He and I like the same stuff for the most part. He gets into the blues a little more than me.... I like it but it doesn't move me as much as Motown, for instance. I was saying to him that there are just some artists that you can feel their heart and soul in the music. <br />
They do it because they have to do it, not because of the latest deal they made. The Stones, Beatles, Bowie, were my examples. Then Bob Seger entered the debate. Now, I have nothing against Seger. He's good. But I wouldn't put him in the same category as the three I just mentioned. At some point he just started cranking them out.<br />
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The conversation came up after we had recently gone to Pine Knob to see the Winter brothers. When you see Edgar Winter perform Frankenstein on stage you are watching someone who lives the music they play. It was like watching a virtuoso. He lived that performance. Opening for him was Rick Derringer of Rock and Roll Hoochie Koo fame. Rick also did Hang on Sloopy. Both respectable songs.... but I'm telling you it just wasn't the same compared to what Edgar did on stage. <br />
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<a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" target="_blank"><img src="http://signatures.mylivesignature.com/54487/147/91691594198D413A8EB14D6C97AC1FC3.png" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: white; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; border-bottom-color: initial; border-bottom-style: initial; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-left-color: initial; border-left-style: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-color: initial; border-right-style: initial; border-right-width: 0px; border-top-color: initial; border-top-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px;" /></a>Random Thinkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07424966921651648450noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3213960489026233473.post-36854331939029311822012-08-21T22:51:00.002-04:002012-08-21T23:00:18.310-04:00Realize the Dream<div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #741b47;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Ambition should be made of sterner stuff. ~ William Shakespeare</span></span></div><br />
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I always have such grand plans. It all works out beautifully in my head beforehand. It's during the execution phase that things all start to fall to pieces. As evidence I present the quilt I started working on 12 years ago. It's nearly finished. All I have to do is actually quilt the top part to a bottom part with some stuffing stuff in the center. But the joining of the quilt pieces is a little sloppy so I lost my enthusiasm. It doesn't match the beautiful quilt I had in my head. So there my quilt sits in a corner of my craft room in a bag.<br />
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My craft room. A whole room dedicated to the wondrous accomplishments I could achieve if only I would put my mind to it. I have materials for scrapbooking, jewelry making, crocheting, magnet making and cross stitching. Not to mention odds and ends I picked up with no purpose in mind other than some wonderfully crafty thing I could use them for with a little imagination. That room contains so many projects patiently waiting for me to come finish them. Sad to say, most of them wait in vain.<br />
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In the days before the internet I could multi-task. I'd crochet or cross stitch while watching TV. Since the internet came along to feed my endlessly wandering mind I don't finish nearly as many things as I used to. <br />
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We have been asked to go to the annual Renaissance Festival with some good friends. We went with them a few years ago. They go all out and dress up. They have costumes that they have slowly been adding to over the years. It's awesome. I've talked about getting a costume for the Renaissance Festival for years. This year we're doing it.<br />
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Jim and I are going to be Vikings. But not dime store Vikings with plastic horned helmets. If we're doing this we're doing it right. I want to be as authentic as possible. I discovered that Viking women wore apron dresses. While researching this I came across several "easy" do-it-yourself" patterns for this dress. You see where this is going don't you? I decided to make my own dress, complete with the under kirtle.<br />
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I'm ashamed to admit that this blog post is being used as a stalling tactic. Right now I'm in the sweet spot on this project. I have the plan. I have the materials. I'm ready to begin. In my head it's all still going to work out beautifully. But the minute I start to put it all together, poof, the dream is gone. I just hope the dress ends up being wearable.<br />
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<a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" target="_blank"><img src="http://signatures.mylivesignature.com/54487/147/91691594198D413A8EB14D6C97AC1FC3.png" style="background: white; border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; border-right: 0px; border-top: 0px;" /></a>Random Thinkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07424966921651648450noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3213960489026233473.post-3400944712552102532012-07-21T17:38:00.000-04:002012-07-21T17:38:40.506-04:00Things to do.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTX5e987qBqcBLshTuvX-V_e401WcykYNFPtHP0zeBdJ6DsUqQkCa1DS1-TYlOtLh6w8e6ll3tYjhqWEVYdS00gB69U4pQxtbA1FbHWwcGwSayXwcEKqZk5PdmYHoKxnkATnpgUPzF5qU/s1600/nap.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTX5e987qBqcBLshTuvX-V_e401WcykYNFPtHP0zeBdJ6DsUqQkCa1DS1-TYlOtLh6w8e6ll3tYjhqWEVYdS00gB69U4pQxtbA1FbHWwcGwSayXwcEKqZk5PdmYHoKxnkATnpgUPzF5qU/s320/nap.jpg" width="213" /></a></div><br />
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I'm not a napper. Not a regular one anyway. My disdain for napping started when I was a child. I was forced to nap, like every kid. As I lay on my bed, wide awake, I felt powerless. My parents controlled every aspect of my life, even my consciousness. Don't they understand that I don't want to nap? I'm not tired. Finally, sleep would come and the next thing I knew my mother was shaking me awake saying "Get out of bed." Really? It was like some sort of sadistic game they played. Go to sleep, wake up, go to sleep, wake up. Alright already, I'm up! What am I? Your puppet?<br />
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Once I got older I took matters into my own hands. Napping became an accidental affair. If I happened to fall asleep while reading or watching TV, so be it. It was rarely intentional. Not only do I feel like I'm missing out on things while sleeping the day away, I just generally feel like crap after a nap. My brain is foggy and I have no energy. It ruins the rest of the day for me.<br />
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I realize I'm in the minority. People love naps. Some people say the word nap as though they were talking about orgasms. " I love naps." "I couldn't live without my naps." There are people I know who treat naps as ritual affairs. My mother did. She took one every day. Draw the drapes, shut the doors and everybody be quiet. This felt like control to me too. Shhhh, be quiet, I'm sleeping. The world of the waking must stand still while I am napping. <br />
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Now that I'm not so young anymore my body is betraying me. Once again bowing to forces beyond my control. I can no longer resist taking a nap here and there. I don't like it but my body demands it. Curse you naps. Don't you know I have things to do?<br />
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<a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" target="_blank"><img src="http://signatures.mylivesignature.com/54487/147/91691594198D413A8EB14D6C97AC1FC3.png" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: white; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; border-bottom-color: initial; border-bottom-style: initial; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-left-color: initial; border-left-style: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-color: initial; border-right-style: initial; border-right-width: 0px; border-top-color: initial; border-top-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px;" /></a>Random Thinkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07424966921651648450noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3213960489026233473.post-42646599315679592862012-05-25T18:41:00.004-04:002012-05-25T18:47:37.770-04:00Reason to Be Proud<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><br />
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<div style="font-size: small;"><div style="font-family: arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">There's a myth on the Lauchstaedt side of the family that mothers favor their sons above their daughters. For at least the last four generations in my lifetime it seems to be true. My great grandmother adored her son I am told and tolerated her daughter (my grandmother). In turn my grandmother worshiped the ground that my Uncle Dieter walked upon. The tradition passed on down to my aunts on that side of the family with all of their sons being placed on a pedestal. I think it's less true of my generation but the propensity leads me to be careful about how much praise I heap upon my son. Not to mention the fact that his sister, for reasons of her own, believes I was easier on him.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I confess my guilt on this last count. I </span>always saw my daughter as an extension of me. There wasn't a lot of mystery with her, I usually knew where she was coming from. I was once a girl, a teen and a young woman too. I had felt the same feelings, had the same fears. I spent most my time trying to help her avoid the mistakes I had made growing up. But my son was always a complete and utter mystery to me. Most of my time with him was spent trying to crack the code and figure him out. Add to that the fact that I had to counteract his father being tougher on him than on our daughter and it ended up being a completely different mothering experience. But they know that I love them both dearly and would do anything in the world for them.</div></div><div style="font-family: arial; font-size: small;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: arial; font-size: small;">All that seems like a long way to go just to share a video of my son's band but, like I said, I'm sensitive about over praising. My son Wade has a great big heart, a good sense of humor and a healthy appreciation for a good practical joke. I didn't realize he was a performer though until I saw him in a grade school show doing a dead-on impersonation of Michael Jackson, complete with the moonwalking. I remember being impressed by not only his performance but also how at ease he seemed to be on stage. Through the rest of his schooling he seemed to have an eye for art as well. My husband, the vigilant one, made sure he took guitar lessons as he was growing up. The guitar teacher said more than once that Wade had a knack for it. I was certainly proud but tried to not get too over excited about it. After all, if he were a prodigy we certainly would have known.</div><div style="font-family: arial; font-size: small;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: arial; font-size: small;">About a year ago Wade and some of his buddies started a band. They practiced for the first few months in his girlfriend's barn. As winter set in though it got to be too cold so he asked if they could practice in the basement. Sure, why not. The first thing I noticed is they sounded really good. Then I realized I didn't recognize any of the songs. I asked Wade about it and he said that was because he wrote them. I flashed back to his Michael Jackson skit. Really? You wrote that stuff. Where did you get that talent? They've been practicing here for several months and they have improved a lot. The video clip below is three songs they played at an open mic night at the Tap Room in Ypsi. Wade is up front and center playing guitar. The enthusiastic fan is his girlfriend. My favorite is the third song. Am I gushing too much?</div><div><br />
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<a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" target="_blank"><img src="http://signatures.mylivesignature.com/54487/147/91691594198D413A8EB14D6C97AC1FC3.png" style="background: white; border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; border-right: 0px; border-top: 0px;" /></a>Random Thinkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07424966921651648450noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3213960489026233473.post-65107115803659704372012-04-30T19:12:00.004-04:002012-04-30T20:00:09.706-04:00GFBT2012<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Final countdown to the big trip. We've been counting down since last September and finally it's upon us. Together with our good friends/Vegas travel companions/wine buddies we booked something we call the GFBT-2012. GFBT = Going for Broke Tour, so dubbed because it is a six day trip where we will compete to see if we spend more money on wine during our three days in Napa California or on gambling during our three days in Las Vegas. It was a stroke of genius calling it the GFBT. It's offered instant guidance on many key decisions 1) which car to rent, 2) which room at the Mirage to book, 3) drive from winery to winery or book a car and driver, 4) which restaurants to eat at. Duh..... going for broke. </span><br />
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</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">This past weekend the four of us got together and over dinner and some nice wine, planned the details we don't want to leave to chance, (restaurants, wineries to visit). The remnants are shown above. I know it looks like a lot of wine but I'd like to add some perspective. You should keep in mind that one bottle of wine is like drinking one and a half bottles of pop (750ml) and wine's better for you than pop. Plus it was a really long evening. Not the longest wine night but the wine to time ratio was within reason.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">This trip couldn't come at a better time for me. Going through some really tough stuff in the mother department, being one.... not having one (though with nods to my kids and apologies to my mother, I admit both can be challenging). </span></div></div></div><div style="font-family: arial; font-size: small;"><br />
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<a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" target="_blank"><img src="http://signatures.mylivesignature.com/54487/147/91691594198D413A8EB14D6C97AC1FC3.png" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: white; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; border-bottom-color: initial; border-bottom-style: initial; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-left-color: initial; border-left-style: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-color: initial; border-right-style: initial; border-right-width: 0px; border-top-color: initial; border-top-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px;" /></a>Random Thinkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07424966921651648450noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3213960489026233473.post-35202948088907036212012-02-27T21:48:00.003-05:002012-04-28T17:02:45.292-04:00Are you watching? Are you?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Watching a bit of the Oscars last night I was reminded how much I dislike Angelina Jolie. There's another actress I dislike just as much, if not a wee bit more, Nicole Kidman. I dislike these two so much I refuse to watch any of their movies. I've been trying to figure out exactly what it is about them I don't like. Since they both elicit a scowl and a slow shaking of my head I'm pretty sure it's for the same reason. <br />
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It's not the red hair. I like plenty of red headed actresses. I'm not jealous of their current or former sexy husbands. Though Tom and Brad are both very good looking, neither strikes me as particularly intelligent and that is a deal breaker in my book. The girls are welcome to them. It's not that they aren't good actresses. ( I refuse to call them actors. Get over it. Actress is a perfectly fine word.) After some thought I finally figured it out. It's how they carry themselves. Every move seems orchestrated and mechanical. They aren't genuine. They seem to be pretending to be somebody they aren't. All the while being overly interested in the reactions they get from people. Like a little girl showing off to a table full of adults. They have different styles though. Angelina is the bad girl and Nicole is the good girl.<br />
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Angelina's little leg move at the Oscar's is a perfect example of her style. She's always tries to be in your face and irreverent with her big pouty lips. It just ends up being weird and uncomfortable. In the beginning I liked her. Then came the nonsense about kissing her brother. Plus the way that she and Billy Bob flaunted their sexuality in front of everybody really turned me off. It seemed like such a show. The last straw was when she stole Brad away from Jennifer. Calm down....... I know you can't steal anybody who doesn't want to be stolen but a decent woman doesn't mess with someone's husband, period. Angelina just doesn't seem stable. I'd bet money that one of these days she'll go mad in a very public way. She'll just start cackling like a crazy she-devil and pulling her own hair out.</div>
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Nicole on the other hand puts on the demure, sweet and innocent act. She giggles a lot and bats her eyelashes. If it were in fashion to carry fans she would be seen holding one up to her face and fanning frantically, as if she had the vapors. Underneath all that gentility though I get the feeling like she could turn on you for saying the wrong thing. I can imagine her screeching before she goes off on a kicking-scratching-biting fit aimed at someone who's made her angry. She reminds me of a lady Jim and I used to share a house with. Sweet as brown sugar in front of others and then crazy as a loon when the visitors left. you can see it in her eyes. Tom knows what I'm talking about.<br />
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I consider myself lucky that neither of them chooses roles in comedy, science fiction, fantasy films or post apocalyptic films. It would be quite the dilemma for me. </div>
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<a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" target="_blank"><img src="http://signatures.mylivesignature.com/54487/147/91691594198D413A8EB14D6C97AC1FC3.png" style="background: white; border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; border-right: 0px; border-top: 0px;" /></a>Random Thinkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07424966921651648450noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3213960489026233473.post-45082692357465547712012-01-27T18:27:00.000-05:002012-01-27T18:27:50.210-05:00Abuela<div style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.wylio.com/credits/flickr/2760461551" title="license: http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0/ - click to view more info about 'Egret's Regrets' or find free 'regret' pictures via Wylio"><img alt="'Egret's Regrets' photo (c) 2008, *~Dawn~* - license: http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0/" height="398" src="http://lh4.ggpht.com/-sjN7eI8_dlg/TyMyx-dN6nI/AAAAAAAAAsg/wW8kixIjBZA/Flickr-2760461551.jpg" style="float: none; margin: 10px auto;" width="500" /></a></div><div style="font-family: arial; font-size: small;">When I reached middle age I began to imagine myself as a grandmother. I often wondered whether my grandchildren would love me as much as they would love their other grandmother. I imagined this unknown rival for my grandchildren's affection as a petite, sweet woman. Surely she would be all smiles and hugs and chocolate chip cookies, typical grandmother material. How would I ever compete? Me - towering over them with my pragmatism, sarcasm and biting wit. </div><div style="font-family: arial; font-size: small;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: arial; font-size: small;">My own life experience should have made me realize these thoughts were ridiculous. I was fortunate enough to get to know both my grandmothers. I never compared the love I had for each of them. I loved them equally but in different ways. </div><div style="font-family: arial; font-size: small;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: arial; font-size: small;">My paternal grandmother was very involved in my life. I saw her regularly until her death when I was 30 years old. I knew her strengths and her weaknesses and loved her dearly. She was an intelligent, beautiful woman who always managed to make me feel special. My maternal grandmother lived in Germany. I saw her rarely. When I did see her I needed a translator because she didn't speak English and I didn't speak German. Even so, I was captivated by her quiet, calm demeanor. Her personal stories of WWII Germany were told in the most matter of fact way despite the horror she faced. She was a strong, sensible woman who didn't let her difficult life diminish the joy she took in living. </div><div style="font-family: arial; font-size: small;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: arial; font-size: small;"> Choosing which one I loved more would be preposterous. They were both a part of me and me of them. It wasn't a contest. </div><div style="font-family: arial; font-size: small;"><div><div><br />
</div><div>I met my daughter's mother-in-law at the wedding in October 2009. She was sweet and kind and loving and tiny. A strong contender for the affection of our future grandchildren. But instead of confirming my worst fears I suddenly realized that any thoughts of rivalry were complete and utter nonsense. She and her husband seemed like family from the minute we met. Such wonderful people. My daughter couldn't have picked a better family to become a part of. How lucky my grandkids would be to have one big, loving family. I began to imagine the joy she and I would share, both being grandmothers to the same wonderful grandchildren. </div><div><br />
</div><div>Sadly, this wonderful woman passed away last May. I think about her often. She was a special woman. I feel ashamed now of my petty worries about who would be favorite. I am overcome with sadness when I think about the loss her husband and sons must bear every day. I am also deeply sad for the grandchildren who will never know her gentle kindness, her genuine warmth and her loving hugs. They will have to rely on their father to tell them what a special person she was. I would gladly play second fiddle to her if only it would bring her back. All I'll be able to do though is give those grandkids an extra little squeeze from her every time I hug them, and I will. </div></div><div><br />
</div></div><br />
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<a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" target="_blank"><img src="http://signatures.mylivesignature.com/54487/147/91691594198D413A8EB14D6C97AC1FC3.png" style="background: white; border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; border-right: 0px; border-top: 0px;" /></a>Random Thinkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07424966921651648450noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3213960489026233473.post-45386823002433821522011-11-19T15:21:00.002-05:002011-11-19T15:45:16.365-05:00Be careful that your "Line in the Sand" isn't really drawn in cement.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggpfOhXsDazoNdByigVrGmVjNw519RdlMB_xeBJmPPRb2I3hTZ9HBtg8xcRsfVmP99xsGH0uR09JDdwb0W-lvKxS-o0hUxU12qlaV9GRVx8eRIp4pjG3bbeki9jpJFT88MVxA6lrz0LlU/s1600/hardass.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="82" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggpfOhXsDazoNdByigVrGmVjNw519RdlMB_xeBJmPPRb2I3hTZ9HBtg8xcRsfVmP99xsGH0uR09JDdwb0W-lvKxS-o0hUxU12qlaV9GRVx8eRIp4pjG3bbeki9jpJFT88MVxA6lrz0LlU/s320/hardass.png" width="320" /></a></div><br />
Is your story about what a hardass you are so fragile that you are willing to ruin family relationships over it? I guess they really weren't that important to you in the first place. One after the other.<br />
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<a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" target="_blank"><img src="http://signatures.mylivesignature.com/54487/147/91691594198D413A8EB14D6C97AC1FC3.png" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: white; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; border-bottom-color: initial; border-bottom-style: initial; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-left-color: initial; border-left-style: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-color: initial; border-right-style: initial; border-right-width: 0px; border-top-color: initial; border-top-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px;" /></a>Random Thinkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07424966921651648450noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3213960489026233473.post-36898129759029474522011-11-13T09:29:00.000-05:002011-11-13T09:29:33.502-05:00They Don't Wear Buttons<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_zrPQyCUlkFK9smDzlQMAt59Nsvo9I55foaQPfmNHeMhkRAvtv0LJ5QJNhK1gCEQxvDSXGTZG7R_PBeDAhaKiQ86DMQlq66lJlAGgT03mN7Gg3xU85gA7GsAk-_dz1BKscM4GI1Ass3U/s1600/evil.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_zrPQyCUlkFK9smDzlQMAt59Nsvo9I55foaQPfmNHeMhkRAvtv0LJ5QJNhK1gCEQxvDSXGTZG7R_PBeDAhaKiQ86DMQlq66lJlAGgT03mN7Gg3xU85gA7GsAk-_dz1BKscM4GI1Ass3U/s1600/evil.jpg" /></a></div>Monsters don't wear buttons. It's in their best interest to blend in with the rest of us. To look like the "nice guy next door", "the faithful husband", or even "the well respected coach". Sadly, the people who end up seeing what lurks in a monster's heart are his victims.<br />
<br />
We had a next door neighbor in the old neighborhood who was a monster. At least his suicide leads me to believe the stories were true. Having served time in prison for selling drugs I think he knew what was in store for him once his girlfriend called the police. He had been messing around with her very young daughters. Probably not a predator but a sick opportunist. He slit his wrists while lying in a bathtub full of water. <br />
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I had lived next door to the man for 15 years and never would have suspected. He seemed pretty harmless to me. I guess to grown ups he was. <br />
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Creeps are different than monsters. They're openly slimy. Like the cashier at the grocery store who can't take his eyes off of the women's chests. All the while he has a disgusting lecherous smile on his face. Creeps are easy to avoid. Just pick a different line.<br />
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But watch out for monsters. Don't assume that the unthinkable is impossible. That so and so would never do such and such. That's what monsters want you to think.<br />
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<a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" target="_blank"><img src="http://signatures.mylivesignature.com/54487/147/91691594198D413A8EB14D6C97AC1FC3.png" style="background: white; border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; border-right: 0px; border-top: 0px;" /></a>Random Thinkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07424966921651648450noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3213960489026233473.post-10423920964186036292011-10-21T12:29:00.000-04:002011-10-21T12:29:59.555-04:00Same as I've Always Been<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: arial; font-size: x-small;"></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqGo-lGETCNqrczVbNokwsWJvV_T3EtRz8lzTyvtpByhUQlZqORg25zkrjfk5uAgvFZpwvYEWUElXawa4T6QylSTkutlJx8iSbMUA72H4YEooibHmhKlO3o79qNbM28U2By5vsGzdiX1c/s1600/invisible3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqGo-lGETCNqrczVbNokwsWJvV_T3EtRz8lzTyvtpByhUQlZqORg25zkrjfk5uAgvFZpwvYEWUElXawa4T6QylSTkutlJx8iSbMUA72H4YEooibHmhKlO3o79qNbM28U2By5vsGzdiX1c/s320/invisible3.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div><br />
</div><div><br />
</div><div>The farther I get into middle age the more marginalized I feel. Young adults, strangers and family alike, have a way of talking to me lately that makes me feel like they are drawing on some deep reserve of patience to get through their interchange with me. I have become mostly invisible to the younger generation. When they are forced to deal with me it often doesn't go well. My life experience sometimes puts me a step ahead of them. I'm anticipating where things are going to go and try to skip a few steps to get us where we are going to end up anyway. After all, time is getting shorter and shorter for me. I want to hurry these mundane interactions along as much as possible. They don't hear that I just gave them the answer to the next five questions they are going to ask. They roll their eyes, sigh and go back to question one. I sigh, roll my eyes back at them and go through their step by step routine with them. Then they think I'm cranky as well as clueless. </div><div><div><br />
</div><div>In my own family I see the young people's lives expanding and growing beyond my realm. Not just my realm of influence but also of inclusion. They have big, busy, successful lives that I am a smaller and smaller part of. They are independent grownups leading full and rich lives. I am happy for them. Even so I still find myself feeling left out sometimes or worrying that I'm being a nuisance when I call. Sometimes after I talk to one of them I think to myself "I wonder if this is how Mom felt when this happened to her?" It makes me wish I could go back in time having experienced the dynamics of both sides. I would have been more understanding and patient. A little less, "yeah, yeah Mom, I know......" </div></div><div><br />
</div><div>I have my own life and most parts of it are better than they have ever been, my marriage, my relationships with friends and family, my confidence in who I am and what I am about. But this shift in my position within society and especially my family is unsettling. I waited a few days to post this. I know my kids read my blog and I don't want them to get the wrong idea or to feel bad. I don't want sympathy or for them to change anything. Just to know that I understand things are different and that it's going to take some getting used to. I'll get through it.</div><br />
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<a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" target="_blank"><img src="http://signatures.mylivesignature.com/54487/147/91691594198D413A8EB14D6C97AC1FC3.png" style="background: white; border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; border-right: 0px; border-top: 0px;" /></a>Random Thinkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07424966921651648450noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3213960489026233473.post-29173650360020532082011-09-28T22:27:00.002-04:002011-09-28T22:30:58.503-04:00Not Worth It<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: arial;"><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSfIbsYhDlYTECtzn6QRZjtshWqSY6YMKPvw3Ki5Luy_H6NBiU1xYLakkH-KPm2OzUPswEPcshJdg8EHJA1-pfKZGsJS7-RK9acW9UaTX6oDdLii67EdkWiY7bEzsFL4W2hRsDJJ3MN3w/s1600/roadrage-300x199.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSfIbsYhDlYTECtzn6QRZjtshWqSY6YMKPvw3Ki5Luy_H6NBiU1xYLakkH-KPm2OzUPswEPcshJdg8EHJA1-pfKZGsJS7-RK9acW9UaTX6oDdLii67EdkWiY7bEzsFL4W2hRsDJJ3MN3w/s1600/roadrage-300x199.jpg" /></a></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: arial;"><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: arial;">I'm not sure when the freeways of this country turned into Mad Max all day, every day. It's been a gradual sort of thing. I would wager that the decline in civility closely tracks the increase in both the average video game hours played per US citizen and the number of reality TV shows being aired. We've lost our ability to empathize with one another. The cars around us aren't filled with other human beings living the same sorts of lives we do. They are competitors, trying to get an edge over me, take advantage of me, God forbid - get one or two cars ahead of me. People cut you off, don't use their blinkers, won't let you in when you use your blinker. Everybody is out for themselves, screw the next guy. </span><br />
<div style="font-family: arial;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: arial;">I am just as guilty as the next person too. I recently had a whole line of cars refuse to let me into their lane even though I was approaching a construction barricade with nowhere else to go. I hadn't tried to zip ahead of anybody. I tried to get over as soon as I saw the merge sign. I didn't do anything to warrant this animosity. Clearly the only motivation was not wanting another person in front of them. I don't know where they thought I was going to go. I had to merge. I finally muscled my way in. </div><div style="font-family: arial;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: arial;">I could have left it there, ignored the lane blockers. Instead, in keeping with Mad Max rules, I did my best to give back as good as I got. I let everybody who had been behind me in the merging lane go in front of me. The lane blockers had to sit and watch as car after car pulled in front of them. They were furious. I cackled madly at them. It felt like a victory. I had a car full of people. Looking back on it, not one of my better moments, quite the maniacal spectacle to behold. <br />
<div><div><br />
</div><div>Every day I drive the same freeway to and from work. M14 between Plymouth and Ann Arbor. The same drama plays out every day. Left lane is for faster traffic and right lane is for slower traffic. The left lane generally moves along at an acceptable pace. Occasionally somebody goes too slowly and you pass when you can. Every single day one or more people come speeding up from the right lane, even though they clearly see that the right lane is blocked and at some point they will have to cut somebody off to get back into the left lane. I feel my blood pressure rising. I start thinking "Oh no you don't". Then I realize I've got a death grip in the steering wheel and am tailgating to keep people from getting into the left lane. </div><div><br />
</div><div>Stop. Take a deep breath. Think about this for a minute. It's not going to kill me to let them in. I'm not actually teaching them any lessons. They'll be back the next day doing it all over again. I back off and let them go in front of me. </div><div><br />
</div><div>When I am nice and considerate you should see how smug and satisfied I am with myself. When I take pity on some poor soul and wave them into the spot in front of me. I act as if I've just performed some great humanitarian act. See how considerate I am? I'm not like the rest of these barbarians. I get so mad when people don't acknowledge my courtesy. A wave? I don't get a wave? This small act of benevolence is way out proportion with the huge pat on the back I give myself. Shouldn't this be the standard? Some patience, consideration and a little bit of "live and let live" would go a long way towards making everybody a little less stressed out all the freaking time.</div></div></div><div style="font-family: arial;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: arial;">The more I think about this the more parallels I see to the current political landscape. No ground will be given so everything must be seized. </div><br />
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<a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" target="_blank"><img src="http://signatures.mylivesignature.com/54487/147/91691594198D413A8EB14D6C97AC1FC3.png" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: white; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; border-bottom-color: initial; border-bottom-style: initial; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-left-color: initial; border-left-style: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-color: initial; border-right-style: initial; border-right-width: 0px; border-top-color: initial; border-top-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px;" /></a>Random Thinkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07424966921651648450noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3213960489026233473.post-91584513745263109402011-09-11T19:42:00.005-04:002011-09-12T19:11:03.663-04:00Never the SameOf course I remember where I was on September 11, 2001.<br />
<br />
I had just finished having breakfast with somebody we were thinking about re-hiring at work. He was a friend too. It was a nice breakfast. It was a beautiful fall day. I got to the office, sat down at my desk and immediately got a phone call from my husband. He said "They're crashing planes into the World Trade Center." I didn't believe him. Then I saw all the commotion out in the office. People on the phone, people talking in a very animated way. I stepped outside my office door. Everybody else was saying the same thing.<br />
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I'm sure most of you were glued to your TVs throughout the day, like I was. I was horrified, shocked and yet somehow it seemed unreal. This couldn't really be happening. Then rumors started about other planes not accounted for, other targets. We let everybody go home. Nobody knew how widespread it was or when it would stop. <br />
<br />
I thought about how less than a year before I had been in New York for an annual meeting with the HR people from our affiliates around the country. Our meeting had been in the North Tower of the World Trade Center, the 90 something floor. I don't remember exactly. It was hosted by our insurance broker, Marsh McLennan. They were very nice offices and the view from that high up was impressive. I remember the towers swaying slightly and I remember a helicopter flying by below us. While I was in that meeting my husband and kids, who had come with me on the trip, were touring the top of the South Tower of the WTC and the plaza below.<br />
<br />
Eleven months later the eight floors of the North Tower that Marsh occupied took a direct hit from AA Flight 11, the first plane to hit. Nobody at work that day for Marsh McLennan at the WTC survived the attack. Two hundred ninety five people gone. I remember talking to our broker a few months after the attack. His office was in mid-town, not the towers. He was so profoundly sad, having attended funeral after funeral for his lost co-workers. I couldn't help thinking about how it could have been us there had the attack been 11 months earlier. I was so thankful my family was safe.<br />
<br />
The devastation of 9/11 really hit me when I got a call from my friend. Her niece had been on United Flight 93. Her name was Deora Bodley and she was the youngest passenger on the plane that day, only 20 years old. I had met Deora's mom a few times. A nice lady. Very intense. I met Deora once when she was probably 16 or 17 at my friend's wedding. She seemed like a very sweet girl. We didn't say more than hello to each other when we were introduced. I had no real connection to her. But I knew how close their family was. I knew how much my friend's parents loved and cherished each of their grandkids. I knew how proud they all were of Deora. The tragedy of 9/11 became their family tragedy.<br />
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Today, like every September 11th, I can't help but think about Deora and my friend and her family. I wonder if it helps that their personal loss is felt to some degree by the entire nation. Or does it make it harder that their grief will be forever shared with the world? Is the significance of their personal loss diminished by the enormity of it all? It's more than 9/11, it's their family and it will never be the same. Neither will we.<br />
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<a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" target="_blank"><img src="http://signatures.mylivesignature.com/54487/147/91691594198D413A8EB14D6C97AC1FC3.png" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: white; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; border-bottom-color: initial; border-bottom-style: initial; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-left-color: initial; border-left-style: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-color: initial; border-right-style: initial; border-right-width: 0px; border-top-color: initial; border-top-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px;" /></a>Random Thinkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07424966921651648450noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3213960489026233473.post-59683735868235924262011-08-27T11:57:00.000-04:002011-08-27T11:57:28.852-04:00FINE! NO CATS!<div style="font-family: arial; font-size: small;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgofu4kyARu2PCk-34xVHC-jUSeAPGzNzWPB1aTYRX-aSGrbAI2pgD_6J6wmnJ4tqzM9Y_2b5JppgS4hRPkmhvKjkcovF0whtPQPUfacGDqPnpUclGYcCv2v_INibIKq9kcqjAJ9v093oI/s1600/295926_1475504048044_1246980311_31209378_4842295_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgofu4kyARu2PCk-34xVHC-jUSeAPGzNzWPB1aTYRX-aSGrbAI2pgD_6J6wmnJ4tqzM9Y_2b5JppgS4hRPkmhvKjkcovF0whtPQPUfacGDqPnpUclGYcCv2v_INibIKq9kcqjAJ9v093oI/s320/295926_1475504048044_1246980311_31209378_4842295_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
Jim has been adamant. No more cats. Every time I bring it up he just points to the door sills. Miss Tinkerbell left scratches on nearly every single one of them. Pine is very soft wood that scratches very easily. Although, I guess to be fair I really should call them gouges and not scratches. I never caught her in the act but it was clear she would stretch to full height on her back legs, dig in all of her claws and sharpen away. It looked like a wolverine had been let loose in the house. </div><div style="font-family: arial; font-size: small;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: arial; font-size: small;">After my daughter moved out and took Tinkerbell with her I was with Jim 100%. No more litter boxes. No more cat hair. Then I started to miss having one around. They can be fun, especially the young ones. There's no creature on earth more appreciative of a good scratching and petting than a cat. My desire for a cat only got worse once I started volunteering at the shelter and saw how many homeless cats fill the cages. Easily 4 - 5 times more than the dogs. Poor babies. </div><div style="font-family: arial; font-size: small;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: arial; font-size: small;">I started to test the waters...... all those poor homeless cats. No way. Then I tried the "birthday" thing. Saying I wanted a Siamese kitten for my 49th. No. I promised to keep the soft caps on the claws. No. I begged. No. FINE, NO CATS!</div><div style="font-family: arial; font-size: small;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: arial; font-size: small;">Then, as luck would have it, a friend of my daughter's was looking for an emergency kitten sitter. I offered to take the cute little furball in. I thought that Jim would change his mind about cats once he got some kitten time. They're so much fun.</div><div style="font-family: arial; font-size: small;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: arial; font-size: small;">It worked. Jim loved the kitten and the kitten loved Jim. Jim loved to play with the kitten and we both loved watching the little guy run all over the house playing with anything he could get his paws on. He'd run under the bed and hang from the box spring upside down like Spiderman waiting for someone to walk by so he could grab their toes. </div><div style="font-family: arial; font-size: small;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: arial; font-size: small;">I started picking out names for the new little Siamese kitten I was going to get, Seymour, Biscuit, Ritz. Then the kitten made a fatal mistake. While I was getting ready for work one morning I left the kitten in with a sleeping Jim. The kitten started to do mad dashes across the bed, clawing over top of Jim every time. Zoom, zip..... It was over. One thing I've learned is Jim gets cranky when you mess with his sleep. Jim's resolve to never own another cat returned with a vengeance. </div><div style="font-family: arial; font-size: small;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: arial; font-size: small;">We returned the kitten. I was a little sad to see him go but as I thought about it I realized visiting kittens are one thing but a long term commitment to a cat is another. Too bad you can't just rent a kitten once in awhile.</div><div style="font-family: arial; font-size: small;"><br />
</div><div><a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" target="_blank"><img src="http://signatures.mylivesignature.com/54487/147/91691594198D413A8EB14D6C97AC1FC3.png" style="background: white; border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; border-right: 0px; border-top: 0px;" /></a></div>Random Thinkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07424966921651648450noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3213960489026233473.post-23449795206605063722011-08-04T18:51:00.001-04:002011-08-04T18:51:33.214-04:00Substantive Mediocrity<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="border-collapse: collapse; font-size: 13px;"><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1-ELHSwL2xk2jMfe4ILhvT1OeAy0YmiDNqekjxiZTJtsr60xZ-FHLUytL_uVuDLIjQDA0uc8BLSMlxQcZCXV939F45RR5cqLLieK9vDc28Ol_t5ZDwpbRzdqrmPG58OikKSkQlPwjnmo/s1600/apocalypse.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1-ELHSwL2xk2jMfe4ILhvT1OeAy0YmiDNqekjxiZTJtsr60xZ-FHLUytL_uVuDLIjQDA0uc8BLSMlxQcZCXV939F45RR5cqLLieK9vDc28Ol_t5ZDwpbRzdqrmPG58OikKSkQlPwjnmo/s400/apocalypse.jpg" width="265" /></a></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="border-collapse: collapse; font-size: 13px;"><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="border-collapse: collapse; font-size: 13px;">I learned recently there is a well known and often studied sociological phenomenon called "illusory superiority". It leads humans to think they are better at something than they really are. It's the reason that nearly everybody you ask </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="border-collapse: collapse; font-size: 13px;">(86%) </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="border-collapse: collapse; font-size: 13px;">will say they are an excellent driver. Even when we know for certain that many of us are not. I mean many of you. I am an excellent driver. </span></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="border-collapse: collapse; font-size: 13px;"><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="border-collapse: collapse; font-size: 13px;">I suspect this phenomenon is also the reason that I've always thought I'd be one of the people to make it through an apocalypse. I thought I had survival skills. </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="border-collapse: collapse; font-size: 13px;">Now, I know most people don't rate, or for that matter even consider, their ability to survive an apocalypse. But it's always been one of my favorite entertainment genres. When I read books like The Road, or watch movies like 28 Days Later and TV shows like the Walking Dead I imagine myself in these situations. I have always assessed my skills pretty highly. However, a</span><span style="border-collapse: collapse; font-size: 13px;">fter my latest fishing experience I'm not so sure now. It seems I'm lacking the most basic skill set necessary --- catch food, kill food and clean food. Though I still rate my ability to eat food pretty highly. </span></span></span><br />
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</span></span></div><div style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="border-collapse: collapse; font-size: 13px;">Our company summer cookout this year was held at a trout farm. The fishing doesn't really offer challenges to the true fisherman. Throw your hook in, wait 30 -90 seconds, snag a huge rainbow trout. Good for kids with little to no patience or those who just want some fresh trout and aren't necessarily there for the fishing experience. I don't like fish. I rarely cook it. My husband loves fish. I decided to give him a rare treat by catching and cooking some fresh trout. Well, to be honest my plan was always to </span><span style="border-collapse: collapse; font-size: 13px;">ask somebody else to catch it for me. The worm business really grosses me out and there's no way I'm grabbing that slimy, squirming fish.</span></span></div><div style="font-size: small;"><span style="border-collapse: collapse; font-size: 13px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></span></div><div style="font-size: small;"><span style="border-collapse: collapse; font-size: 13px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">So an awesome co-worker/friend of mine caught two beautiful rainbow trout within a matter of 2 minutes. Plop, into the bucket they went. Fortunately for me this trout farm will kill, clean and prep the fish for you for a fee. All I had to do was carry the bucket up to the cabin for processing. Being very aware of my own limitations I quickly realized that as soon as one of those fish flopped around in the bucket I would scream and drop it. The fish would spill out all onto the ground and there would be no way I could actually touch one to get it back into the bucket. What to do? What to do?</span></span></div><div style="font-size: small;"><span style="border-collapse: collapse; font-size: 13px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></span></div><div style="font-size: small;"><span style="border-collapse: collapse; font-size: 13px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I asked another co-worker/friend to carry it up to the cabin for me. He gladly obliged. We got to the cabin and the fish were dumped into a plastic bin sitting on top of a scale for weighing. The fish were easily 3 - 4 feet off the ground. I was a good 5 - 6 feet away from them. All of a sudden they started to flop around. I screamed. One of the fish jumped out of the bin and onto the floor. I screamed and ran around the other side of the counter. The fish squirmed its way around the counter and was making a bee line straight for me. I screamed and started running towards the door. Finally one of the trout farm employees nonchalantly scooped the fish up. Ha ha - all very funny and amusing.</span></span></div><div style="font-size: small;"><span style="border-collapse: collapse; font-size: 13px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></span></div><div style="font-size: small;"><span style="border-collapse: collapse; font-size: 13px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Fast forward three hours and here I sit with my raw, processed trout. This primal feeling, brought on by the thought of cooking a freshly caught fish for my man disappeared as quickly as it came when I realized the stupid things still had their tails, spines and skin, ewww.... I couldn't bring myself to touch them in order to prep them for the grill. I had to ask for Jim's help in turning them over and putting them on the fish rack. </span></span></div><div style="font-size: small;"><span style="border-collapse: collapse; font-size: 13px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></span></div><div style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="border-collapse: collapse; font-size: 13px;">That's when the whole apocalypse thing hit me. I'll need Jim if I have any hopes of surviving. I couldn't do it on my own. Now </span><span style="border-collapse: collapse; font-size: 13px;">I am asking myself all sorts of other survival questions Could I start a fire without a match or lighter? Am I physically fit enough to outrun a zombie? How far could I conceivably hike in one day? How long before my lack of food catching skills and dwindling physical capabilities move me from "help" to "hindrance" in people's minds? A dear friend of mine insisted my managerial abilities will be useful in a survival situation. I'm not so sure the ability to flowchart, mediate and delegate will be quite as marketable as putting food in people's bellies and kicking zombie butt. </span></span></div></div><br />
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