tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-60678957853355986522024-02-07T12:10:16.577-08:00Somewhere Over the Septic Tank20% Dorothy Gale; 30% Erma Bombeck; 30% Tim Allen; 20% Carrie Bradshaw...100% Susie100% Susiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01430149513138371832noreply@blogger.comBlogger158125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6067895785335598652.post-25246828624388397972020-01-21T21:15:00.000-08:002020-01-21T21:15:39.609-08:00Six<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><i>I come from a family of six. That's a fact I've known all my conscious life -- for I am the sixth of that six. We were only all under one roof for ten-or-so years but during that time, certain patterns were set. Most nights for dinner (at 6:30 pm), we all-six sat around the dining room table -- Dad at one end, Mom at the other, Karen and Julie on one side, John and I on the other. For car rides, the elder three sat in the back (and fought over who had to sit on "the hump" in the middle), while I got wedged upfront between Mom and Dad. </i></span><br />
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<span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><i>It's been forty years since we lived in that configuration. We kids all grew up and moved out, though a couple of us did move back a time or two. We added boyfriends/girlfriends/spouses/children to the mix. There was always change but it seemed gradual, just a natural part of life. And it most always involved expansion of our family -- adding on, not subtracting. </i></span><br />
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<span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><i>I'd not given it all that much thought in many years, to be honest. I had a unique relationship with each of my nuclear family members and thought primarily in terms of our subgroups. But those five -- they were my original tribe. My pack. The basis and foundation for my understanding of family and of love. </i></span><br />
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<span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><i>Even as my Dad was declining and the rest of us were communicating frequently and coming together to spend time with him and support my Mom, I gave little thought to our number. Not until I was putting together the photo collage for Dad's visitation did it occur to me -- that we were no longer six. And as we said our final goodbye to my Dad during his service and I wrapped my arms around my brother, my sisters, and my Mom, my heart ached with the full import of that.</i></span><br />
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<span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><i>My sisters and I took my Mom out to a movie tonight -- thought it would be good to get out for a bit. We went to see "Little Women." It was a lovely, sweet movie, featuring, of course, a family of six -- who then lose one of their own. </i></span><br />
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<span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><i>The story would be sad and bittersweet regardless but it hit extra close to home this evening. A precious reminder of how profoundly we are shaped by our nuclear family and how blessed I am to be the sixth of the six.</i></span><br />
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<span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><i>We are no longer six -- at least not on this plane. But we will always be six -- my pack and I. </i></span><br />
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<br />100% Susiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01430149513138371832noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6067895785335598652.post-58253755937278613012019-11-11T21:53:00.001-08:002020-01-13T18:07:07.877-08:00Pringle<span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">It's been exactly one month since we had to put my sweet boy down. I've thought many times since about coming to this space to write about him but somehow always found a reason to avoid it. I haven't been ready to do this because I know where it's going to take me, emotionally. And I haven't been ready for that - for a multitude of reasons, not the least of which is overlap with my Dad's seriously declining health. Call it denial; call it self-preservation. Whatever it is, it's been a month and, ready or not, I owe this to Pringle.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">I did my research before we got him. I knew I wanted a rescue dog -- not a puppy. I was a single mom with a full-time job and often away from the house for 10-12 hours at a time. I was also fairly certain I wanted a golden retriever. Given their sweet disposition, I figured a golden would be the right fit for Riley and me. </span><br />
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<span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">I checked out a few pet adoption sites and saw some cute dogs but none that really stood out. I heard about Dirk's Golden Fund and went online to check them out. They had photos of several dogs, all of whom were adorable and, I thought, worthy of consideration. And then there was this guy:</span><br />
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<span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">He looked...a bit scruffy. Forlorn even. His "story" was compelling. He was two years old. Per the website, he'd been dropped off by a breeder who'd deemed him "too small and too ugly" to breed. What an idiot. I paid a visit to Dirk's Fund that weekend and saw several of their doggies - including the little scruffy dude who'd been on my mind since I first saw his photo. He seemed very sweet. I brought Riley back to meet him - she fell in love - and so did he. That settled it. </span></div>
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<span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">We brought Pringle home and he soon adapted to life with two girls and three cats. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgahVWEvt9hyphenhyphentxQ6xsDZNl9pSbhIrkHL85h_ZwzhTzNqJnmeIFfh77k0ib5tNU_6sEgXEjM-QDlWULnZPVhfLq3IdSc9htVFy7KuDW7TK3fMEnfClZzRTJ3kykE2We4G4bHOUyFTd5qRko/s1600/Pringle5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="600" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgahVWEvt9hyphenhyphentxQ6xsDZNl9pSbhIrkHL85h_ZwzhTzNqJnmeIFfh77k0ib5tNU_6sEgXEjM-QDlWULnZPVhfLq3IdSc9htVFy7KuDW7TK3fMEnfClZzRTJ3kykE2We4G4bHOUyFTd5qRko/s320/Pringle5.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmhzJowwX1pN_Hhh_1BhaIt-UP72iwTwUKL7ufdAS3fM84ldT8gOe9QfN4759wJE1NTY3KSDJxYwWNKRDxAC3kXQKnnL-3B7uF5OhZ_82r3hLjWxjhwles2vQ5fXV0naeAf0peTk1DAF0/s1600/Pringle13.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="560" data-original-width="560" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmhzJowwX1pN_Hhh_1BhaIt-UP72iwTwUKL7ufdAS3fM84ldT8gOe9QfN4759wJE1NTY3KSDJxYwWNKRDxAC3kXQKnnL-3B7uF5OhZ_82r3hLjWxjhwles2vQ5fXV0naeAf0peTk1DAF0/s320/Pringle13.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCMKHpo-UAf98PiLlF1iXInUpesv91A0W4exeT_2DZCWCldQTpnf-7foiGpT4_cWhtoRGs8Q8RmJT0OcwE332JFiAh7ToxLjwPtgeaHuK3fIMi3SJDpEETPEpOEcAWctJs3rQeDg7714Q/s1600/Pringle8.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="906" data-original-width="906" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCMKHpo-UAf98PiLlF1iXInUpesv91A0W4exeT_2DZCWCldQTpnf-7foiGpT4_cWhtoRGs8Q8RmJT0OcwE332JFiAh7ToxLjwPtgeaHuK3fIMi3SJDpEETPEpOEcAWctJs3rQeDg7714Q/s320/Pringle8.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEin65JMWwYIkicrWrMZhoS89WUdMRDWICw7EbLbUzJ92qJMN2c1zN8sF8HHlhQA0pGJiQyxjClgLXhDO95HcEk3j_pss0d_cwFTHg7Wr3jDdWjLpMqGxMHJxtFtGqr7LqrJ2FQ3twZsCTk/s1600/Pringle16.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="560" data-original-width="560" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEin65JMWwYIkicrWrMZhoS89WUdMRDWICw7EbLbUzJ92qJMN2c1zN8sF8HHlhQA0pGJiQyxjClgLXhDO95HcEk3j_pss0d_cwFTHg7Wr3jDdWjLpMqGxMHJxtFtGqr7LqrJ2FQ3twZsCTk/s320/Pringle16.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">He loved to go for walks around our neighborhood.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0n2iOC752j-AXJl4zMR4WsXuAzXuO1kiCPr-sVunQ6jrPe2K4j9EfvPRa1b-I-6ec4zVZa2KgikRfAXZmd_rwrJpEJJaVAip0hT0leB9Kyh8UMcUA9CBA05ZjvSzCIbAt6P7oJb23ytw/s1600/Pringle15.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="960" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0n2iOC752j-AXJl4zMR4WsXuAzXuO1kiCPr-sVunQ6jrPe2K4j9EfvPRa1b-I-6ec4zVZa2KgikRfAXZmd_rwrJpEJJaVAip0hT0leB9Kyh8UMcUA9CBA05ZjvSzCIbAt6P7oJb23ytw/s320/Pringle15.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">And he adored our big back yard - especially when it was filled with snow.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhriqq6bDYNeT7hinu-LdwyOKV5OSa3TlremIZeKAepmjOWDLq37KyaQtjVLolVuS0OiBItUcJtKaG0aPQt43TOa6P8BsDaPuyAIS_LET1RbJQhp6uLdS5ZUkaGakKx0RSTjtxLe6aR4Eo/s1600/Pringle.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="453" data-original-width="604" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhriqq6bDYNeT7hinu-LdwyOKV5OSa3TlremIZeKAepmjOWDLq37KyaQtjVLolVuS0OiBItUcJtKaG0aPQt43TOa6P8BsDaPuyAIS_LET1RbJQhp6uLdS5ZUkaGakKx0RSTjtxLe6aR4Eo/s320/Pringle.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">(Remember that stupid breeder who called him ugly?!)</span></div>
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<span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">When we moved to St. Peters five years ago, he found another back yard to love.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4JWpIMYn8fnFqXI618sPhfX1V9zM3PSKC0C6w-volY59KbBlR3Z3yN8SmW9nZA7DlqbeqZsz7sI7YdkPjlXCM8X4pUttk7b_HgAvoQlL9IXxNoG8aB2HS0N9qo2YGofLvpjigHcJXiZM/s1600/Pringle6.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="960" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4JWpIMYn8fnFqXI618sPhfX1V9zM3PSKC0C6w-volY59KbBlR3Z3yN8SmW9nZA7DlqbeqZsz7sI7YdkPjlXCM8X4pUttk7b_HgAvoQlL9IXxNoG8aB2HS0N9qo2YGofLvpjigHcJXiZM/s320/Pringle6.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">And we were close to a park, which made for lots of great walks and frolics.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">There were even more girls to love (and spoil him silly).</span></div>
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<span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">And David - who he clearly thought hung the moon. I'm not going to pretend the fact that David was the easiest mark for snacks and treats didn't play a small role in that.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">But he loved him over and above the treats. </span></div>
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<span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Pringle was a happy dog. He had a spectacular smile.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgb_WJrE6uwuhfuHnbeYJ_TSTM-1IiifFBzmmH209TUFF6YREixonSOTLkkD_NKXazBbRfGV4Xeoxe0mL6Fxa8ParFWGkRHW7Hbon9fIBk_lwYk6pqzK0tKGQ7ZPvk7C3mbjuBYwzz3Ms8/s1600/Pringle12.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="560" data-original-width="560" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgb_WJrE6uwuhfuHnbeYJ_TSTM-1IiifFBzmmH209TUFF6YREixonSOTLkkD_NKXazBbRfGV4Xeoxe0mL6Fxa8ParFWGkRHW7Hbon9fIBk_lwYk6pqzK0tKGQ7ZPvk7C3mbjuBYwzz3Ms8/s320/Pringle12.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">I don't know that I ever got a picture of it but he had this goofy look he'd give you where he'd bare his teeth in an exaggerated grin. And he knew how to have fun.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">But he also had his more serious moments.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfcQr0dK4RzrBkAjzZi7OUmJrxxNJrS1tWo9R4y3Erjq451FZbeggtLbWyxop4WUGlnCLSancZaa3ySkBQjXBVTMw-bkOCE_MniHyPVup_8hRDqCgYFnlj9wVVm1y0RoKarhqAXE2TpY4/s1600/Pringle2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="824" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfcQr0dK4RzrBkAjzZi7OUmJrxxNJrS1tWo9R4y3Erjq451FZbeggtLbWyxop4WUGlnCLSancZaa3ySkBQjXBVTMw-bkOCE_MniHyPVup_8hRDqCgYFnlj9wVVm1y0RoKarhqAXE2TpY4/s320/Pringle2.jpg" width="274" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Though a retriever, he wasn't much for playing fetch. You'd throw the ball and he'd go get it. Once. That was enough of that. His retriever instincts were primarily evident in that he couldn't stand to greet you without a toy (present) in his mouth. Usually, it was a stuffed animal. But if he couldn't find one fast enough as you were coming through the door, he'd snag a dish towel as a backup. It was so important for him that you know he was a GOOD BOY. </span></div>
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<span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">And he was. He was such a good boy. As I alluded earlier, there were often times when I had to be gone for 10, even 12 hours. And he'd wait patiently until I got home, then run outside to do his business. In all the years we had him, I can count on one hand the number of times he had an "accident." And he never chewed or destroyed anything other than, occasionally, one of his toys -- and even that was over a long stretch of time. </span></div>
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<span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">He'd bark when people and dogs passed by "his" house or yard. And studiously ignore other dogs when they returned the favor as he passed by theirs. He'd howl at tornado sirens. And he belched. Like a frat boy who'd just shotgunned a beer. </span></div>
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<span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">He loved to be petted and had THE softest fur on the planet. And the sweetest face. Even as he got older, people would often ask if he was a puppy. My (annoying) nickname for him was "baby seal face." </span></div>
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<span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">As I said, he was such a good boy. Except for that one time he got a wild hair while we were visiting David's aunt and uncle and ran off for the afternoon/night. It was a large piece of property -- some wooded, some fields. And there were cows on neighboring farms which I felt like were what initially caught his interest and lured him away. We searched high and low for him. Called and called. Listened for the jingle of his collar. Went knocking on doors at the neighboring farms and properties. All to no avail. We had to leave without him and it nearly killed me. I was certain he was lost for good. But he returned to their house, tired and muddy, at 2:00 AM with a neighbor's dog. They let him in and he ate all the cat's food. And looked appropriately contrite when we came back to get him the next day.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZ5KzvWUo7kqAiCihAfX4FMPrtahqA9o-90Ir5MD86XNo6lW_J4yVSbEZRuDqSbyrPWX5xOjECi22FIR-M1MM8_XrOd9I-NIzcMdMH06LKGiPapK1n1i_1QnOJ81E9nOl5ZUEv9BXxtsc/s1600/Pringle4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="960" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZ5KzvWUo7kqAiCihAfX4FMPrtahqA9o-90Ir5MD86XNo6lW_J4yVSbEZRuDqSbyrPWX5xOjECi22FIR-M1MM8_XrOd9I-NIzcMdMH06LKGiPapK1n1i_1QnOJ81E9nOl5ZUEv9BXxtsc/s320/Pringle4.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Oh, how I wished he could talk that day - to tell us of his adventures. </span></div>
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<span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">But Pringle didn't really need a human voice to tell us how he felt. He had very expressive eyes and a way of letting you know what he needed or wanted most of the time. </span></div>
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<span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">In the last few months, he needed to rest more. He couldn't really go for walks -- not very long ones anyway. And the stairs became a challenge. Sometimes, we'd play this game where we'd do several laps around the house together and THEN trot up the stairs. A few times, I had to resort to carrying him up them. He may have been on the small side for a golden, but carrying 65 pounds of dog up stairs was no easy feat. </span></div>
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<span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">There were days he seemed like his usual self, playful and loving. And there were days he seemed tired and maybe...a bit sad. I suppose, on some level, he knew our time together was coming to an end.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">I did, too. When we learned he had fluid around his heart in July, we knew the prognosis wasn't rosy. But he bounced back from that and did pretty well for a time. In fact, I'd just taken him in for a check-up in early October, and he was doing well. Then Riley called me one evening while I was still at work and said he'd gotten sick and seemed lethargic. </span></div>
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<span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">He seemed...okay...when I got home. But he didn't really want to eat much. I was able to entice him with some of my own food. (Pretty hard for a dog to say no to Steak-Um, I imagine.) It was nice out, so I grabbed a glass of wine and sat out on the deck with him. He sat and then laid next to my chair while I softly patted his head and scritched his ears. He sighed a time or two. I'd like to think with contentment. </span></div>
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<span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">I took him to the vet the next day. They had to keep him to run the tests. The vet called with the news after they'd drained the fluid off again -- his heart was in bad shape. It was probably time to let him go. I broke the news to Riley (and broke my heart in the process.) She and I drove to the vet's office and David met us there to say his goodbye. We patted and hugged our sweet Pringle and told him over and over what a good boy he was. We cried. And then cried some more. And then he was gone. Quickly and peacefully. He took a part of my heart with him.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">My sweet, sweet boy gave us 11 plus years of unconditional love. He was a constant for me even when other parts of my life were a mess. He was a true friend; a sweet, fur-faced angel. </span></div>
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<span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">I've kept his bed next to mine. His stuffed animals -- Mr. Racoon, Moosie, the Sloth, Ellie, and a few others -- occupy it now. Sometimes, I imagine him there, too. I hear a collar jingle, a soft sigh. And I whisper softly, "</span><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">You are missed, my sweet boy." </span></div>
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<br />100% Susiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01430149513138371832noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6067895785335598652.post-36255101827325889142019-04-29T19:17:00.002-07:002019-04-29T20:01:33.867-07:00For the Love of Yogurt<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span>
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<span style="color: #073763; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><i>I have a confession to make: It's likely this comes as no surprise to anyone who knows me, but I'm not all that great a cook. Oh, I've a few dishes I can do justice to -- but not many.</i></span></div>
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<span style="color: #073763; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><i>Mostly, it comes down to not having the time/opportunity to try my hand at it all that often. If practice makes perfect, I'm light years from perfection. (Don't even get me started on the time my darling daughter suggested I should maybe "take lessons from Grandma" after I placed her favorite-meal-of-the-moment in front of her. She was still little and awfully cute so I refrained from grounding her for that.)</i></span></div>
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<span style="color: #073763; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><i>That said, I do <b>like</b> to cook. And that was another of the appeals of the Mediterranean Diet. The book came with 28 days worth of menus and recipes -- most of which have been fairly easy to follow, even if they do call for a variety of ingredients I'm not used to cooking with. </i></span><span style="color: #073763; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><i>I've not stuck
remotely close to the "schedule," but I have continued to try the
various recipes -- at least the ones that didn't make me shudder in revulsion. (There are some, like the "Mussels <span style="background-color: white;">Provençal</span>" which are just <b>not</b> going to happen.)</i></span></div>
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<span style="color: #073763; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><i>Tonight for dinner, I tried my hand at the </i><i>Spicy Carrot-Ginger
Soup (It's billed in the book as the Day 11 Lunch but I genuinely have to wonder who has the time or the inclination to make such elaborate lunches?) For some reason, the recipe was designed to serve 10. Which makes zero sense since the rest of the recipes serve 1 or 4. Eyeballing it, I gambled on quartering it. Except that I didn't sufficiently quarter the cayenne pepper. I think I halved it instead - more on that in a moment.</i></span></div>
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<span style="color: #073763; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><i>The recipe called for carrots -- "peeled and roughly chopped." I used pre-packaged carrot chips (because I'm lazy) and freeze-dried ginger, rather than fresh (also
because I'm lazy). </i><i>The biggest question mark for me was the pureeing part. Everything heated up just fine in a pot on the stove but I was a little skittish about dumping the soup mixture into the blender. Ultimately, though, I realized trying to eat it sans pureeing was going to be a yucky disaster. So I gave it a go and it actually turned out pretty good. Nice consistency.</i></span></div>
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<i><span style="color: #073763; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">The recipe also called for plain Greek yogurt to dollop
on the top of the finished product but somehow, the cup of yogurt I'd been saving just for that disappeared. Neither David nor Riley profess
to know anything about it and it is nowhere to be found in the fridge so the
only thing I can surmise is that I absentmindedly pitched it. I feel like
I'd have made a mental note of that if I had since I knew it was called for in
this recipe. But I've searched high and low to no avail. I did finally skim
some off the top of a blueberry yogurt in the hopes of cutting the aforementioned cayenne
fire. It sort of worked. And it wasn't awful, though it was a bit of an odd
juxtaposition of tastes. </span></i></div>
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<i><span style="color: #073763; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Overall, it was tasty and something I'd try again -- with less cayenne and more plain Greek yogurt (or maybe even sour cream). I paired the soup with the recommended whole wheat pita stuffed
with 1/2 avocado, kalamata olives, and hummus. Had the avocado been a tad
less mushy, it would have been perfect. Guess maybe I don't need as much practice as I thought!</span></i></div>
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<br />100% Susiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01430149513138371832noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6067895785335598652.post-23549278942113808002019-04-28T20:19:00.001-07:002019-04-28T20:26:56.905-07:00That Thing You Do <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="color: #073763; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><i>Hard to believe the movie is 23 years old. It's still one of those that I'll stop and watch whenever I happen across it. And there's no denying the title song is a huge part of that. Though the story itself is cute, and the characters -- or most of them anyway -- endearing, there's something utterly toe-tappingly infectious about the tune "That Thing You Do." </i></span><br />
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<span style="color: #073763; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><i>So when I heard it playing in the grocery store this evening, it put a smile on my face and a little extra spring in my step. I don't normally do my shopping at 7:00 on Sunday evening but I spent the morning <a href="https://www.redstate.com/smoosieq/2019/04/28/keeping-faith-well-soul/" target="_blank">writing</a> and watching church (on-line) and then heading to the ballgame with my sister (thank you, David!) </i></span><br />
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<span style="color: #073763; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><i>...so Sunday evening at the grocery store it was. (Had to stock up on my fruits and veggies and get back into the <a href="http://somewhereovertheseptictank.blogspot.com/2019/04/theres-more-to-fitness-than-meets-eye.html" target="_blank">Mediterranean Diet</a> swing!) </i></span></div>
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<span style="color: #073763; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><i>But here's what really made me smile: As I pushed my cart along the back of the store humming it to myself, I heard a man behind me cheerily whistling the tune. Then I saw another huge bear of a man in the dairy section moving his shoulders and doing a subtle little dance step in tune with the music. And as I wandered down the bottled water aisle, I heard a woman the next aisle over quietly hum-singing along with it. </i></span></div>
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<span style="color: #073763; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><i>There aren't many songs that could have four different people (at least) dancing and humming their way through the grocery store on a Sunday night -- or anytime for that matter. But the sound of an imaginary one hit "oneder" from the 60's/90's seems to be just the ticket. And I don't know that any clip from a movie better captures such unbridled joy: </i></span></div>
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<span style="color: #073763; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><i>Bonus points: To Guy (Tom Everett Scott) for knowing how to have a "Spartacus moment." And to T.B. (Ethan Embry) for something I never before noticed until just now - at about the 54-second mark, just as he and Faye (Liv Tyler) are bursting through the doors of Patterson's appliance store, he stops and wipes his feet on the welcome mat. (Have I mentioned I love this movie?)<br /> </i></span></div>
<br />100% Susiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01430149513138371832noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6067895785335598652.post-83388386593201570582019-04-23T18:44:00.001-07:002019-04-23T18:44:53.731-07:00There's More to Fitness Than Meets the Eye (Diary of a Slacker: 50 Is Fine Edition) <i><span style="color: #073763; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Not surprisingly, my ambitious fitness endeavor of <a href="http://somewhereovertheseptictank.blogspot.com/2018/04/diary-of-slacker-fast-approaching-50.html" target="_blank">almost-a-year ago</a> didn't pan out quite as I'd originally planned. I didn't get into the running as quickly/committedly as I'd intended and I certainly didn't shed 30 pounds -- nor even a dress size -- by the time I officially became AARP-eligible. Which isn't to say it was a bust. I have, in fact, made slow but steady progress.</span></i><br />
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<i><span style="color: #073763; font-size: large;">I started running again in mid-August. Initially, outside. It didn't go all that well, though I <a href="https://www.instagram.com/p/BnJNPX_lWit/?utm_source=ig_web_copy_link" target="_blank">kept at it</a> for a few weeks. I usually found myself huffing and puffing by the three-quarter-mile mark and typically had to stop and walk a bit -- several times -- to finish out my just-over-a-mile and relatively easy/flat course through the neighborhood and adjacent park. I tried not to let that discourage me but then as we edged into fall and the sunrise got later and later, running outside in the morning became unworkable. (Confession: running in the early dawn creeps me out -- it's too dark and quiet out, and my overactive imagination alternates between a would-be assailant and a rolled ankle compliments of an unseen rock/gumball/tree root.) So, I gave up for a bit.</span></i></span><br />
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<i><span style="color: #073763; font-size: large;">But I got back to it in October, running on the treadmill at the "Y". Which is a rockin' place at 5:30 - 6:00 a.m. Me and the geriatric set. (Not sure why I'm attempting to draw a distinction there.) I stayed with it, though, and even started bumping up my distance and then my pace. Then I encountered plantar fasciitis. Which sucks. On steroids. (Nothing like feeling like a ball-peen hammer's pounding into your heel.) That set me back again, though I kept walking (had to keep up with those Fitbit challenges!) and running when I could stand it. I found this nifty little spiky ball thing at Fleet Feet that helped.</span></i></span><br />
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<i><span style="color: #073763; font-size: large;">(That's not my foot, by the way.)</span></i></span><br />
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<i><span style="color: #073763; font-size: large;">By the end of December, I'd managed to peel off about 10 pounds. Which felt good. I could tell by the way my clothes were fitting. Even my face and fingers felt thinner. (My rings are loose now.) I wasn't really doing much different diet-wise at that point. Primarily limiting liquid calories and just tracking my food intake consistently. Sort of informally trying to eat "healthier."</span></i></span><br />
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<i><span style="color: #073763; font-size: large;">Oh -- and I added yoga to the mix, as well. There's a nice little studio about a mile-and-a-half from our house. They have a 9:45 am Saturday class which suits me just fine. It's a workout -- I definitely feel it in my muscles the next day -- but it's not overly strenuous. The teacher is great. And it's a nice opportunity to let go of external stressors and re-center. </span></i></span><br />
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<i><span style="color: #073763; font-size: large;">I stalled out in January-February. The scale was hovering consistently in the 151 range. But I kept running -- not nearly as consistently as I should be, but still trying -- and doing yoga. I even discovered that the mini-gym in my office building is an excellent place for an early morning run. There's not a soul around and the locker room/shower facilities are rather nice. I can shoot downtown at O Dark Thirty, ahead of much of the traffic, sneak in a quick run and then shower and get ready there and just pop up to my office. The trick there is remembering to pack my bag properly. It's an awkward day when you forget the curling iron or the hairspray or the vest you were planning to wear over your t-shirt.</span></i></span><br />
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<i><span style="color: #073763; font-size: large;">I was feeling pretty good about the weight loss and work out routine, glacial pace notwithstanding. Then I went in for my annual physical in February and got some rather unexpected news: I'm pre-diabetic. Not terribly so -- really just over the line into what qualifies as the pre-diabetic range. (A fasting blood sugar level of 100-125 mg/dl is considered pre-diabetic. I'm hovering around 104.) There isn't really a family history of diabetes and, while I'm still a tad overweight, I've managed to get back to the "normal" side of BMI Land, even if barely. And, though I'm not running triathlons these days, I'm considerably less sedentary than in the past few years. Nevertheless, the tests don't lie.</span></i></span><br />
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<i><span style="color: #073763; font-size: large;">I wasn't overly alarmed but the news troubled me enough that I decided it was time to do something more serious regarding my diet. I know several people who are big fans of the Keto Diet so I did some digging into that and quickly decided it's not for me. I'm fine with lowering my carbs some but virtually eliminating them altogether is a no-go. Plus, I know myself well enough to know that anything that's too strict or regimented is going to backfire on me. I looked into other diets and apps aimed at going "low carb."</span></i></span><br />
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<i><span style="color: #073763; font-size: large;">Then I happened upon an article touting the Mediterranean Diet. I learned about the <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Oldways-4-Week-Mediterranean-Diet-Menu/dp/0985893907/ref=asc_df_0985893907/?tag=hyprod-20&linkCode=df0&hvadid=312140312523&hvpos=1o1&hvnetw=g&hvrand=4857575570341964719&hvpone=&hvptwo=&hvqmt=&hvdev=c&hvdvcmdl=&hvlocint=&hvlocphy=9022936&hvtargid=pla-492326213731&psc=1&tag=&ref=&adgrpid=60258872577&hvpone=&hvptwo=&hvadid=312140312523&hvpos=1o1&hvnetw=g&hvrand=4857575570341964719&hvqmt=&hvdev=c&hvdvcmdl=&hvlocint=&hvlocphy=9022936&hvtargid=pla-492326213731" target="_blank">Oldways 4 Week Book</a> and was intrigued enough to shell out the $14 or $15 it cost. </span></i></span><br />
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<i><span style="color: #073763; font-size: large;">The book's intro describes it best:</span></i></span><br />
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<i><span style="color: #073763; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">The Mediterranean Diet is not a diet, as in "go on a diet," even though it's a great way to lose weight and improve your health. Rather, it's a lifestyle, based upon the traditional foods (and drinks) of the countries that surround the Mediterranean Sea. </span></i></blockquote>
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<i><span style="color: #073763; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">....</span></i></blockquote>
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<i><span style="color: #073763; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">The Mediterranean Diet is all about cooking and eating simple, wholesome, minimally-processed foods, being active, enjoying delicious meals with friends and family, and (if you choose) drinking wine in moderation with those meals.</span></i></blockquote>
<i><span style="color: #073763; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Did they say "wine"? Sign me up! (Yes, yes, they also said: "in moderation.") </span></i><br />
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<i><span style="color: #073763; font-size: large;">Upon receiving the book, I quickly read through the introductory pages, made my (lengthy and full of unfamiliar items like "farro" and "bulgur" and "dried lentils" -- okay, none of those sound particularly appetizing, I realize, but bear with me) grocery list, and stocked up as instructed. I began reviewing the recipes and mapping out my prep schedule. I knew going in there was no way I'd stick to a rigid meal plan but I aimed to follow along as closely as I could. That lasted for about four or five days. </span></i></span><br />
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<i><span style="color: #073763; font-size: large;">BUT...since then, I've continued to slowly make my way through the recipes and, in the process, developed eating habits that incorporate generous amounts of fruits, veggies, and less-processed food items. And olives. Lots of olives and olive oil. (Which is a bonus for me -- I happen to love olives. I tried to entice David into joining in on this with me but olives are a dealbreaker for him.) </span></i></span><br />
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<i><span style="color: #073763; font-size: large;">I got somewhat lazy with the running just as I was getting going with the diet. To my surprise, though, I actually dropped several more pounds. I dipped all the way down to 145.9 at the end of March but then bounced back up to 148-149. </span></i></span><br />
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<i><span style="color: #073763; font-size: large;">I've gotten back to the running again the past couple weeks. And since it's warming up and getting lighter earlier, have started running outside again. Which is so much more challenging than the treadmill. I'm still struggling to make it a mile without having to take a walk break. And my pace is back down (or up?) around the 11:30 minute mark. But I'm chugging along. (Or "chogging," as my Dad used to call it.) </span></i></span><br />
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<i><span style="color: #073763; font-size: large;">Today marks one year to the day since I got my new scale and began tracking my weight. When I got on the scale this morning, it read 148.4. That's 17.8 pounds below my high mark. Which means I averaged 1.5 pounds of weight loss per month. </span></i></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1kZGZMBIAbX-emmopu8adl06GtQhJ4rRD5N7FMdk_A5zYUzXMOt173bJP504lEbdSht9A5XC8htbiLPrdJklzxjwrURdeZ6BprqM5903nK88mfJ7EJYnVAA0BItlBz5oN2PHUCDhSS8w/s1600/IMG_1322.PNG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><i><span style="color: #073763; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1136" data-original-width="640" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1kZGZMBIAbX-emmopu8adl06GtQhJ4rRD5N7FMdk_A5zYUzXMOt173bJP504lEbdSht9A5XC8htbiLPrdJklzxjwrURdeZ6BprqM5903nK88mfJ7EJYnVAA0BItlBz5oN2PHUCDhSS8w/s320/IMG_1322.PNG" width="180" /></span></i></a></div>
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<i><span style="color: #073763; font-size: large;">Clearly, I'm not setting any records. But you know what? I don't need to be. I'm 50. And I'm just fine. </span></i></span><br />
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100% Susiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01430149513138371832noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6067895785335598652.post-90852969314385546402018-06-13T05:42:00.002-07:002018-06-13T05:45:16.768-07:00Goodbye, Little House <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirnirQSc8VotMceQ-bt5QmFw0yxSD5rhLWcPtb4BsbG54IU6huqAiTgCXAwyXj9HGTwA1LrN4CqeD9pBseRSBN9nfZYKllWS-qvrJ2IMDvnnoxQrK2ZMTvqujsBdUC2mhIFz-WfNdMuqk/s1600/IMG_0225%255B1%255D.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="320" data-original-width="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirnirQSc8VotMceQ-bt5QmFw0yxSD5rhLWcPtb4BsbG54IU6huqAiTgCXAwyXj9HGTwA1LrN4CqeD9pBseRSBN9nfZYKllWS-qvrJ2IMDvnnoxQrK2ZMTvqujsBdUC2mhIFz-WfNdMuqk/s1600/IMG_0225%255B1%255D.jpg" /></a></div>
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<span style="color: #073763; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><i>I said goodbye last night. Not to a friend or family member -- though it felt like that. To my house. In many respects, I said goodbye to it 4 years ago, when I moved out and became a landlord. Not that I haven't spent a fair amount of time tending to it -- and its residents -- since then. But I emotionally divorced myself from it to a large extent and, frankly, avoided thinking about it as best I could. </i></span><br />
<span style="color: #073763; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><i><br /></i></span> <span style="color: #073763; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><i>I've been happy in my new home. And I spent a lot of time being unhappy in my old one. I did love it, though. </i></span><br />
<span style="color: #073763; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><i><br /></i></span> <span style="color: #073763; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><i>I bought that house all by myself. (Okay. the bank played a role, as well, but I was the only one who signed on the dotted line.) We moved into it when Riley was getting ready to start Kindergarten. In hindsight, the purchase of a little-bitty house with a ginormous yard at the height of the housing bubble might not have been the best choice for a single mom with a full-time job and saddled by debt. I never had enough time or money to pretty it up the way I'd have liked. </i></span><br />
<span style="color: #073763; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><i><br /></i></span> <span style="color: #073763; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><i>And, oh my God, the yard work. There were times when I'd end up with a dozen lawn bags at the curb. And it's not like I was good at it or knew bupkus about what I was doing. I just slogged through it as best I could. I remember a neighbor once remarking he'd never seen anyone spend as much time on their yard as me. What he left unsaid -- perhaps out of kindness -- was, "for such little return." One of the delightful features of my house was the fact that it was flanked by gargantuan oak and maple trees. Great for shade in the summer but not so great for growing grass. So mostly I mowed dust, with a little bit of grass thrown in for good measure.</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #073763; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><i><br /></i></span> <span style="color: #073763; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><i>Not that there wasn't plenty of maintenance needed <b>inside</b> the house, as well. Yours truly learned to install light fixtures, a garbage disposal and under-the-sink plumbing all courtesy of the little house that couldn't. The benefit of these adventures -- in addition to teaching me new skills -- was that they made for decent blog fodder. I'm no HGTV, but longtime readers of this blog may recall my many DIY tales. </i></span><br />
<span style="color: #073763; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><i><br /></i></span> <span style="color: #073763; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><i>For such a small house, it came with big responsibilities, and I'll be honest -- I wasn't always up to the task. Still, it kept Riley and me warm and safe and cozy for seven years. Then it (arguably) paid for itself by gamely serving as a rental property for three more. </i></span><br />
<span style="color: #073763; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><i><br /></i></span> <span style="color: #073763; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><i>But the time has come for us to part company. I can actually afford to sell it now, and I'm tired of being a landlord. So my little house will have new owners come Friday. </i></span><br />
<span style="color: #073763; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><i><br /></i></span> <span style="color: #073763; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><i>I've spent the last couple of months sprucing it up to sell. Had it thoroughly cleaned, put in a new water heater, had the AC and furnace serviced, put in a new sewer clean out, invested in some serious landscaping. It looks a damn sight better now than it ever did when I lived there. Yesterday afternoon, it passed reinspection by the City of Manchester, so it was all ready to go. Except for the shed. </i></span><br />
<span style="color: #073763; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><i><br /></i></span> <span style="color: #073763; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><i>One of the bonus features of my little house was the garden shed out in the backyard. It was fairly good-sized -- big enough to house not only the lawnmower and leaf vac, but also multiple boxes of stuff I should have thrown out years ago but never got around to. I couldn't just leave it there. But I didn't really know how best to dispose of it either. Unfortunately, during this transition time, my trash service ceased and someone (presumably the trash removal company) removed my trash cans. I picked up one of those dumpster bags from Lowe's, but then felt weird about leaving a bunch of old papers and books and stuffed animals and such out at the curb like that. </i></span><br />
<span style="color: #073763; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><i><br /></i></span> <span style="color: #073763; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><i>My Mom was kind enough to offer up my folks' trash cans as an option. All I'd need to do was cart the stuff a mile up the road to their house. (One of the other reasons I loved my little house -- having my folks close by while we lived there was a Godsend.) Still, I was dreading this task -- I knew all too well that mice and mold had been hard at work in that shed. </i></span><br />
<span style="color: #073763; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><i><br /></i></span> <span style="color: #073763; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><i>I reluctantly made the trek back over to the house last night, multiple heavy-duty garbage bags and a pair of work gloves in hand. As expected, the boxes were covered in mold and mouse droppings. The contents were the same. One by one, I removed each box from the shed, set it on the ground outside, removed the lid, and gingerly picked through the shredded contents to see if there was anything that needed to (and could) be salvaged. </i></span><br />
<span style="color: #073763; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><i><br /></i></span> <span style="color: #073763; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><i>One of the boxes contained old photos -- wasn't expecting that, as I thought I'd kept all of those inside with me. Most of them looked to be duplicates of ones I have elsewhere and most weren't in any condition to be saved, but I did pluck out a few of Riley as a baby and toddler which didn't look too sketchy. </i></span><br />
<span style="color: #073763; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><i><br /></i></span> <span style="color: #073763; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><i>There was a box of old pregnancy/motherhood books. One of old greeting cards, notes and, sadly, the collection of business cards my former co-workers and I used to write silly quotes on when we were out drinking. I contemplated separating those and attempting to copy/re-create them, but given their condition, realized I just wasn't up to the task. As it was, I had a mouse jump out of one box and scurry over my foot. I yelped loud enough I'm surprised none of the neighbors came out to see what was going on. </i></span><br />
<span style="color: #073763; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><i><br /></i></span> <span style="color: #073763; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><i>The last -- and saddest -- box I opened was one which had stuffed animals in it. Some were mine, though most were Riley's. "Bunniper," the large, lime green and blue bunny who'd been a mainstay of my childhood, and "Morgan," the dalmatian who'd kept me company in college and law school, were at the top. They were in sorry condition. There was no salvaging to be had from that box, though I did snap a photo of them for posterity. </i></span><br />
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<span style="color: #073763; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><i><br /></i></span> <span style="color: #073763; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><i>It was a very Velveteen moment. I've a lump in my throat as I write this. </i></span><br />
<span style="color: #073763; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><i><br /></i></span> <span style="color: #073763; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><i>I removed and bagged up what I could, carted it up to my folks' house and loaded it into their trash can. While there, I snagged a Mic Ultra and returned to the house to sit on the patio and say a final goodbye. </i></span><br />
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<span style="color: #073763; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><i>I sipped the beer and looked out at the <b>large</b> yard that I used to have to tend. I don't miss that. I will miss the deer visits and the quiet mornings/evenings sitting on the deck. A little. Truth of the matter is that the mosquitos usually chased me back inside fairly quickly. </i></span></div>
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<span style="color: #073763; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><i>Inside, I took one last walk through. Said goodbye to my room, which doesn't look all that much like my room anymore since it's painted gray. Said goodbye to my kitchen -- which is one of the best things about that house. It's huge (relatively speaking.) </i></span></div>
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<span style="color: #073763; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><i>I know it sounds weird, but I thanked my little house for being a good home. It challenged me at times but it also saw me through a lot. It <b>was</b> a good home. </i></span></div>
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<span style="color: #073763; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><i>Goodbye, Little House. Thank you. </i></span></div>
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100% Susiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01430149513138371832noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6067895785335598652.post-28594521096667965442018-06-01T05:25:00.000-07:002018-06-01T05:25:15.754-07:00Breaking Through (Diary of a Slacker - Fast Approaching 50 Edition)<span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><i>So...I may have been overly ambitious in this endeavor -- in terms of exercise, weight loss, and certainly in terms of writing about it. (There may be a connection there.) It's been slow going, with a bit of one-step-forward-two-steps-back thrown in. </i></span><br />
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<span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><i>I haven't started running yet. I <b>did</b> purchase a new pair of running shoes (two weeks ago), but they're glaring at me from the closet right now. I aim to break them in this weekend. (Aim.) On a more positive note, I <b>have</b> been keeping up with the walking/getting my steps in. 8,000 a day minimum, which I've boosted back up to 10,000 per day the past two days. I did a rough calculation via the MyFitnessPal app and it appears that it takes approximately 23 steps to burn 1 calorie. If that is accurate, that means the extra 2,000 steps per day burns fewer than 100 more calories. Which doesn't seem like all that much bang for the buck, but it surely can't hurt. </i></span><br />
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<span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><i>On the weight loss front, it's been verrrrrrrrry slow going. Weighing in every morning, I wouldn't expect to see <b>huge</b> drops between measurements, but there's been a good deal of up and down. Which wouldn't bug me so much on mornings when I <b>know</b> I over-indulged the day before but is extremely frustrating when I haven't. It's no wonder people struggle with dieting. We like seeing results! Now! </i></span><br />
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<span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><i>I'll be honest - I'm not <b>seeing</b> them, yet. My shape is still out-of and my pants aren't appreciably looser. BUT...I have moved the needle a smidge. As of this morning, the scale says I weigh 158.7. I was seriously hoping to be about 9 pounds below that by now, but I need to give up the illusion that the Fat Fairy is just going to melt my fat cells away for me. <b>I'm</b> the Fat Fairy and if I've any hope of becoming the Not-So-Fat Fairy, I'm going to have to step it up. Or forward. With my nifty new running shoes. </i></span><br />
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<span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><i>I am taking some encouragement from having broken the 160 barrier. My intermediate goal now is to break through the 150 barrier by the end of this month. That <b>should</b> be achievable if I stick with the current eating habits and ratchet up the activity level. But even if I'm only another 5 pounds down by month's end, I'll take it. Just gotta remember that slow and steady wins the race. </i></span><br />
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<span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><i><br /></i></span>100% Susiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01430149513138371832noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6067895785335598652.post-33438789388387323322018-05-01T18:46:00.000-07:002018-05-01T18:46:58.784-07:00I Walk in Circles (Diary of a Slacker - Fast Approaching 50 Edition)<span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><i>I walk in circles. Literally. Most nights, I can be found making the circuit from kitchen to family room to hallway to living room to dining room to kitchen in an utterly pedestrian (no pun intended) attempt to get my steps in, because unless I have a tremendously walky day, I usually get home still needing 3-4,000 if I'm to meet my 8,000 steps-per-day goal. </i></span><br />
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<span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><i>Could be worse. I could just be walking on a treadmill. As bad as running on a treadmill is, walking is far worse in my view. And with the weather warming up -- had to take a break from writing this to go put on shorts and put my hair in a pony -- I'm hoping to move more of my walking to the outdoors. (I'm sure Pringle would be happy to oblige.) </i></span><br />
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<span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><i>But for now, I've been doing laps 'round the first floor. It helps when there's a game on -- I can follow along fairly well, catching a glimpse every 15-20 seconds. Having the phone in my hand also helps -- I catch up on e-mails, check out social media, play a little WWF or Candy Crush, even do some of my editing while I walk. (Gotta love technology!) </i></span><br />
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<span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><i>This evening, as I circled, I ventured back into my TimeHop app to see what I'd been up to on this date a year, two, five ago. I happened upon this gem:</i></span><br />
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<span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><i>As I noted when I shared it, "<span style="background-color: white;">This MAY have played a role in the extra lbs I’m carrying." I mean, I don't have definitive proof, but I've more than a sneaking suspicion. </span></i></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><i>The good news is, I finished up my 8,000 steps shortly thereafter. And, that puts me 86+ under my daily calorie allotment. I'm cautiously optimistic that Mr. Scale's going to be rewarding me with weigh-ins that start with a "15" by next week. And if I can stick with it and get them down to the "14's" by month's end, I might just actually start looking forward to swimsuit season. Sort of. </i></span></span></div>
<br />100% Susiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01430149513138371832noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6067895785335598652.post-1180330274371275612018-04-29T09:42:00.002-07:002018-04-29T09:42:18.384-07:00Diary of a Slacker - Fast Approaching 50 Edition<span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: large;"><i>I'm turning 50 in four months. (Earth-shattering, I know.) And oooophhh am I feeling it. My bones and joints ache a lot. (David can attest to this because I excel at whining.) And my fit-and-trim-I've-been-training-for-triathlons-and-half-marathons physique is almost a decade in the rearview mirror. </i></span><br />
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<span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: large;"><i>I used to write about my fitness efforts fairly frequently. Not so much to brag (though I'm sure lurking not too far 'neath the surface was a certain amount of pride/vanity), but mostly to keep myself accountable. And poke fun at myself. Plus it was seemingly solid blog-fodder. </i></span><br />
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<span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: large;"><i>I've drifted away from both. And I feel it - both physically and mentally. So...I begin again. And maybe I'll stick to it a bit better this time. Or for a little while, anyway. It's sort of a half-century birthday present to myself. (Only it's not quite as fun as my new (to me) Nissan Rogue. But it also doesn't come with a car payment, nor does it require insurance.) </i></span><br />
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<span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: large;"><i>In early 2017, I actually made some headway. I was running 3 days a week and I'd gotten my weight down to 147 (which is still 12 lbs over my goal/ideal, but it was measurable progress.) And then...the crud felled me. Whatever nasty, alien funk it was (started as pink-eye, which I'd never had before, migrated down into my chest, then back up, winding up as an ear infection -- which I've also not had since I was a little kid), it had some serious staying power. And so, by the time I finally felt human again (8 weeks later), I had lost the running habit and motivation. Sloth is such a wicked temptress. </i></span><br />
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<span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: large;"><i>I made a couple half-hearted attempts after that - mostly just trying to "get my steps in." (Have I mentioned I have a snazzy new(ish) Fitbit Alta? Thank you, David!) Even that wasn't much of an effort, though - I lowered my daily "bar" to 8,000 steps. Which isn't sedentary. But doesn't come near to qualifying as active. Especially when I wasn't even hitting <b>that</b> most days. </i></span><br />
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<span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: large;"><i>Oh, and I started tracking my food intake again with "My Fitness Pal." (I do love gadgets and apps!) Trouble with that is it's easy to get lazy with it, too. So, like, on a "bad" day, if I knew I was going to blow past my 1200 calorie limit, I'd just stop recording so I wouldn't have to face the angry red negative numbers on my screen. </i></span><br />
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<span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: large;"><i>That's the key to anything like this, of course. You have to have accountability. You have to truly commit. You can't just half-ass it. (Not that I would mind shrinking the size of mine by about half - more on that in a moment.) So I'm going to write about it. Even if no one else reads it (because this is just a little speck of a blog on the internet unlike my other writing gig - but I'm a little freer to let my hair -- and flab -- down here.) </i></span><br />
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<span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: large;"><i>So, what does knockin-on-fifty's-door look like? Setting aside the more visible wrinkles and such, it looks like a muffin-top, jiggly thighs, an outsized rear, and legs and arms utterly lacking in definition. None of it pretty. And a bit hard to swallow (ha! the irony!) for a girl who used to be "the skinny one," even if I did always have not-so-skinny hips. (As an aside: I do understand gravity, but why, if I have to be disproportionate, must I be bottom-heavy, rather than top-heavy?!) </i></span><br />
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<span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: large;"><i>I do realize that weight isn't everything when it comes to tracking fitness -- pants fitting better and pant sizes trending downward is truly the better measure for me -- but it's one of the easiest things to track. So I figured it was time to get a new-and-improved high-tech scale. (Again with the gadgets!) This one syncs with my phone app (Weight Gurus) and measures BMI, water weight, and a few other things besides just lbs, but mostly I like it because it lights up and is easier for my also-old eyes to read. </i></span><br />
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<span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: large;"><i>I got my new handy-dandy scale Monday night and, once I figured out how to get it synced with my phone, weighed in at 166.2 lbs. That's a lot. Considering the fact that I got down to 117 when at the peak of my training days. Which, by the way, was too skinny, I readily admit. As noted above, my goal weight is 135. So, that means subtracting 30ish pounds. Not 5 or 10 -- 30. Ugh! </i></span><br />
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<span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: large;"><i>Perhaps in an effort to encourage me, my new scale did cheer me up the next morning with a weigh-in of 162.7. (Behold the benefit of early morning weigh-ins!) And, by Friday morning, I was down to 161.8. I haven't weighed myself this weekend -- and doubt I'd like what it says anyway because I've not been eating all that healthily. (What? I had a wedding to go to. And stuff.) </i></span><br />
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<span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: large;"><i>To my credit, I've been meeting my 8,000 steps-per-day goal with my Fitbit since April 1st (with 3 days' exception -- all of which I made up for the following day -- except I still need to make up Friday today. I need to get out and get walking as soon as I finish this!) I've also made it back to the "Y" several times for a run on the treadmill. Still working on making that routine/habit. Can only do a mile at a time at this point, and a 12-minute one at that. But I'll keep working on that. My sister and I have tentatively discussed running a half-marathon in the fall. I'm not sure about that. It's been 5 or 6 years since my last one and my knees aren't holding up all that great. But I'm not ruling it out either. My brother just ran one and he just turned 60 -- he's no slacker!</i></span><br />
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<span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: large;"><i>I'm early in my journey, so aside from the arguably promising direction the numbers on the scale are trending, the results aren't really visible yet. Nothing reinforced that more than my adventures in trying on dresses to wear to my co-worker's wedding yesterday. It was a black-tie event, so I felt like I needed something a little more formal than what I had on hand (that fits.) </i></span><br />
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<span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: large;"><i>So yesterday morning, I headed off to Macy's -- they're having a 30% off sale for cardmembers! And they had a HUGE dress selection. (Huge as in quantity, not dress-size.) I grabbed 6 to start with -- all size 12's. They all fit, but the more form-fitting ones emphasized my fat belly and rear far too much for my tastes. There was one that was absolutely gorgeous -- cap sleeves, fitted bodice, pleated skirt. </i></span><br />
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<span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: large;"><i>I loved the fit until I turned sideways and learned a harsh truth: </i></span></div>
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<span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: large;"><i>It looked like I had an unfortunate bustle in my hedgerow. So to speak. I finally settled on a less-pleaty, more form-fitting Calvin Klein:</i></span></div>
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<span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: large;"><i>And because it was more form-fitting, I decided I needed a body shaper of some sort. I tried a couple of high-waisted contraptions - size Large. One of them I couldn't even pull up over my hips/butt. And all I could think as I wriggled and wrestled with it was how grateful I was that I hadn't gone shopping with one of my sisters or friends. Because they'd have been laughing mercilessly at me, I've no doubt. And maybe snapping a blackmail photo. Hey, listen, I get it -- I'm no longer the petite young thang I once was. But if that thing was a "Large," it was maybe for a large toddler. And I don't think toddlers should be wearing body shapers. </i></span></div>
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<span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: large;"><i>I finally settled on a body-suit body shaper of some sort. It did help -- I didn't look lumpy in my dress. But I still looked to be about 5-6 months pregnant. Which I'm not and haven't been for over 16 years. </i></span></div>
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<span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: large;"><i>I've got a long way to go. But I'm hopeful confessing my slacktastic ways here will help with that. </i></span></div>
<br />100% Susiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01430149513138371832noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6067895785335598652.post-39834170143978913092018-01-17T12:53:00.000-08:002018-01-18T12:37:44.723-08:00KevinThe legal market wasn't great in the early '90's. In fact, CNN ran a story to that effect which featured shots from inside the library at my law school -- including a view of the back of my ponytail as I sat hunched over a desk, studying, during one of my rare stints there. There weren't a ton of <i>good</i> prospects for a "B" student -- even from a top school like mine. As graduation neared, I remained jobless. And worried.<br />
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I can't recall who the kind soul was who alerted me to a new listing posted on the bulletin board outside our Career Counseling office, but I made a special trip down to school just to eyeball the letter indicating that a large law firm in St. Louis was hiring. I wrote down the firm's number but not the name of the letter's author, naively assuming that the receptionist would know where to direct me when I called. </div>
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She didn't. I struggled to recall the name I'd seen signed at the bottom. "It started with a 'K,'" I told her. She concluded it must have been their Business Administrator, "Ken," and put me through to him. "Ken" wasn't the author. Nor was he at all interested in helping me figure out who had actually sent the letter. I almost gave up right then.</div>
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But I needed a job. So the next time I was at school, I took another gander at the letter. "Kevin." It was <i>Kevin</i> who was looking to hire an associate. I called back to the firm and asked to speak with "Kevin," hoping like heck I'd pronounced his last name correctly. Right or no, I was put through to Kevin and, soon enough, had lined up an interview with him and another young partner, Jeff. They'd both recently made partner and were planning to share an associate.</div>
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The interview went fine, as I recall, though a senior partner, Sam, sat in on it, too, adding to the intimidation factor. I was introduced to several other attorneys. Had nice, brief chats with them all. Felt okay about it as I left, but also had been on the receiving end of enough rejection letters already that I was prepared for the let-down.</div>
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Kevin called me at home sometime after that to offer me a job. Only it wouldn't be for him. He explained that Sam was in need of an associate, as well, and had exercised his seniority to call dibs on me. </div>
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I got off the phone with Kevin and immediately called my best friend, Denise. I was crying. She asked why. "I got a job," I sobbed. "Then why are you crying?!" she wondered. "<i>Because I have to take it.</i>"<br />
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It isn't that I wasn't grateful. It's just that "insurance defense" sounded dreadfully boring. And the pay was absolutely lousy. (One of my good friends from school had gotten a job at a "silk stocking" firm across the street -- for exactly double what I would be making.)</div>
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But it was a job. And I soon came to love both it and my work "family." Sam, after the initial uber-intimidating-getting-to-know-you period, became like a second father to me. And Kevin, who had been Sam's associate before becoming a partner himself, was like an older brother. (In truth, he reminded me very much of my actual older brother.)</div>
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Seven years after I began working with Sam and Kevin, they (along with Jeff and another partner, Debbie) left that large firm to start their own. RSSC was born. I was honored that they invited me to be a part of their new venture. </div>
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I still worked primarily with Sam but at times worked with Kevin, as well. He was a great go-to for difficult insurance coverage questions and savvy trial strategy. He helped Sam and me with a mock trial on one of our most difficult cases. I wouldn't say he shot from the hip, but he jumped into it without a ton of preparation and still tried a hell of a case. </div>
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Kevin was also the go-to for all things techy. He had a fine appreciation for technology and advocated its incorporation into our practice. He was one of the first people I knew to get an iPhone -- and I will <i>never</i> forget the day he introduced "Siri" to us in Sam's office. He asked her the traditional "How much wood would a woodchuck chuck?" He asked her to find Sam's home address and she got confused -- and seemingly increasingly irritated the more he asked of her. Finally, he said, "I love you." To which Siri replied contemptuously, "I don't even know who you are." We had a good laugh over that, and I teased him that they sounded like an old married couple. </div>
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Initially, Kevin headed the firm's continuing legal education program. He handed that responsibility off to me several years in but was kind enough to serve as a speaker when asked. Programs which qualified for ethics credit were always the toughest to cobble together and Kevin was a saint for preparing several very thorough presentations on professionalism over the years. He would hand me a detailed outline -- though we'd inevitably only get through half of it as, between him and Sam, the war stories were always plentiful (and much more fun than the outlined material.)<br />
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And Kevin had some stories. He could tell you the history behind the term "red herring" -- and frequently used that one during closing argument at trial. He's the one who first told me about "Biff the Wonder Dog," a paper bag puppet created by one of Sam's other associates in answer to Sam's overly cautious insistence at one point that one needed to object to one's own questions during a deposition. Perhaps my favorite part about Kevin sharing a story was the way he'd have just the slightest hint of a smile on his face as he told it, and then his full grin would jump out at the end.<br />
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Though he and Sam are both tall, they have markedly different gaits. Each distinctive in their own way. I'd often spy Kevin and Sam heading out to lunch together and smile watching the two of them amble off together, thoroughly absorbed in a discussion of matters quite serious and intellectually challenging, no doubt. </div>
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In the early days of the firm, the partners took turns hosting the Christmas party at their houses. Kevin and his wife, Lesa, hosted one year and, as the evening wore on, we found ourselves gathered around the piano singing carols. I was reflecting back on that fondly this past Christmas. I miss those days. </div>
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In the fall of 2013, I was diagnosed with breast cancer. Kevin, who'd already battled cancer several years earlier, was doing battle with it again. I recall being in his office and joking that we were in the sick ward wing of the firm. Not that cancer is a laughing matter -- it isn't -- but it helped to keep a sense of humor. </div>
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I got off easy, though. Mine was caught early and responded well to traditional treatment. Kevin's was more insidious and, sadly, hell-bent on taking him from us, though he fought it mightily.<br />
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He came and visited with me in my office this past summer. He looked good. He was wearing a yellow shirt and it flattered him - made his color look good. He didn't look ill, though, after a time, I could tell he was tired.<br />
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Heather (another partner) and I had an opportunity to visit with Kevin and his family a short time ago. He'd gone on hospice and was at home. The morphine kept him from being able to participate much in the conversation, but we knew he was there and listening. He said hello when we came in. We had a nice time chatting and reminiscing with Lesa and the kids as we sat by his bed. He said a quiet, "Bye," when we left, and I replied, "Bye, dear." I wanted to say more...but then didn't know quite what. So, I did what I always do - I started writing.<br />
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You can rest now, Kevin. Know that you will very much be missed.<br />
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100% Susiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01430149513138371832noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6067895785335598652.post-51106089258844048262018-01-01T07:52:00.001-08:002018-01-01T07:52:15.973-08:00Write Now<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><i>Pretty much every year for the past decade one of my New Year's resolutions has been to write more. And I've actually done just that -- in some years, at least. </i></span><br />
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<span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><i>Last year, I even managed to land an official writing gig, which was a very pleasant surprise. I do love getting the opportunity to share my thoughts on a larger platform. But it isn't suited to all things I feel like writing. (Unlike some, I refuse to accept that <b>all</b> things are political. I love my politics, but sometimes I need my space from them.) </i></span><br />
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<span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><i>So this year, in addition to writing at RedState, I'm returning to the Septic Tank. No promises as to quality -- or even quantity. Just that I'll be doodling here a bit more, relying on it as a creative outlet. </i></span><br />
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<span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><i>I've made other resolutions -- and goals -- too. The past couple years, I've simply taken my list from the prior year and built upon it. Which has resulted in a couple of my resolutions actually becoming habits (yay!), though others have repeatedly fizzled out. That whole exercise/running thing, for instance -- last year, I got off to a <b>great</b> start -- I ran three times a week through January and February and into early March. Then I got sick. Sicker than sick. Sickety, sick, sick, sick, with ungodly amounts of snot and phlegm and aches and coughing and oh, that seriously sucked. And it knocked me out of my running almost-habit and here I sit, almost a year later, with about 10 extra pounds to show for it. Oh - and a membership at the "Y," which I'm paying for and haven't been using. </i></span><br />
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<span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><i>Which reminds me of another goal for which I've been aiming for quite awhile but often seem to miss the mark -- fiscal responsibility. On a positive note there, though, I <b>did</b> cancel my (almost-never-used) Costco membership on Saturday and...much to my surprise, was refunded $110 I hadn't been expecting. So, I'm going to take that as a good sign and set my sights on building from there. Fact is, we're already over 9 hours into the new year and I've not yet spent a dime. So maybe there's hope for me yet!</i></span><br />
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<span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><i>As hinted above, there were some positives from last year's list. For example, I did a <b>much</b> better job of setting the phone down while driving. Not going to claim I was perfect on that front, but <b>significantly</b> improved. (Now if I could just convince my fellow commuters to join me in that endeavor!) </i></span><br />
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<span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><i>I improved my work habits, which involved working harder, but also working smarter, and that paid off not only in terms of income but also outcome -- and funnily enough, an improved stress level. I have rewarded myself for such by prettifying my office. I don't care if people tease me about the glowing Himalayan salt orb on my desk - it's fun and colorful and makes me smile. Same goes for the burbling mini-fountain and the Scentsy burners. And don't even get me started on all the fun little "See Jane Work" desk accessories and my color-coded system of paper clips, binder clips, folders, and pens. (Yeah - if I'm going to improve on the fiscal responsibility front, I probably need to steer clear of office supply stores.) </i></span><br />
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<span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><i>Best of all, in the fall, I returned to church after slacking off in that department for too many months. I adore my church. And I'm a stronger, saner, more serene person when I'm dialed into it and my faith. Which helps everything else fall into place. Funny how that works.</i></span><br />
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<span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><i>As always, I'm a work in progress -- and profoundly grateful for the people in my life who love me in spite of that. So, here's to 2018, and the hope that my first post of <b>next </b>year will find me reflecting on this one warmly. *Cheers*</i></span><br />
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<br />100% Susiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01430149513138371832noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6067895785335598652.post-56158035305595137012017-03-25T12:01:00.001-07:002017-03-25T12:25:45.645-07:00The Myth of the Finite Pie<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">I've heard this phrase before, this notion or myth of a "finite pie," though typically in relation to financial or economic discussions. It occurred to me, moments ago, as I took a break from my semi-busy Saturday to pray for a friend's injured son, that I've often bought into this myth in relation to prayer: that it's finite; that I can use it up, so I'd best choose my prayers carefully. </span><br />
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<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">In fairness, humility is a positive trait, as are restraint and moderation. And certainly, a reluctance to treat prayer like a wishing well or gumball machine isn't a <i>bad</i> thing. But it's starting to sink in - how silly it is to ascribe <i>my</i> limitations to the God of the Universe. I realize I do that a lot. And in doing so, I'm subconsciously attempting to make Him in <i>my</i> image, rather than recognizing that the reverse is what is true. </span><br />
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<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">I know this, but I'm learning to <i>know</i> this: That it's okay to pray for things both big and small. He's got this. </span><br />
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<br />100% Susiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01430149513138371832noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6067895785335598652.post-76796329226038442392016-08-10T06:40:00.003-07:002016-08-10T08:32:25.094-07:00Sunrise, Sunset<span style="color: #073763; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><i>We've very much enjoyed The Muny this summer. Have seen some great shows, including last week's Fiddler on the Roof. It had been years since I'd seen it last, but I recalled the way "Sunrise, Sunset" tugged on my heart strings, even when I was young and identified more with the subject of the song than the singer. I did my best not to look over at Riley pointedly during its rendition, though I may have slipped her a sideways glance or two. I'm not certain she noticed. Sentimental moms aren't high on the priority list when you're fourteen. </i></span><br />
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<span style="color: #073763; font-size: large;"><i>She starts high school next week, but today is "Transition Day" for incoming Freshman. Basically, they get a "walk-through" and a chance to experience an abbreviated day of school to get the hang of their schedule and where their classes are. Though it's not officially the "First Day of School," I suggested taking her picture before we left the house. "NO," she said firmly. I get it - I'm not ready for school to start either. I can enable her denial for a few more days. </i></span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #073763; font-size: large;"><i>Still, as we pulled up to school, and she hopped out of the car with a quick goodbye, the bittersweet strains of "Sunrise, Sunset," whispered through my sentimental mom brain. Is this the little girl I carried...into school and pried off my leg with the assistance of her Kindergarten teacher and the kindly school counselor or principal on a regular basis? No, it isn't - not anymore. Oh, she occasionally still peers out of the young woman's eyes; every once in awhile, I hear her sweet sing-songy voice beneath the teen's intonations. But that little girl now resides primarily in my bittersweet memories. </i></span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #073763; font-size: large;"><i>And in First Day of School pics. :)</i></span></span><br />
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<br />100% Susiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01430149513138371832noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6067895785335598652.post-64356398523463607002016-06-11T06:21:00.004-07:002016-06-11T06:22:19.493-07:00Coffee on the Balcony<span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><i>I rarely watch "regular" TV anymore. I can't bring myself to "commit" to anything with an arcing story line -- life is too busy to schedule around a TV show, and I feel too guilty/stressed when I miss an episode, even in these days of DVR and On Demand capabilities. It just feels like work. </i></span><br />
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<span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><i>So, instead, when I do watch TV, if it isn't a sporting event, it's usually something like Diners, Drive-Ins and Dives or House Hunters. In fact, HGTV is my go-to channel - I can always count on it to entertain, whether it's HH, Island Life, Property Brothers or Flip or Flop. David and I have a running joke about one of THE most repeated lines on any of the above shows: Prospective buyer(s) will be scouting a new property and, if it features any sort of balcony or deck, one will inevitably say, "Oh, this would be GREAT! We can sit out here in the morning and enjoy our coffee!!!" Okay, sometimes, they do mix it up and say "evening" and "wine," Either way, it's funny how predictable it is. </i></span><br />
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<span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><i>Well, we don't have a balcony or deck, but we do have a patio, which is pleasantly shaded in the morning. So this morning, though I'd initially intended to sleep in a bit, I am up and about -- already ran an errand or two, including picking up doughnuts. And while it's still arguably pleasant outside, I am sitting right here, enjoying a Yellow Red Bull and a Maple Bacon Long John. And it's lovely! </i></span><br />
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<span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><i><br /></i></span>100% Susiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01430149513138371832noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6067895785335598652.post-142518231007426132016-05-22T19:09:00.002-07:002016-05-22T19:09:51.308-07:00Run, Rabbit, Run<span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><i>This was one of those days - you know the type: where you run endless errands and scurry here and there and manage to wear yourself out in the process. I was tempted earlier to post this as my Facebook status: "Starbucks to Church to Home to Menards to Starbucks (again) to Target to Home to Riley's friend's house to the Mall to Party City to Walgreens to Menards (again) to Home to Party City (again) to Kohl's to Schnucks to KFC to Home (and waiting to see if I need to pick Riley up from the movie/mall)." Because, yes, that's been my day. And I could express it like that, as though I were thoroughly exasperated and wiped out. But, thing is, I'm not. </i></span><br />
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<span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><i>During one of my stints at home, I had the luxury of relaxing with David in the hammock for a few minutes - and it was lovely. I could have stayed awhile longer, except for the fact that the lawn service, in tending to the lawn next door, managed to scare up a baby bunny who took flight from the mower's maw only to catch the interest of Pringle. Yes, Pringle, the almost-10-year-old Golden Retriever who wouldn't hurt a fly, who makes only a passing effort at "chasing" squirrels when they wander into our yard, who can't even be bothered to play fetch - THAT Pringle suddenly took off after the aforementioned bunny like a bat out of hell. </i></span><br />
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<span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><i>Before I knew what was happening, he was in the neighbors' yard (Hey, thanks, neighbors, for leaving your gate open!) and not only cornering, but CAPTURING baby bunny. I jumped up as soon as I realized he was in the other yard and that he meant business - ran pell mell straight at him yelling, "Pringle! No! Pringle! NO!" I managed to intercept him as he returned to our yard - I think to show me his prize. I grabbed him by the collar and yelled, "Drop!" And he did - bless his heart - he did exactly what a retriever is supposed to do. Then I dragged him inside (he wasn't particularly pleased by that - he wanted to play with his new toy.) I returned to check on the status of the bunny, hoping that maybe - just maybe - he was just scared/in shock. Sadly, Little Bunny Foofoo's pupils were fixed and dilated. There was a puncture wound on his chest - so either that, or the fright of it all, was just too much. I picked him up gently (in gloved hands) and deposited him in the yard waste bin. Hopefully he's found his way to Bunny Heaven and is hopping around in clover with all the other little bunnies now. </i></span><br />
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<span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><i>I couldn't be mad at Pringle. He was just doing what dogs do - well, what most dogs do. I had to hand it to him - he impressed me. I do believe that's his first ever capture/kill. Didn't know the old feller had it in him. Not only that, but he got me running at a full out sprint across the yard in my efforts to play Bunny Savior. Which felt kind of good, I have to admit, even in its futility. It reminded me that I really do need to get back to running.</i></span><br />
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<span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><i>Which brings me back to the first paragraph - different kind of running. The kind which <b>can </b>be the wrong kind of running if your focus is in the wrong place. It reminded me of my second official blog post: <a href="http://somewhereovertheseptictank.blogspot.com/2010/02/how-pooh-are-you.html" target="_blank">How Pooh Are You?</a> wherein I was reminded that running around like Rabbit, being "extremely busy and very important" isn't who or how I want to be. I don't think I realized it at the time, but trying to get back to a more Pooh-like place, was just another way of searching for peace. </i></span><br />
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<span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><i>Interestingly, that was one of the primary themes at church today. The pastor walked us through the parable of the alabaster jar. I won't go through the whole message - it had several different facets (and is worth the watch if anyone cares to view it when they post the podcast link tomorrow.) But at the end of it, Jesus says to the woman, "Your faith has saved you; go in peace." And I was reminded of the peace that walking with Him brings. </i></span><br />
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<span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><i>So, that sort of stayed with me today, despite all my running. It reminded me, instead of being harried and hassled, to be grateful for the fact that I had a beautiful day like today - I awoke to the birds chirping, I enjoyed a nice church service with David, I enjoyed time with both him and Riley, I checked a few things off my "To Do" list, and now, I'm free to sit on the patio, peck away at the keyboard and write this all out, while enjoying the new mason jar/fire fly garden lights we installed this weekend, and listening to the tree frogs chirp their evening song. It's been a blessed day. </i></span><br />
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<br />100% Susiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01430149513138371832noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6067895785335598652.post-82761099669243326602016-05-19T08:38:00.000-07:002016-05-19T08:45:25.546-07:00Overcoming My Underachievement<span style="color: #3d85c6; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><i>I used to make regular "Diary of a Slacker" entries as I chronicled my reluctant attempts at becoming a committed runner/half-marathoner/tri-athlete. Mostly, it was an excuse to indulge my urge to blog while (in theory) humorously poking fun of myself. But it acknowledged some less-than-endearing traits I've recognized in myself: sloth and procrastination. Sadly, those are my defaults. Yes - actually getting out there and training and competing was arguably me <b>overcoming </b>those traits, but they're still my defaults -- and I do see them as flaws I'd do well to cure. </i></span><br />
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<span style="color: #3d85c6; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><i>I have to admit, though, nothing will make you feel quite so slothful and slackerish as hearing that one of your classmates is on the short list of potential Supreme Court nominees. (Yes, it's a list of 11 possibilities which even the not-yet-official-nominee-and-certainly-not-yet-next-President-Heaven-help-us-all acknowledges is not set in stone, but STILL!) Particularly when it comes several months after the news that another classmate has contributed $100 million dollars to your alma mater. In fairness, said classmate had a healthy running start on his fortune, but he's obviously done quite well for himself since! </i></span><br />
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<span style="color: #3d85c6; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><i>I. Am. Not. Worthy. That's where my mind immediately went. (Hey - I'm human.) It also prompted me to once again reassess several of my life choices and contemplate what I'd do differently if I had it all to do again, particularly as it relates to my education/career choices: I'd have taken advantage of the awesome J-School at MIZZOU and double-majored in Journalism and Political Science in order to better blend (and ideally feed) my dual passions of writing and politics. For law school, as much as I loved my experience at Northwestern, and as great an opportunity as it was (obviously - see above paragraphs), I think I'd have taken advantage of the generous scholarship package I was offered to remain at MIZZOU for law school, rather than weighing myself down with student debt for which, in some respects, I'm still paying. And lastly, I'd have made a point to "apply" myself a bit more diligently. Not that I did poorly academically - but I didn't really distinguish myself, and I certainly didn't make a conscious effort to focus and soak up the education I was being afforded, as opposed to simply phoning it in. There are many chapters in my life that, when I look back, I realize I didn't fully appreciate at the time. I don't just mean simple gratitude, but also conscious, deliberate, stop-and-smell-the-roses-and-soak-it-all-in-and-inform-your-choices-accordingly appreciation.</i></span><br />
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<span style="color: #3d85c6; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><i>Of course, the fact that I didn't always see the wisdom in doing so in my younger days in no way prevents me from doing so going forward -- I'm 47, not 97. So, bearing that in mind, I'll take a moment now to express my gratitude: For an amazing, funny, smart, loving, kind daughter who is herself entering a new chapter of life, as she completes her last day of middle school - I am so very lucky to be her Mom, and, as much as I focus on trying to parent her and help her grow into a strong, independent, capable young woman, realize more and more how much she's teaching me in the process. For a wonderful, thoughtful, clever, handsome, witty, generous boyfriend/life-partner who gives me reason to smile and makes my heart go pitter-patter every day - I am so fortunate to have a best friend and companion who "gets" me and loves me and holds my hand so well. For my beloved family - my Mom and Dad, and siblings and in-laws, and extended family, one and all - I've been blessed to be surrounded and bolstered by their love and support my entire life. For my dear friends - the many kind hearts who make a point to let me know that I am loved and valued by choice. For my network of friends/friendly acquaintances I've met compliments of the conservative movement and social media, and the writing and broadcasting opportunities that has consequently afforded me. For my church and the journey of reconnecting with my faith it has helped me to make. For my job and my co-workers - no, I don't hold a lofty title or make prestigious short lists, nor do I make a gabillion dollars, but I manage to support myself and my kiddo and occasionally generate work/results of which I'm proud and still live a life with plenty of fun and neat opportunities. </i></span><br />
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<span style="color: #3d85c6; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><i>I'm not going to lie - I'm still prone to sloth. I'm still a horrible procrastinator. But my life? You know - it isn't so bad at all. Yes, I am grateful. Now, I just need to focus a bit more on living it accordingly. </i></span><br />
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<br />100% Susiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01430149513138371832noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6067895785335598652.post-73842197828632419902016-05-05T19:23:00.002-07:002017-05-05T08:02:00.927-07:00Cinco de Mayo<span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><i>I don't recall hearing about "Cinco de Mayo" as I was growing up, It wasn't until I was an adult and viewed it as an excuse to have a margarita or two that it took on any significance for me. And even then, it was sort of just another day to meet up with friends and enjoy Mexican food and drink (in honor of the Mexican victory at the Battle of Puebla - which Mexico doesn't even really celebrate, though I'm sure they appreciate us doing so for them?!) I have a handful of fun, silly Cinco memories which needn't be repeated. I have a fond memory of Riley's first Cinco - itty-bitty, not yet two months old, bundled in her pumpkin seat, hanging outside at Vista Grande with her Dad and me and a dear group of friends we don't get to see so much anymore. </i></span><br />
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<span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><i>Cinco de Mayo took on a different meaning for me 10 years ago: It was the day my Grandmother went to be with God. Which somehow seemed appropriate, as she loved her trips to Mexico AND loved a reason to celebrate. I believe she was ready to go. We'd celebrated her 100th birthday two months earlier. She'd lived a long, full life, and I believe she was at peace. But in a lot of ways, I'm <b>still </b>not ready for her to go. Or I wish she could come back and visit every once in awhile. I've written previously about questions I'd ask her if she did:</i></span><i> </i></span><br />
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<span style="color: #3d85c6; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><i>From 2011 - <a href="http://somewhereovertheseptictank.blogspot.com/2011/02/questions-id-ask-my-grandmother.html" target="_blank">Questions I'd Ask My Grandmother</a></i></span></h3>
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<span style="color: #3d85c6; font-size: large;"><em><span style="font-family: "times new roman";">Tomorrow would have been my Grandmother’s 105th birthday. I know we were so lucky to have her through her 100th – I got to grow up, go to school, get my college and law degrees, get married, have a child, all with her in my life. Best of all, Riley got to spend time with her Great Grandma and get to know her before she left us. And I think – no, I know – she was ready to go when she did. So, it’s selfish of me to think like this, I suppose. But, so often these days, I’m struck with the realization that I need her now more than ever. </span></em><br /><br /><em><span style="font-family: "times new roman";">I won’t say I took my Grandmother for granted. I can’t remember there ever being a time when I didn’t see her for the amazing, strong, beautiful spirit she was. Grandma just had this…presence. An almost regal bearing, though not a cold one. But I do regret not taking the time to sit and <strong>really</strong> talk with her before she went -- not just about the little things, but the big things, too: life, love, loss.</span></em><br /><br /><em><span style="font-family: "times new roman";">I didn’t realize I’d someday find myself on a path quite similar to hers. I never really stopped and thought about how she came to travel that path herself. What it meant to her. What it might have cost her. I never asked her either. And I don’t even know if she’d have been able or willing to tell me. But I sure do wish I would have.</span></em><br /><br /><em><span style="font-family: "times new roman";">It will, no doubt, seem strange to some that I’ve felt her, here with me, at times since she passed on. Always, there is the idea of her. But on a couple of occasions, I’ve actually <strong>felt</strong> her with me, even heard her voice and felt her hand on my shoulder. Those weren’t scary moments, at all. A little strange, but more comforting than anything else. Sometimes, I wish she’d come back and sit with me for awhile. And then, maybe, I could ask her:</span></em><br /><br /><em><span style="font-family: "times new roman";">Was it hard to be so strong? Where did you look to for that strength? What sustained you?</span></em><br /><br /><em><span style="font-family: "times new roman";">Did you envision your life turning out the way it did? What would you have done differently if you could? How did you maintain your focus on what you had, instead of what you didn’t? </span></em><br /><br /><em><span style="font-family: "times new roman";">When your heart was broken, what helped heal it? When you wrote, what inspired you? When you cried, what brought the laughter back? </span></em><br /><br /><em><span style="font-family: "times new roman";">Was it scary, being a single mother? Did you ever worry you were letting Mom down? If you were failing her by not providing her with a traditional family? </span></em><br /><br /><em><span style="font-family: "times new roman";">How did you manage to run a farm <strong>and</strong> a post office? (I realize the town was small, and you had some help with the farm, but I can barely manage a tiny house and a decent-sized yard.) How did you know what you needed to do? Where did you find the time to do it all?</span></em><br /><br /><em><span style="font-family: "times new roman";">How did you learn to live alone without being lonely? To be independent without becoming isolated? </span></em><br /><br /><em><span style="font-family: "times new roman";">What would you tell me if you were here now? What wisdom would you share with me to help me find my way? </span></em><br /><br /><em><span style="font-family: "times new roman";">Most of all, do you have any idea how amazing you are? What a blessing you’ve been in my life? </span></em><br /><br /><em><span style="font-family: "times new roman";">I love you, Grandma. </span></em></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; line-height: normal;"><i><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: large;">I'd have even more questions for her now - like what she thinks about craft beer; and this crazy election we're having. I'd love for her to meet David - I'm certain she'd be quite fond of him (and remark to me about what a handsome fellow he is.) I know she'd adore his Emma and Holly. And I'd love for her to see the smart, beautiful, thoughtful and brave young woman Riley is becoming. I'd love to challenge her to another round of Canasta even though I know she'd win. Mostly, I'd love to sit outside in the evening with her and listen to the cicadas - or maybe the tree frogs if we were here instead of at her farm. </span></i></span></div>
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<i><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: large;">I drove by it last week. I had to be in St. Joseph for work, and planned on stopping off in Dearborn on my way back home since I'd be right there. I wanted to drive out past her farm, and then back toward town; to stop off at the cemetery and place some flowers on her grave - I can't believe it's been 10 years since I was there. The timing worked out well - I finished my work in St. Joe at 2:30, and headed to a local florist. But then a weather alert popped up on my phone: "Tornado Watch: Buchanan County." The sky to the west of me had turned that ugly shade of cobalt blue muddled with swamp green. The radar app on my phone showed an angry red crescent of nastiness moving east-south-east toward me. I hesitated, then nixed the florist and got right back on 29 headed south, trying to convince myself I still had time for a quick visit - maybe. But Mother Nature refused to slow her roll. As I drew close to the Dearborn exit, I knew - at best, I could hope to race by the cemetery and, if I was lucky, have just enough time to locate her grave and say a quick hello before the storm unleashed its fury. And that didn't seem like such a good idea. Especially since I wasn't sure where I could take shelter from there. So I kept going. I looked up at the Dearborn water tower as I passed, and whispered, "I'm sorry, Grandma," through tears, even though I'm quite certain my Grandmother would have chewed me a new one had I not done exactly that. It just - made me miss her so very much at that moment; made me sad. </span></i></div>
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<i><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: large;">So, I called my Mom to let her know I wasn't going to be able to stop - and to assure her I was ahead of the storm, though the dang thing nipped at my heels most of the way back to Columbia. And I suggested perhaps she and I might plan a visit very soon. She said she'd like that. And so would I. Miss you, Grandma.</span></i></div>
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100% Susiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01430149513138371832noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6067895785335598652.post-51725624142880103102015-12-21T12:37:00.000-08:002015-12-21T12:37:35.968-08:00Would You Come to a Christmas Service with Me? <span style="color: #cc0000; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><i>I'll be honest - I'm struggling to find the right words to accompany this invitation. It's an idea that's been kicking around my mind the past few days and really took shape at yesterday's service when one of the pastors mentioned there were actual invitation cards available for us to take and hand out this week. The cards contain a handy-dandy schedule of Christmas services and even a link to join and watch on-line if one can't be there in person. </i></span><br />
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<span style="color: #cc0000; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><i>"Perfect!" I thought. I snagged a few from the Information desk on my way out...and promptly left them at home this morning. So the best I can do at the moment is extend the invitation this way. </i></span><br />
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<span style="color: #cc0000; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><i>Oh, I know - some may not be at all interested in taking me up on it. It's okay - I won't try and twist your arm. I just suspect there are more than a few people out there who - as has often been the case with me in recent years - are so busy with the comings and goings they don't think they'll have time to fit in a Christmas service, even if they really would like to. This is my way of letting you know - yes, you can - even if all you have is an hour to spare! (Even if you plan on wrapping gifts and/or fixing up a veggie casserole for the family gathering while you watch/listen.) Here's the link if you'd like to check it out: <a href="http://online.wcrossing.org/" target="_blank">http://online.wcrossing.org/</a></i></span><br />
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<span style="color: #cc0000; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><i>If you'd actually like to attend in person, there are lots of options, both location-wise and time-wise. And if you think you might like to attend, but you're hesitant - for whatever reason - well, just consider this your personal invitation from me. I don't bite. And neither will this. :) </i></span><br />
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<br />100% Susiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01430149513138371832noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6067895785335598652.post-24773197370819627582015-10-11T16:27:00.001-07:002015-10-11T17:00:51.539-07:00Forgiveness<div style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 24px; margin-bottom: 10px;">
<b><span style="color: #073763; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><i><span class="text Eph-4-25" id="en-NIV-29298" style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; box-sizing: border-box;"><span class="versenum" style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 22px; position: relative; top: 0px; vertical-align: top;">"25 </span>Therefore each of you must put off falsehood and speak truthfully<span class="crossreference" data-cr="#cen-NIV-29298BC" data-link="(<a href="#cen-NIV-29298BC" title="See cross-reference BC">BC</a>)" style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 22px; position: relative; top: 0px; vertical-align: top;"></span> to your neighbor, for we are all members of one body.<span class="crossreference" data-cr="#cen-NIV-29298BD" data-link="(<a href="#cen-NIV-29298BD" title="See cross-reference BD">BD</a>)" style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 22px; position: relative; top: 0px; vertical-align: top;"></span></span> <span class="text Eph-4-26" id="en-NIV-29299" style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; box-sizing: border-box;"><span class="versenum" style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 22px; position: relative; top: 0px; vertical-align: top;">26 </span>“In your anger do not sin”<span class="footnote" data-fn="#fen-NIV-29299d" data-link="[<a href="#fen-NIV-29299d" title="See footnote d">d</a>]" style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 22px; position: relative; top: 0px; vertical-align: top;">[<a href="https://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=Ephesians+4#fen-NIV-29299d" style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; background: transparent; box-sizing: border-box; cursor: pointer; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: top;" title="See footnote d">d</a>]</span>:<span class="crossreference" data-cr="#cen-NIV-29299BE" data-link="(<a href="#cen-NIV-29299BE" title="See cross-reference BE">BE</a>)" style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 22px; position: relative; top: 0px; vertical-align: top;"></span>Do not let the sun go down while you are still angry,</span> <span class="text Eph-4-27" id="en-NIV-29300" style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; box-sizing: border-box;"><span class="versenum" style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 22px; position: relative; top: 0px; vertical-align: top;">27 </span>and do not give the devil a foothold.<span class="crossreference" data-cr="#cen-NIV-29300BF" data-link="(<a href="#cen-NIV-29300BF" title="See cross-reference BF">BF</a>)" style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 22px; position: relative; top: 0px; vertical-align: top;"></span></span> <span class="text Eph-4-28" id="en-NIV-29301" style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; box-sizing: border-box;"><span class="versenum" style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 22px; position: relative; top: 0px; vertical-align: top;">28 </span>Anyone who has been stealing must steal no longer, but must work,<span class="crossreference" data-cr="#cen-NIV-29301BG" data-link="(<a href="#cen-NIV-29301BG" title="See cross-reference BG">BG</a>)" style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 22px; position: relative; top: 0px; vertical-align: top;"></span> doing something useful with their own hands,<span class="crossreference" data-cr="#cen-NIV-29301BH" data-link="(<a href="#cen-NIV-29301BH" title="See cross-reference BH">BH</a>)" style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 22px; position: relative; top: 0px; vertical-align: top;"></span> that they may have something to share with those in need.<span class="crossreference" data-cr="#cen-NIV-29301BI" data-link="(<a href="#cen-NIV-29301BI" title="See cross-reference BI">BI</a>)" style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 22px; position: relative; top: 0px; vertical-align: top;"></span></span></i></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="color: #073763; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><i><span class="text Eph-4-29" id="en-NIV-29302" style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; box-sizing: border-box;"><span class="versenum" style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 22px; position: relative; top: 0px; vertical-align: top;">29 </span>Do not let any unwholesome talk come out of your mouths,<span class="crossreference" data-cr="#cen-NIV-29302BJ" data-link="(<a href="#cen-NIV-29302BJ" title="See cross-reference BJ">BJ</a>)" style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 22px; position: relative; top: 0px; vertical-align: top;"></span> but only what is helpful for building others up<span class="crossreference" data-cr="#cen-NIV-29302BK" data-link="(<a href="#cen-NIV-29302BK" title="See cross-reference BK">BK</a>)" style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 22px; position: relative; top: 0px; vertical-align: top;"></span> according to their needs, that it may benefit those who listen.</span> <span class="text Eph-4-30" id="en-NIV-29303" style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; box-sizing: border-box;"><span class="versenum" style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 22px; position: relative; top: 0px; vertical-align: top;">30 </span>And do not grieve the Holy Spirit of God,<span class="crossreference" data-cr="#cen-NIV-29303BL" data-link="(<a href="#cen-NIV-29303BL" title="See cross-reference BL">BL</a>)" style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 22px; position: relative; top: 0px; vertical-align: top;"></span> with whom you were sealed<span class="crossreference" data-cr="#cen-NIV-29303BM" data-link="(<a href="#cen-NIV-29303BM" title="See cross-reference BM">BM</a>)" style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 22px; position: relative; top: 0px; vertical-align: top;"></span> for the day of redemption.<span class="crossreference" data-cr="#cen-NIV-29303BN" data-link="(<a href="#cen-NIV-29303BN" title="See cross-reference BN">BN</a>)" style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 22px; position: relative; top: 0px; vertical-align: top;"></span></span> <span class="text Eph-4-31" id="en-NIV-29304" style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; box-sizing: border-box;"><span class="versenum" style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 22px; position: relative; top: 0px; vertical-align: top;">31 </span>Get rid of<span class="crossreference" data-cr="#cen-NIV-29304BO" data-link="(<a href="#cen-NIV-29304BO" title="See cross-reference BO">BO</a>)" style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 22px; position: relative; top: 0px; vertical-align: top;"></span> all bitterness, rage and anger, brawling and slander, along with every form of malice.<span class="crossreference" data-cr="#cen-NIV-29304BP" data-link="(<a href="#cen-NIV-29304BP" title="See cross-reference BP">BP</a>)" style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 22px; position: relative; top: 0px; vertical-align: top;"></span></span> <span class="text Eph-4-32" id="en-NIV-29305" style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; box-sizing: border-box;"><span class="versenum" style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 22px; position: relative; top: 0px; vertical-align: top;">32 </span>Be kind and compassionate to one another,<span class="crossreference" data-cr="#cen-NIV-29305BQ" data-link="(<a href="#cen-NIV-29305BQ" title="See cross-reference BQ">BQ</a>)" style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 22px; position: relative; top: 0px; vertical-align: top;"></span> forgiving each other, just as in Christ God forgave you." - Ephesians 4:25-32.</span></i></span></b></div>
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<span style="color: #073763; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><i>At the risk of sounding repetitive, there are rarely -- if ever -- times when I attend church and <b>don't </b>come away feeling that I was meant to be there -- to receive the message and once again be reminded that He is almost always speaking to me. (Maybe I just listen/hear Him better while I'm at church -- after all, being still and quiet is sort of an ingrained part of the churchgoing process. Besides, surfing Facebook during the worship service just seems uber tacky.) Because of this, I've gotten in the habit of walking in with a particular question on my heart. Whatever is weighing on me -- I bring it there and hold it out, like Zuzu's petals, for God to "paste it," and make it better; make me whole. I don't know why it still surprises me -- but He always does. </i></span></div>
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<span style="color: #073763; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><i>Lately, a couple different concerns have been weighing on me, but both have to do with loss -- loss of people who matter to me, to be precise. There are different ways we lose people -- sometimes to death, sometimes to anger or betrayal, sometimes just to drift. But loss is loss and the closer the tie to the person, the greater the hurt when we lose them, particularly when it's abrupt and/or unexpected. I've been carrying a good deal of hurt with me over several people who've chosen to exit stage left in recent months. It's left me feeling very small and not valued. And I've been trying to figure out how to get past it.</i></span></div>
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<span style="color: #073763; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><i>Just letting go of it and walking away isn't really my way. Usually, my instinct is to attempt to mend fences, but in order to do that, I know I need to get past the point where I feel compelled to plead my case; to explain how I've been "wronged" and how and why I didn't "deserve" it. Problem is...I've been stuck there for awhile, and haven't been able to move on to that "It doesn't matter who's right or wrong; what matters is the relationship with this person" phase. So when I realized today's theme was "forgiveness," I thought, "Oh, boy - here we go." </i></span></div>
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<span style="color: #073763; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><i>As it turned out, the message was about more than just forgiveness. If I had to sum it up succinctly, I'd say it's about walking the walk. But forgiveness is a crucial component of that -- God's forgiveness of our sins and, in turn, our forgiveness of one another. Towards the end of the message, the Pastor encouraged us to seek out those we need to forgive -- to start figuring out how to get to that place. ("Great," I thought, "That's what I've been <b>trying </b>(rather unsuccessfully) to do.") But then, he added another dimension to it and encouraged us to seek out those from whom we need to seek forgiveness. </i></span></div>
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<span style="color: #073763; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><i>I was still mulling this over as I drove away, and it suddenly hit me: I've been so focused on forgiv<b>ing</b>, I've forgotten I need to be forgiv<b>en</b>. Maybe I need to shift my focus to that, in order to get to where I need to be. So I'm putting this out there, and I'm asking any and all - if I've let you down; if I've hurt you, please forgive me. If there's something I can do to make it right, tell me. And if you're still not there yet, know that I'll be right here when you are. </i></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 19.1429px;"><b><span style="color: #073763; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><i>There are people in your life who've come and gone;</i></span></b></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 19.1429px;"><b><span style="color: #073763; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><i>They've let you down, you know they've hurt your pride.</i></span></b></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 19.1429px;"><b><span style="color: #073763; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><i>You'd better put it all behind you, baby, cuz life goes on;</i></span></b></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 19.1429px;"><b><span style="color: #073763; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><i>You keep carryin' that anger, it'll eat you up inside.</i></span></b></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 19.1429px;"><b><span style="color: #073763; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><i><br /></i></span></b></span></div>
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<b style="line-height: 19.1429px;"><span style="color: #073763; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><i>I've been tryin' to get down to the Heart of the Matter</i></span></b></div>
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<span style="line-height: 19.1429px;"><b><span style="color: #073763; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><i>But my will gets weak</i></span></b></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 19.1429px;"><b><span style="color: #073763; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><i>And my thoughts seem to scatter.</i></span></b></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 19.1429px;"><b><span style="color: #073763; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><i>But I think it's about forgiveness</i></span></b></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 19.1429px;"><b><span style="color: #073763; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><i>Forgiveness</i></span></b></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 19.1429px;"><b><span style="color: #073763; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><i>Even if, even if you don't love me anymore. - Don Henley</i></span></b></span></div>
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100% Susiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01430149513138371832noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6067895785335598652.post-80347669136243057612015-09-03T08:44:00.001-07:002015-09-03T08:57:07.473-07:00Flip or Flop <span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><i>It all began for want of a pencil case. Of course Riley got one along with her other school supplies about a month ago. But the one we originally got, it seems, wasn't all that sturdy. Ergo, when stepped on by a classmate last week, it sort of fell apart. So I was informed that she needed a new one. It went a little something like this: I went to Target last Saturday and picked up all sorts of things (as one so often does when one goes to Target.) Got home and, as I was unpacking my purchases, was greeted with, "Next time you go to Target, can I come with? I need a new pencil case." I might have rolled my eyes a teeny bit, but laughed and said, "Well, yes, the <b>next </b>time I go to Target, you're welcome to come along, but I can't say for certain when that will be, seeing as how I <b>just now got home from Target</b>!" </i></span><br />
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<span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><i>Later, I was informed that there was a <b>particular</b> case the kiddo had found on line which she <strike>needed </strike>wanted. So she described it to me, and I promised to pick one up the next time I was at Target. Went last night to "our" store only to discover that they didn't have the item in stock. So she asked if we could order it on line. Sure. We can do that. Hopped on line last evening and learned...it's out of stock on line! And in "low stock" in only two stores in the St. Louis area -- O'Fallon and Jennings. Okay fine, the O'Fallon store isn't too far away, so I decided to run by there on my way to work this morning. </i></span><br />
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<span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><i>Got there shortly after the store opened at 8:00 a.m., and, as I was walking in...something went terribly awry with my left shoe. I was wearing my prized Colin Stuart black wedge flip-flops -- which, anyone who sees me regularly can attest, is basically the entirety of my summer shoe wardrobe. Actually, I like this particular shoe so much, I have it in 5 or 6 colors, but since I wear a lot of black, the black ones get the most wear. And it seems, I've worn them <b>so </b>much that I wore the flip right of the flop. Busted. So, what was I to do? I was already at Target. Wasn't going to hop back to the car and go home. I figured Target might actually have a reasonable substitute, so I trudged forward. </i></span><br />
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<span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><i>Trust me, you haven't lived until you've attempted to traverse a large box store in a busted high-heeled flip flop. Let's just say, I moved verrrrrrry slooowwwwwlllyyy. I'm sure anyone who saw me thought I had a terrible leg injury. </i></span><br />
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<span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><i>But I made my way over to the shoe section and low and behold - they not only had a decent selection of flip flops -- they actually had some black wedges! Not identical to my beloved Colin Stuarts, but close enough! </i></span><br />
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<span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><i>Now the trick was to figure out how to swap the fully functional flop out for the busted one without appearing to be some kind of shoe shoplifter, as simply donning the tethered-together Target pair seemed likely to cause further mobility issues. I was able to carefully untether the left flop from its mate (and thankfully, the price tag was affixed to the right flop.) So I donned the left flop and proceeded with my shopping sporting a pair of mismatched, yet close-enough, black wedge flip flops.</i></span><br />
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<span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><i>I flopped over to the school supply section...only to discover that the desired pencil case apparently wasn't in stock at <b>this </b>store either. I asked the kind gentleman who was restocking the team-wear nearby to check. He did, and after several moments and some hunting around, ultimately determined that there'd been an accounting error, and they really didn't have any in stock. </i></span><br />
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<span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><i>I grabbed two alternatives and headed towards the checkout, where the cashier graciously placed my old shoes in a bag and snipped the price tag off the right flop so that I could wear my new pair out of the store. Hope one of the cases I snagged will do, because I'm not driving to the Jennings Target for a $4 pencil case! </i></span><br />
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<br />100% Susiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01430149513138371832noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6067895785335598652.post-4963679278399890472015-08-31T07:42:00.004-07:002015-08-31T07:44:05.822-07:00Be Still <span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><i>I went to church yesterday for the first time in several weeks. Summer's been busy and weekends fly by, and it's all too easy to place church down low on the priority list. But I felt it tugging at me a bit. Truth be told, I've been feeling a little bit low of late. No one thing, no enormous thing, just the paper cuts of life leaving their sting. </i></span><br />
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<span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: large;">So I went with the hope that an hour in church would renew my spirit a bit, as it so often does. I went with a prayer on my heart that God would speak to me there as He's done before. It's the reason I've come to love my church so -- rare is the time I attend and <b>don't </b>take something meaningful away. </span></i></span><br />
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<span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: large;">And as the service went on, I felt...well, not really what I'd been hoping for. The music was good, the message was fine, but it wasn't really connecting with me in the way I'd thought it might. Even when the pastor mentioned "those times when God speaks to us and we <b>know </b>it's Him." Yes - I've experienced those times, and they're a large part of what informs my faith. But He wasn't really speaking to me yesterday. </span></i></span><br />
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<span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: large;">Then, at the end of the service, the lights dimmed, and the pastor engaged in a sort of "question and answer" prayer session with God. He voiced a concern or doubt, speaking directly to God, and then, in turn, a verse would appear on the screen -- one which spoke to the question. I don't recall the pastor's first query, but the responsive verse was: "<a href="http://www.kingjamesbibleonline.org/Isaiah-43-1/" style="text-decoration: none; text-indent: -12px;" title="View more translations of Isaiah 43:1">Fear not: for I have redeemed thee, I have called thee by thy name; thou art mine.</a>"</span></i></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">And for some reason, that prompted me to think of the times I've called out to God in sadness or doubt, and "heard" (in my head - not in a big out loud GOD voice): </span><span style="color: blue;">"Be still, and know that I am God."</span><span style="color: #0b5394;"> So I thought, "Okay, maybe that's what I'm supposed to take away from today." I thought on it a bit as the question-and-answer-prayer continued for a few minutes. </span></span></i></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">And then the pastor was quiet and the lights dimmed completely. And then, a blue spotlight illuminated a lone pianist on stage. And this is what he played:</span></span></i></span><br />
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<span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: large;">I heard you, God. Thank you. </span></i></span>100% Susiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01430149513138371832noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6067895785335598652.post-37529452115338037202014-12-09T19:00:00.000-08:002014-12-09T19:00:05.825-08:00The NICE Bucket ChallengeI dropped the ball several months ago. The "Ice Bucket Challenge" was making the rounds, and my beau and one of my best friends both challenged me. Unfortunately, between work and trying to complete the move and get my house ready to rent out, I managed to <b>not</b> complete the Challenge in timely fashion. (And felt like a real schmuck for it, because excuses are just that.) So, I resolved to make a donation to ALS.<br />
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But that didn't really feel like enough. An idea began to percolate in my brain...what if there were a way to take the viral concept of the Challenge and combine it with the "Pay it Forward" or "Random Acts of Kindness" concept? Of course, if you know anything about me, you won't be surprised to learn that's about as far as it got. Life has a funny way of elbowing grand ideas out of the way.<br />
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The idea didn't fade completely, though. Some weeks later, a Facebook friend mentioned how much it had brightened her day when the person in front of her at the drive-thru had paid for her order. Inspired, I did the same for the gentleman behind me at McDonald's later that day. Only to learn that he, bless his soul, had only ordered a soda. I know it's the thought that counts, but "paying it forward" for only 99 cents or so seemed sort of like I'd done my good deed on the cheap.<br />
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Flash forward to this past weekend, as I contemplated topics for this week's episode of "Q With A View": Seems like a lot of our focus lately has been on the negative. The past few months have felt particularly so, in light of the events in Ferguson and the fallout from same. So I decided it might be nice to do a show that featured nothing but good news. I pitched it to my co-host, Jason, and solicited good news stories from friends on Facebook and Twitter. <br />
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Several friends were kind enough to share some links, including one comprised of several vignettes of "simple acts of kindness." And the idea again took form and nudged me -- perhaps now is the time.<br />
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So, here is my idea: I would like to challenge everyone who reads this to find a way to perform three random acts of kindness within three days of reading it. They don't have to be big, grandiose gestures -- it can be something as simple as holding a door for someone whose arms are full, or smiling and saying "Have a nice day!" to a stranger. They can be as big or small a gesture as you'd like, but just a conscious gesture of good will toward your fellow man.<br />
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If you accept the challenge, I would ask that you, in turn, pass this blog along and ask others who read it to meet the challenge, as well. This isn't a challenge that particularly lends itself to viral video clips, and I'll leave it to each of you as to whether you choose to share specifics regarding your good deeds, but in this day of pervasive social media, surely there is a way, via Facebook or Twitter, or even e-mail, to propel the "NICE Bucket Challenge" forward. Are you game?<br />
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<br />100% Susiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01430149513138371832noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6067895785335598652.post-47401999442034844562014-08-13T14:15:00.000-07:002016-08-12T14:44:00.046-07:00All My Love to You, Poppet<span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><i>Jon Nolte wrote a very sweet and fitting <a href="http://www.breitbart.com/Big-Hollywood/2014/08/12/robin-williams-tribute-nolte/" target="_blank">tribute</a> to Robin Williams yesterday. It tugged at me because of the opening paragraph: </i></span><br />
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<span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><i>"When Robin Williams smiled his whole face smiled … except for his eyes. Williams' eyes twinkled, moistened, saw right through you, but never smiled. His eyes informed us something else was going on, something deeper; that the character was holding something back, a touch of madness, a secret, and the secret wasn't a very happy one."</i></span></h2>
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<span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><i>For all the many laughs and smiles Robin Williams brought to my life over the years, that description of his twinkling, knowingly sad eyes is how I always see him in my mind's eye. It's the look you see in Euphegenia Doubtfire's eyes and hear in her voice in my favorite scene from "Mrs. Doubtfire": </i></span><br />
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<span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><i>That scene touched me when I initially saw it back in 1993, but it truly caught and captured my heart a couple years ago when I watched it again through the eyes of a divorced parent. </i></span></div>
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<span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><i>No matter how amicable (or appropriate) a divorce may be, there is heartache at its center. And there are obstacles and hurts a child of divorce encounters that a parent doesn't always have the ability to fix or words to make right. What I love about this scene is that Mrs. Doubtfire doesn't simply gloss over that, but instead acknowledges it, then gently assures 'dear Katie' -- and all of us -- <span style="background-color: white;">"<span style="line-height: 18.200000762939453px;">But if there's love, dear... those are the ties that bind, and you'll have a family in your heart, forever." That scene reminds us that those we hold dear are never truly lost. </span></span><span style="background-color: #fcfae7; line-height: 18.200000762939453px;"> </span></i></span></div>
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<span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><i style="background-color: white;"><span style="line-height: 18.200000762939453px;">The movie, as a whole, reminds us how easy it is to get caught up in petty slights and resentments and forget to let love be our guide. </span><span style="line-height: 18.200000762939453px;">And I don't mean that solely in the context of divorce or parenting. We forget it in the way we treat our extended family, our friends, our co-workers, our fellow man. Even in the wake of Williams' sad death, people who share in their grief over his loss can't quite find it in their hearts to allow others to grieve and/or find meaning in it in their own way. </span></i></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; line-height: 18.200000762939453px;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><i>Then again, I've seen a number of people in the past few days, whether in response to this, or other world events, exhorting others to set down their knives for a bit, and show a little kindness instead. We could all benefit from such an effort. </i></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; line-height: 18.200000762939453px;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><i>In all the commentary I've seen on Robin Williams from those who actually knew or met him, a common thread has run: That he was a truly kind man. Whatever demons may have haunted him, whatever sadness lurked within his twinkling eyes, Williams managed to treat most people he encountered with genuine warmth and kindness. (On top of making them laugh. Or cry, when the moment called for it.) </i></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><i style="background-color: white;"><span style="line-height: 18.200000762939453px;">What a blessing. And a dearly needed reminder. I don't imagine I'm alone in saying I take some comfort in Euphegenia Doubtfire's parting words: "</span><span style="line-height: 18.200000762939453px;">All my love to you, poppet, you're going to be all right... bye-bye." </span></i></span></div>
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100% Susiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01430149513138371832noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6067895785335598652.post-27642365913870712082014-04-14T21:11:00.003-07:002014-04-14T21:11:58.678-07:00The Small Things<span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><i>I've been itching to write lately -- so much so that my fingers are doing that air-keyboard thing. (Someone tell me you know what I'm talking about and I'm not the only person in the world who does this.) But every time I think about sitting down to write, I hesitate. Because there are all of these <b>big</b> things I feel as though I <b>should</b> be writing about, when sometimes, all I really want to do is write about small things - like spring flowers </i></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKP5m8QGJRun99auYOzmUqLrNRdy02QGN87so23s8mOEUU0F4B1zpbe6jCYqDH_1Pmjr7_KmZHeBx8lXwpQkig7wokZPW9IxOIO0rmJeRqT2ebn82683Rst-GECOyKyg_9WbQH9hporoI/s1600/Flower.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><i><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKP5m8QGJRun99auYOzmUqLrNRdy02QGN87so23s8mOEUU0F4B1zpbe6jCYqDH_1Pmjr7_KmZHeBx8lXwpQkig7wokZPW9IxOIO0rmJeRqT2ebn82683Rst-GECOyKyg_9WbQH9hporoI/s1600/Flower.jpg" height="320" width="320" /></i></span></a></div>
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<span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><i>and nail polish </i></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrXS4HPHFvsAL1J0OH2P5nOzksKKkOX3mRwPpu3tk-CFIu533WLTi8Ydlvsq1rsVBDPwdkJLoPUXaeRIXzdt44P4dD2EFMlL58foCqupi3tJ1TVrrtCpAmVpvK4gApp8he0TllIWYTB0g/s1600/Lily.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><i><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrXS4HPHFvsAL1J0OH2P5nOzksKKkOX3mRwPpu3tk-CFIu533WLTi8Ydlvsq1rsVBDPwdkJLoPUXaeRIXzdt44P4dD2EFMlL58foCqupi3tJ1TVrrtCpAmVpvK4gApp8he0TllIWYTB0g/s1600/Lily.jpg" height="180" width="320" /></i></span></a></div>
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<span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><i>and adorable puppies...</i></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZhCZ9bS6_Oq-YxDS_guyFkkxfjgNebtmYXwBzySPftyKT8nF14vgkgIyWJ1L8XPZbzO2ZV0fnibb5W0_n59utxhYQGrc3xTB0VBEpMakCuxm-MPj3b80WFIrsqCh6bzKZBcgay3RVZhU/s1600/puppy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><i><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZhCZ9bS6_Oq-YxDS_guyFkkxfjgNebtmYXwBzySPftyKT8nF14vgkgIyWJ1L8XPZbzO2ZV0fnibb5W0_n59utxhYQGrc3xTB0VBEpMakCuxm-MPj3b80WFIrsqCh6bzKZBcgay3RVZhU/s1600/puppy.jpg" height="213" width="320" /></i></span></a></div>
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<span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><i>Which is exactly what I said in response to my friend Tami when she mentioned tonight on Facebook that she felt like she'd let politics swallow her whole and pull her focus away from other things in life. That, and I encouraged her to never stop sharing from the heart. </i></span><br />
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<span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><i>Advice I realized I should probably heed, as well. There's a lot going on in the world. Serious, significant, <b>big</b> things. And I could try to write about them all -- or worse, let my hesitancy in tackling them stand in the way of simply sharing from my heart things both big <b>and</b> small. </i></span><br />
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<span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><i>I think...what I'd like to try and do instead is simply write -- write what I feel like writing when the spirit moves me, and not worry so much about whether it's substantive, political fare, or fluffy bunny fare. Right now, I'm enjoying immensely the fact that there are flowers blooming and trees greening, and despite today's momentary wintry backslide, evidence everywhere of Spring and all the beauty it has to offer. I've been having fun painting my nails all sorts of pastel colors (they're the "Lily" color above now), even though I normally go polish-free. And darn if I didn't see <b>the</b> cutest puppy on the face of the planet today on Twitter -- he's supposedly a retriever/husky mix, and he has Pringle's sweet face with a husky's cool markings, and even though I already <b>have</b> a dog and do <b>not</b> need another, I want nothing more than to hug him and pet him and squeeze him and call him George. Or...maybe Beauregard. </i></span><br />
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<span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><i>And so I will write -- maybe only of small things. But I will write. </i></span>100% Susiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01430149513138371832noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6067895785335598652.post-7577424331089888592014-03-03T21:06:00.003-08:002014-03-04T06:57:36.463-08:00Back to "Normal"<span style="color: #351c75; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><i>I know the world didn't stop when I was diagnosed with breast cancer. But for a little while, it seemed as though everything slowed down drastically. And a lot of it receded into the background, leaving me with the sense that I was inside a bubble of sorts -- where colors were sharper, feelings were duller and all that really mattered was attacking each step in the process with a smile and my mental pen at the ready to check it off the list. </i></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><i>It helped me quite a bit to write about it all. Recounting the detail demystified the experience, and finding humor in it when I could defanged it. I had every intention of continuing with that through my radiation, but as I entered that phase of treatment, I suddenly found myself avoiding my writing. Not because the experience was so awful -- more like...it was so mundane. Or I was.</i></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><i>From the week of Thanksgiving through the middle of January, every weekday morning (except the holidays), I got up early and headed over to the hospital for my 7:30 appointment. Sometimes already ready for work, more often, still in sweats and with my hair wet. I got to know the technicians there pretty well, and certainly wasn't worried about looking my best for them. </i></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><i>Most days, I wore my ladybug bracelet and brought my pink unicorn "Chernobyl" -- both gifts from my friend, Ann -- with me. (Chernobyl usually sat quietly in my purse, but I appreciated his presence nonetheless.) I'd park in one of the "Cancer Patient" spots (I quickly got over my aversion to that), hurry in past the valet (who always greeted me with a smile and a hello.) Past the reception desk, with a quick, "I'm here!" to the receptionist, into the dressing room, where I'd select a robe and gown. I'd change into them quickly, then stuff my top and coat into a cabinet, and wait for one of the techs to come fetch me. They had blankets in a warmer and I took them up on the offer on the coldest of days. Back to "the vault," as I came to think of it, where I'd doff the robe, lower the gown and recline on the table while they lined up my various markings with the machine to make sure I got zapped in the right places. Then the techs would leave the room, and the heavy vault door would close and seal. The machine would whir and do its zapping. And then the techs would return, help me up, help me re-robe (almost always with a static-electric shock -- it became a game for Kevin and me to see if we could avoid shocking one another), and send me on my way. </i></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><i>My boob developed a noticeable tan line -- a solid dark square which framed it. Eventually, the skin on my chest became sensitive and itchy -- like a heat rash or sunburn. Lotion helped, but I was glad once I knew I was in the home-stretch. I had tired days, though not too bad. In the evenings, I fell asleep on the couch in front of the TV frequently -- often with my head resting on David's shoulder. He didn't seem to mind, and I'm grateful he was there to hold my hand through it all. I don't think I'd have handled it nearly so calmly, or maintained a positive attitude nearly so well, had he not been there with me. </i></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><i>During the first few weeks, the days ticked by slowly. From Day 1 to Day 10 seemed like a month. Day 10 to Day 20, more of the same. Then suddenly, I realized I only had ten days left. And I felt the world speed back up. The light at the end of the tunnel began rushing toward me, and I had a brief feeling of anxiety -- what would I do once the routine was gone, and "cancer patient" was no longer part of my identity? </i></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><i>I'd start getting back to normal, is what. On my last day of treatment, I rang the bell at the nurses' desk. I hugged Kevin and Pam and Kara goodbye and thanked them for their good care of me. I waved goodbye to the receptionist and the valet, and walked out of my cancer cocoon into the sunshine. </i></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><i>The next day, I marveled at the joy of watching my daughter board the bus -- something I hadn't done in almost two months. I didn't realize until that moment how much worry I'd carried with me each day, leaving the house before her and hoping she'd manage to get herself out the door and on the bus without my prodding. (She did!) </i></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><i>I resumed getting ready just for work, and not the hospital, too. I gave Chernobyl a place of honor on my dresser and stopped carrying him around with me. I changed my Twitter bio to include "#BreastCancerSurvivor". My tan line receded -- it's barely visible now -- and my energy picked up. I suddenly found myself tackling chores I'd been avoiding, and getting organized. </i></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><i>I've now been done with treatment almost as long as it lasted. And life is pretty well back to normal,, though it's a new "normal." I look at things differently. People, too. I feel like my experience, as relatively not-horrible as it was, afforded me a brief glimpse or two behind life's curtain, and helped me refocus on what's important. It shaped me and became an unexpected part of who I am and, as strange as it may seem, I'm grateful for it. </i></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><i>Today happens to be <a href="http://www.foxnews.com/health/2014/03/03/triple-negative-breast-cancer-awareness-day-continuing-battle/" target="_blank">Triple Negative Breast Cancer Awareness Day</a>. Triple Negative is an aggressive form of breast cancer -- one which doesn't respond as readily to conventional treatments, and tends to strike younger women. I posted a link about it earlier today and a friend relayed to me an acquaintance of hers has had it spread to her brain. She's a young mother of four, and the prognosis is bleak. So, please, say a prayer for her tonight, if you would. And for all those affected by this disease. My encounter with it wasn't so bad, but I know the love and prayers sent my way did wonders. So, thank you -- you helped me never lose sight of just how very blessed I've been. </i></span></span><br />
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<br />100% Susiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01430149513138371832noreply@blogger.com0