tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-60341423328587376412024-03-18T15:27:51.107-04:00I Think; Therefore, I YamCogito ergo spud.Susan Flett Swiderskihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09425315552148200073noreply@blogger.comBlogger675125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6034142332858737641.post-25004600510503129582022-02-25T00:34:00.027-05:002022-02-25T00:34:00.220-05:00Sadie, Sadie, Married Lady<p><b>Thought for the day: </b><i>In everyone's life, at some time, our inner fire goes out. It is then burst into flame by an encounter with another human being. We should all be thankful for those people who rekindle the inner spirit. </i>[Albert Schweitzer]</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjyDuyHah5d6XFy8hAoa4RtBNE0qXioau-94-V0h5-qnaF0qZr1A__25ox57_vw-DMiJ6bWb20cNHCVub-Uiez8EgIIYbIF74CARpNzJAvSN0C7iuqfi79O--CIjDDvPIitqp4ZZdiYS-d8Q3IbvevMRKTagLhKEPDHS7BdGI3HLDZDDiEYQAqNGabh=s2048" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjyDuyHah5d6XFy8hAoa4RtBNE0qXioau-94-V0h5-qnaF0qZr1A__25ox57_vw-DMiJ6bWb20cNHCVub-Uiez8EgIIYbIF74CARpNzJAvSN0C7iuqfi79O--CIjDDvPIitqp4ZZdiYS-d8Q3IbvevMRKTagLhKEPDHS7BdGI3HLDZDDiEYQAqNGabh=w300-h400" width="300" /></a></div><p>Hi-ya. How the heck are ya? Me? I am fan-freaking-tastic!</p><p>It's no secret that my inner fire took a bit of a hit when Mike died. Y'all know exactly what I'm talking about, because you've probably experienced similar low spots in your lives. Bottom line, I thought my life was over, too.</p><p>I was wrong.</p><p>Man, was I ever wrong. </p><p>Enter Larry... that person who <i>rekindled my inner spirit. </i></p><p>I'm a lot of things, but I'm no fool. On 2/22/22... at 2:22... I married this fantabulous man under a big ol' oak tree in our back yard.</p><p>It is no exaggeration to say our joy is even bigger than that tree.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiVCRGrvNrfyCDSpmM-A0pgai0ywpRa9xY8fulHfdpEvrrRbtUWr30CxoKKqAP-rk80cearzfwQt-4i9IqRjR7SfQ0afV4_UAb0LpR7ivatA560i3w40Cez8Q9ETYI_0aMYOQkD6UvG_dtXbTOB7Fmm3GKkSQxa8c37JYLaLIsSH-dUyP7EZmGpm6uy=s2048" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiVCRGrvNrfyCDSpmM-A0pgai0ywpRa9xY8fulHfdpEvrrRbtUWr30CxoKKqAP-rk80cearzfwQt-4i9IqRjR7SfQ0afV4_UAb0LpR7ivatA560i3w40Cez8Q9ETYI_0aMYOQkD6UvG_dtXbTOB7Fmm3GKkSQxa8c37JYLaLIsSH-dUyP7EZmGpm6uy=w300-h400" width="300" /></a></div><br /><p>Some of you have asked how we met. Well, we actually met more than 20 years ago, when he, Mike and I all belonged to the same amateur radio club. We all got along famously and shared lots of laughs and conversations together back then, but the real story begins when he sent me a private message via Facebook last May 3. He'd been widowed for nine years and had recently moved back into the area and wanted to see if I'd like to chat on the radio sometime. </p><p>After exchanging a few messages, I agreed to talk on the phone the next day. Oh, we did. We talked... and laughed... for more than two hours. Then we went out to lunch on the 5th... the first time we'd seen each other face-to-face since 2003 or so. From the time I opened the front door and we stood there grinning mirror image grins at each other through the screen door, I was a goner. </p><p>Can you say... <i>instant connection?</i></p><p><i></i></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgsgwq0UL-aZClZssgZo-rRXD-ekRAlMXgyPFtCd_3if2lFzYlj-BgLmYYEK7t1uqeiUlBi31b_RZN2i4ENWL1e5DuejA29Fky0qm_FLcExeHp2jWC-N0pEaPRHQIRUqEE7mrMhdznKCi52cIVtS-lsBNvwnFjRytrn5OzDLMdkUHQll5WVg6oaWGUF=s2048" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgsgwq0UL-aZClZssgZo-rRXD-ekRAlMXgyPFtCd_3if2lFzYlj-BgLmYYEK7t1uqeiUlBi31b_RZN2i4ENWL1e5DuejA29Fky0qm_FLcExeHp2jWC-N0pEaPRHQIRUqEE7mrMhdznKCi52cIVtS-lsBNvwnFjRytrn5OzDLMdkUHQll5WVg6oaWGUF=w300-h400" width="300" /></a></i></div><i><br /> </i>It is inexplicable how much alike we are. I swear, he's a male ME. (Or since he's older, maybe I'm a female HIM.) No matter. We can... and DO... talk about anything and everything. We can... and DO... share the same kind of sense of humor that keeps us on our toes and laughing. Somehow, this wizard of a man sees what's in my heart and knows what I want without me breathing a word about it... sometimes, before I even realize I want it. Then he moves heaven and earth to make whatever I want a reality. It's unbelievable! We spoil each other rotten, have boatloads of fun every day... and every day, we thank our lucky stars that we found each other. That we rescued each other and fanned each other's inner flames and turned them into a conflagration, (A slight exaggeration... our indigestion isn't all that bad...)<br /><p></p><p>Yes. I am lucky. Very very lucky. And I know it.</p><p>So is he. (Hey! What am I... chopped liver? HA)</p><p><br /></p><p>So anyhow, our wedding was low-key, stress-free., and joyous. In other words... perfect. My wonderful son-in-law even wore his kilt for me! WooHOO. And the weather? Perfect. The day was perfect in every way.</p><p>As you can see, I wore purple. One of my friends asked me if I was gonna wear white, and I told her no. As Mae West said, <i>I used to be Snow White, but I drifted. </i>So purple seemed more fitting. My mother's favorite poem was <i>When I am Old, I Will Wear Purple. </i>I'm old. We both like purple. So there ya go! </p><p>Too bad you couldn't be there. Gee, if only there were a way to make it feel like you'd been there to share it with us, ya know? What could that be... what could that be? Hmmm, how about an unedited video? Think that'd do the trick? Enjoy. Or not. No skin off my nose either way. HA</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/2TIvdCoxCy4" width="320" youtube-src-id="2TIvdCoxCy4"></iframe></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p><i>The healthiest response to life is joy. </i>[Deepak Chopra]</p><p><i>Man, am I HEALTHY!!! </i>[me]</p><p><i>I believe laughter is a language of God and that we can all live happily ever laughter. </i>[Yakov Smirnoff]</p><p><i>So far, so good! </i>[me] <i>Life is good.</i></p><p> Until next time, take care of yourselves. And each other.</p><p><i> </i><br /></p>Susan Flett Swiderskihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09425315552148200073noreply@blogger.com48tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6034142332858737641.post-34530993729967088062022-01-21T00:34:00.001-05:002022-01-21T00:34:00.249-05:00A New Year and a New Life<p> <b>Thought for the day: </b><i>It is utterly false and cruelly arbitrary to put all the play and learning into childhood, all the work into middle age, and all the regrets into old age. </i>[Margaret Mead]</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhlTkR_We1X5IEcf-F82JSnlSwQm--XR_803z8m4vSW3YxmhW8sbCXWQfgV_-si--yt_ifKB5GwWafW0-VGM2KS3j5_-4Kf9vFnCDpvXA-QnR5v22PcjoUtA-y1n1U4KDq1qHFqdGH3TFITST6sUmZofEEq-13cAxSKqk-K50LJO8meIBB4qrKe9_h2=s293" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="293" data-original-width="220" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhlTkR_We1X5IEcf-F82JSnlSwQm--XR_803z8m4vSW3YxmhW8sbCXWQfgV_-si--yt_ifKB5GwWafW0-VGM2KS3j5_-4Kf9vFnCDpvXA-QnR5v22PcjoUtA-y1n1U4KDq1qHFqdGH3TFITST6sUmZofEEq-13cAxSKqk-K50LJO8meIBB4qrKe9_h2=w300-h400" width="300" /></a></div><p>Hi, guys. Remember me? I sure remember you.<br /></p><p><i>Mea culpa.</i> <br /></p><p>I know. I've been the world's absolute worst at keeping in touch, but in my defense, Margaret Mead was absolutely right...</p><p>I may be o-l-d, but there is zero room in my life for regret, because I'm too darned busy squeezing every drop of joy from each day, and that means lots and lots of playing and learning. </p><p>And it's been A-W-E-S-O-M-E! I'm pretty sure I even smile in my sleep.<br /></p><p>But alas ...writing is one of those things that, at least for now, has fallen by the wayside.And that includes blogging. But I haven't forgotten you guys, and I hope you haven't forgotten me yet.</p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgyNTPBJkdQvOQFro354g-4rRQwrvOBA8LXEip_fFMhgx7NP1MnXEYcSvOAT7uyb-Erq-juVkLjFfiGPJ4OYf8FbQKm6HpJVgl_w6XGKqEwUkx7oDMk-AfBXa59uYJddrXOOeG0fZT4ewhZyNSVKVA-OLJpPRsncGjkySwQx7JbuShW2oS_vryPqKeI=s700" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="551" data-original-width="700" height="315" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgyNTPBJkdQvOQFro354g-4rRQwrvOBA8LXEip_fFMhgx7NP1MnXEYcSvOAT7uyb-Erq-juVkLjFfiGPJ4OYf8FbQKm6HpJVgl_w6XGKqEwUkx7oDMk-AfBXa59uYJddrXOOeG0fZT4ewhZyNSVKVA-OLJpPRsncGjkySwQx7JbuShW2oS_vryPqKeI=w400-h315" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">image courtesy of Bored Panda<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p><br /></p><p>So here I am... just peeking in to ask you</p><p>HOW THE HECK ARE YOU DOING??? </p><p>It seems like there's been one after another after another Covid outbreak... maybe in your country, your state, your city... and it makes me think about you guys and worry about your welfare. Australia, in particular, has been sweltering under unbearably high temperatures, and I can't help but wonder how the lovelies Sue and Elsie are doing. So I'm here to check on you. And to fill you in on what's happening with me.</p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgel14xQDpHaZILd-c7R_gteh-zLq4Cz3LSBPESj54Bm96DovZM7b406aXKaf69itAA_3JO_y1rXiF-6YV0D2rCwYOJnIQooWfL6FutR1xqB7_4xOdUVN1DBHBqe2IVgtHGAtBeuS53OmqDZTlkQoUZBfub6w8jw2NMaY1kyOXzN6OA1EywzugTneIU=s700" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="452" data-original-width="700" height="259" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgel14xQDpHaZILd-c7R_gteh-zLq4Cz3LSBPESj54Bm96DovZM7b406aXKaf69itAA_3JO_y1rXiF-6YV0D2rCwYOJnIQooWfL6FutR1xqB7_4xOdUVN1DBHBqe2IVgtHGAtBeuS53OmqDZTlkQoUZBfub6w8jw2NMaY1kyOXzN6OA1EywzugTneIU=w400-h259" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">image courtesy of Bored Panda<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p></p><p><br /></p><p>Me?<br /></p><p>I'm cooooool.</p><p>Ridiculously laid-back.</p><p>Unbelievably happy.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiXqVz46Y6CY1MJJoAGGkO33L9HjauaNiIlAC3nTtyD3Bimg7xTTbpw6EQr7PVmxZnSCwW9JIyBQCFnbe1L7voUxC-eYeFyb9Limcw7KXrs0XTrYdnSdIKqSIHZkT-pZ84KEmcQXW3ehj-xNcpBELhFpMtDgQjMe2eyPqqQuP9Fa-pi_G8JS3opsJMJ=s960" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="720" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiXqVz46Y6CY1MJJoAGGkO33L9HjauaNiIlAC3nTtyD3Bimg7xTTbpw6EQr7PVmxZnSCwW9JIyBQCFnbe1L7voUxC-eYeFyb9Limcw7KXrs0XTrYdnSdIKqSIHZkT-pZ84KEmcQXW3ehj-xNcpBELhFpMtDgQjMe2eyPqqQuP9Fa-pi_G8JS3opsJMJ=w300-h400" width="300" /></a></div><br />See? Don't I look happy? (And hey! Short hair now!)<br /><p></p><p>That's 'cause I AM happy.</p><p>Last summer, Larry took me to visit some of the important people in my life. This is my niece/goddaughter, who lives in Maryland. We also spent a few days with my cousin at her beach house in Delaware. Wow, if THAT wasn't something! She and I went swimming at the very same place we used to swim as kids. (I must confess: I ACTED like a kid, too. Got swamped in the waves so many times, the lifeguards kept me under special surveillance, I'm sure.) It was SOOOOO much fun! </p><p>Check out these pics of my cousin and me:</p><p> </p><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjiwAGoRcKif3o51rR8UOCol1cNX7qz_R84rlSZiDiavssuS0iICK-D-c1RX-605Exnoxcv_grJvP9tDwgYoc9kQpxjxD_gYqYJwYz51N_Ntzv-8IHymBPpkXkdWHJbkX_GXx5EGFtjehGo9OC1-yh3lRI6Hs1g-T2etpLr2krqJsm9ATxyTgG3hPaa=s1944" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1581" data-original-width="1944" height="325" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjiwAGoRcKif3o51rR8UOCol1cNX7qz_R84rlSZiDiavssuS0iICK-D-c1RX-605Exnoxcv_grJvP9tDwgYoc9kQpxjxD_gYqYJwYz51N_Ntzv-8IHymBPpkXkdWHJbkX_GXx5EGFtjehGo9OC1-yh3lRI6Hs1g-T2etpLr2krqJsm9ATxyTgG3hPaa=w400-h325" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This was taken in about 1953 or so.<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /> <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjhMWR0NnkNtmfmdG3eF5XXv5TG3cR4nec6iNeSskVYUTHC3nfrQYqe4mnGO7jymhM3BwxTCQdi4tHQ8LhIqqqvXMaqSFqFOOPeuPj_WjUziBATrpDNjeMGhJqyIope39w3KtwfChZ9JUaAtOv8sT4haOkBtnoZh-ZlHDYplp-dFOKmpGqxOL5u9RBe=s1116" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="980" data-original-width="1116" height="351" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjhMWR0NnkNtmfmdG3eF5XXv5TG3cR4nec6iNeSskVYUTHC3nfrQYqe4mnGO7jymhM3BwxTCQdi4tHQ8LhIqqqvXMaqSFqFOOPeuPj_WjUziBATrpDNjeMGhJqyIope39w3KtwfChZ9JUaAtOv8sT4haOkBtnoZh-ZlHDYplp-dFOKmpGqxOL5u9RBe=w400-h351" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">the summer of '65<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p></p><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh1nhqACZ_i-uysEn0PhTR4m03Kek037-uIIyg61V_XPEAJjwhMty11ifTnN8RSd6gg12gN405FQ8km-agFjRqVpEEh3Cn8Efh3Y3aNMZwpAX8KBBpWHqkvDXt5JrePN1p_98Iwj1nHFzByePt7scdFE4FGHKZtmw2KdXCMSpEA9bwl4A-v_n7itlyp=s4896" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4896" data-original-width="2752" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh1nhqACZ_i-uysEn0PhTR4m03Kek037-uIIyg61V_XPEAJjwhMty11ifTnN8RSd6gg12gN405FQ8km-agFjRqVpEEh3Cn8Efh3Y3aNMZwpAX8KBBpWHqkvDXt5JrePN1p_98Iwj1nHFzByePt7scdFE4FGHKZtmw2KdXCMSpEA9bwl4A-v_n7itlyp=w225-h400" width="225" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">last summer<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><p> </p><p>This is the same cousin who was gonna travel to Italy with me. Alas, Covid said otherwise. Not sure if or when we'll get to take that trip, but it was beyond awesome to spend time together at the beach again. We may be old, but we haven't changed in the ways that matter. It was as though no time had passed...<br /></p><p>We've already been to AL several times to visit my older son and his family and to FL to visit Larry's daughter and my younger son and his crew. We've also visited with my brother and his sister. Wherever I wanta go, whatever I wanta do... somehow, Larry makes it happen. Even the things I don't say out loud. It's as though he sees inside my heart. As my cousin told me, "Everybody needs a Larry." And I thank my lucky stars I've got mine. <br /></p><p>When we're home, we spend a few hours every day enjoying this...</p><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgYviqki7yF9fZmTVp6K-F-OwmrDt2c5Zjzx7IwsH6OqIxcWXv8J7U6TlXG2JSgLlUe1lgAsGPn2a70MVV5xFuKVnTMqbnfXMq4ZthjX6X3ooxt38v5eMrVi_j9Nv7-UIa_0trg0sL5DmnBgwvT24PReWYKQcFzMYvr3KHt4QklNzY7-S0qAH4-Ysx2=s4160" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4160" data-original-width="3120" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgYviqki7yF9fZmTVp6K-F-OwmrDt2c5Zjzx7IwsH6OqIxcWXv8J7U6TlXG2JSgLlUe1lgAsGPn2a70MVV5xFuKVnTMqbnfXMq4ZthjX6X3ooxt38v5eMrVi_j9Nv7-UIa_0trg0sL5DmnBgwvT24PReWYKQcFzMYvr3KHt4QklNzY7-S0qAH4-Ysx2=w300-h400" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Yes, the felt IS blue!<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p>We even learned how to play a (smaller-sized) version of snooker, which is a lot of fun, albeit a tad annoying at the beginning of each rack, when you have to play with finesse and strategy. (I just wanta make balls! HA) Right now, we're hooked on shooting straight pool. </p><p>We've also been playing every kind of game imaginable. Even have a tabletop ice hockey game, which is a whole lot more fun that I expected. </p><p>We've been learning a lot of stuff, too. But you don't wanta hear all that. Besides, there's something ELSE I want to tell you. </p><p>Something reeeeeeally cool. And unbelievable.</p><p>Ohmigod, I'm getting married!!!</p><p>Really! This sassy old broad, who thought my world ended when my husband died, is so happy, it's a wonder my heart doesn't explode and send a shower of sheer sparkling joy all over the world. The youthful bloom of first love is fabulous, but I abso-doggone-lutely guarantee that love at my age is even better. I promise you.<br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEipBtdiZRmrEfSNN86BaOfQuE94_Z-42FA9khcfYZl4WE5o5sMTtqlsTWvk5VWTyBZkeRUpymQpNdjwZfkfa01h0gKB5TnG-CFr1RjAi0lPLPnSE4k47hAr_8_hIYNBiFekJzTn5flVaAc2zMpVx1uwDp3fSuMl92-Iy1r_iX-3A-R8q4Q7GswNwbPK=s311" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="162" data-original-width="311" height="208" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEipBtdiZRmrEfSNN86BaOfQuE94_Z-42FA9khcfYZl4WE5o5sMTtqlsTWvk5VWTyBZkeRUpymQpNdjwZfkfa01h0gKB5TnG-CFr1RjAi0lPLPnSE4k47hAr_8_hIYNBiFekJzTn5flVaAc2zMpVx1uwDp3fSuMl92-Iy1r_iX-3A-R8q4Q7GswNwbPK=w400-h208" width="400" /></a></div><p></p><p>Get this... we're gonna take the plunge on 2/22/22... at 2:22, of course. How cool is THAT? Oh yeah... that date happens to fall on a TWOS-day. HA! Dontcha love it? As my daughter Sunshine said, "That's TWO-bular!" Hmmm, the jury's out as to whether or not I should wear a tutu... </p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhs9QcJ9-UXbiMW9s5CfEYmKXS5BRut6QCcH61jnPI9GhxCgWZvils1XyPQJIqXtDapY5yHDUL92PFlyvTZ29ObNRzXyybLByuF5123uVtnEB42_mt9c8bByKbS6iO9WL9WjpvLlWvUMjJ3oNmctz7Ls5S4ngIoDbIBKWpOKYgujKySY9fwg3dq4wKa=s700" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="665" data-original-width="700" height="380" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhs9QcJ9-UXbiMW9s5CfEYmKXS5BRut6QCcH61jnPI9GhxCgWZvils1XyPQJIqXtDapY5yHDUL92PFlyvTZ29ObNRzXyybLByuF5123uVtnEB42_mt9c8bByKbS6iO9WL9WjpvLlWvUMjJ3oNmctz7Ls5S4ngIoDbIBKWpOKYgujKySY9fwg3dq4wKa=w400-h380" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">image courtesy of Bored Panda<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p><br /></p><p>No promises, but I'm gonna try not to be such a stinker about keeping in touch. To those of you who've contacted me in one way or another over the past six months, I thank you. Even though I was a major butthead about responding, your efforts were truly appreciated. </p><p>I've said it before, but I'll say it again: </p><p><b><i>You guys rock!</i></b></p><p><b><i> </i></b></p><p><b><i> </i></b></p><p><b><i> </i></b></p><p><b><i> </i></b></p><p><b><i> </i></b><i> </i>Until next time, take care of yourselves. And each other.</p><p><b><i> </i></b></p><p><b><i> </i></b></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiWWElonvP2B7LZNfJiicMhmBbTXVco-ZZshhdABOmhJpbdF9_jh0tbMOwYQ3WXcz-6otht5Z5T9LUpxYD2lvgY7U2bFy_jTtTpUOjwUG3VhdsxtxvA53VPmrg3_4Z7_qXPu-Gh-HrDYf_W6zpxRk-IYV--RgSHub9hjQR7o1UuIH4AjtCFYjYO_56N=s1280" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="880" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiWWElonvP2B7LZNfJiicMhmBbTXVco-ZZshhdABOmhJpbdF9_jh0tbMOwYQ3WXcz-6otht5Z5T9LUpxYD2lvgY7U2bFy_jTtTpUOjwUG3VhdsxtxvA53VPmrg3_4Z7_qXPu-Gh-HrDYf_W6zpxRk-IYV--RgSHub9hjQR7o1UuIH4AjtCFYjYO_56N=w275-h400" width="275" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">image courtesy of Bored Panda<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><b><i><br /> </i></b>That last picture has absolutely nothing to do with this post whatsoever. I just thought it was funny. Gives a whole new meaning to "bubble butt."<br /><p></p>Susan Flett Swiderskihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09425315552148200073noreply@blogger.com56tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6034142332858737641.post-71813383246631703372021-06-19T15:44:00.002-04:002021-07-10T18:45:21.388-04:00Out of Sight, But Not Out of Mind<p> Hey, guys.</p><p>Yeah, I know it's been a long time... nearly three months. Sorry about that, but I've been.... shall we say... <i>occupied.</i></p><p>In a good way. </p><p>Believe it or not, there's a wonderful new man in my life, and I'm so happy, I feel like a giddy teenager. We're acting like teenagers, too. We're so happy, it's nuts. I had no idea something like this was even possible. Not for me. When Mike died, I thought I was done. Kaput. Done for. I figured my <i>raison d'etre</i> was simply to clean out my house and get things in such good order, it'd be easier for my kids to handle things when I kick the bucket. A personal life for me? Forget it... I expected only to live for my family and friends. I was just gonna be spinning my wheels and coping as best as I could until I stopped breathing.</p><p>Screw that.</p><p>Turns out, the universe wasn't done with me, and I'm not done living yet. Forget that whole stupid notion of merely biding time until I shuffle off from this mortal coil. No way. Thanks to Larry, I'm more alive than I've ever been, and I feel like ME again. Our plan is to squeeze as much pleasure from each day, each moment, as we possibly can... together. For the past few weeks, we've been splitting our time between our two houses, but I'm gonna be moving in with him in a month or so. My daughter Sunshine and her hubby are gonna move into my house. WooHOO! Yeah, I know... it's a lot, isn't it?</p><p>But it's absolutely right, and I'm so freaking excited about the future, it's ridiculous. (And not just because of Larry. In October, my cousin and I are going on a trip... to ITALY!) I honestly didn't know it was possible to be this happy. Please don't interpret any of this to mean I didn't love Mike. I did. But quite honestly, between you and me, it wasn't always easy. Being a grunt in Nam changed him in ways from which he never fully recovered. I know he loved me as much as Nam would allow, but Larry loves me unconditionally and accepts everything about me. We are so much alike, loving him almost feels like loving myself. </p><p>So THAT'S what I've been doing. Just to show ya what kind of guy Larry is, he's the one who suggested I write some kind of a post to let you guys know how I'm doing. And here I am. (He's VERY smart...)</p><p>Update on the house: last weekend, we finished taking down the last of the antennas and towers. WooHOO! The local club has removed a ton of stuff to sell at upcoming hamfests and whatever. They should make a pretty penny on all of that gear, and it'll be going to the club's education and scholarship funds... which is doubly cool, because I helped established those things when I was the club's president.</p><p> When the weather turned warm, I jumped into gardening with both feet. Felt good to be outside, and for some reason, I didn't feel as alone outside as I did when I was within the confines of the house. One of the gardens I created is for dahlias. A couple are just now starting to bloom. Can't wait to see them in their full glory... even if it's as a visitor to my daughter's place... </p><p>Life is good. It is truly good, people. I hope it's been treating you as well. Really. What's new with you? Dunno if I'll ever get back to blogging as I used to do it. Maybe, but who knows? I've got lots of trips to make... lots of hiking to do... lots of new things to discover. Being an old broad ain't half bad. I feel blessed beyond belief.</p><p>Love you guys. Until next time, take care of yourselves. And each other.</p><p><br /></p>Susan Flett Swiderskihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09425315552148200073noreply@blogger.com59tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6034142332858737641.post-44204424014863845852021-03-31T16:30:00.002-04:002021-03-31T16:36:12.338-04:00I May Be Going Bananas<p>Hi, guys. I know. It's been too long, so I figured I'd pop in to say hi and give y'all a brief update before another month slips through my fingers. My daughter has been working reeeeeeeally hard, both with a physical therapist and on her own at home, and her progress is absolutely astounding. I'm so proud of her determination and good attitude. She was even able to shoot some pool a couple days ago!</p><p>And me? I'm doing well. Better some days than others, but mostly, I can't complain. Thanks to some wonderful ham friends, all the antennas and towers that were at the side of the house got dismantled last weekend. Woo HOOOOOOOO!!! Still more antennas and towers to go, but this is a huge step. (I haven't seen the naked side of my house in years!) Hams are the BEST. Really. I've gotten lots of other stuff done, too, but no need to bore you with the details. One kinda neat thing... my neighbor mentioned that he was going to buy a riding lawn mower, and I told him he could just use mine... and asked him to give me a brief tutorial so I can operate it, too. Get this. He's gonna use my mower, but he's also gonna maintain it... and cut my grass! Win-win for both of us! Life is good.</p><p>I started writing the following post one year ago today. I got about half of it done, but then Mike got sicker, and I wasn't in the mood to finish. Now is its time. Might as well... I'd already done the research and taken notes. HA. No promises, but I'll try to get back to the blogosphere a little sooner next time. Y'all take care. I love you guys.</p><p>#################</p><p><b>Thought for the day: </b><i>The older you get, the better you get. Unless you're a banana. </i>[Rose
Nyland]
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiABI-5Uix5cIYF06HMlv23oMOffSDhKlcQ8x-NOG-LKwq-_euWE35VLh1KZBu7sXJI7PxiRsUZzT34Lo-kka29Zo3-bC7Jh56BvSbMtdZRQ0tWWZkRFZ4kKoXRGWlT7cNwWX5-fnF4Wvs/s1024/i+go+bananas+over+you+003.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiABI-5Uix5cIYF06HMlv23oMOffSDhKlcQ8x-NOG-LKwq-_euWE35VLh1KZBu7sXJI7PxiRsUZzT34Lo-kka29Zo3-bC7Jh56BvSbMtdZRQ0tWWZkRFZ4kKoXRGWlT7cNwWX5-fnF4Wvs/w400-h300/i+go+bananas+over+you+003.jpg" width="400" /></a>
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Some of you may remember this cute little guy, because I've shared his picture
with y'all before. Mike (AKA Smarticus) gave him to me for Valentine's Day about
a thousand years ago. Give or take.
<div><br /></div>
<div>
Anyhow, when you squeeze the monkey's belly, he gives a wolf whistle and says
in a raspy dirty old man kinda voice, "I go bananas over you!"( If he had
eyebrows, they would've wiggled, I'm sure.)
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<div><br /></div>
<div>
The monkey's voice is fading and is growing more and more muffled, but he
still looks good as new. Even his banana looks pristine. Which is a lot more
than I can say for the bananas I bought at the grocery store a couple days
ago. I swear, if I ever get a speeding ticket on the way home from the grocery
store, it'll only be because I was trying to get home before the darned bananas
turned brown.
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpPRZ7AgO2a6BInHgzQhLwrzFRs0A4AmWkaCEifQHuyOTWzuxmDc8r5IXzGusZtJ-OJ0yVJbV38pIzEFjn1GwYB_rbfbxZ-NWeXSZjcKOTYbrGQjkYGpUaHms7eYE9XvFcRCik5CxvUm8/s701/banana+elephant+de+Jerry.png" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="701" data-original-width="526" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpPRZ7AgO2a6BInHgzQhLwrzFRs0A4AmWkaCEifQHuyOTWzuxmDc8r5IXzGusZtJ-OJ0yVJbV38pIzEFjn1GwYB_rbfbxZ-NWeXSZjcKOTYbrGQjkYGpUaHms7eYE9XvFcRCik5CxvUm8/w300-h400/banana+elephant+de+Jerry.png" width="300" /></a>
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A ham radio friend emailed me the picture on the right, which he described as<i>
a giant elephant made out of bananas</i>.
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<div>
First thing that came to my mind was that a heckuva lot of people must've
worked on THAT project. I mean, just think about what it'd be like if anyone
ever tried to pull off a feat like that single-handedly. Before the poor slob
even made it to the halfway point, the first bananas he'd put in place
would've already mutated into smelly oozing gobs of brown mush that he'd have
to replace. Impossible, I tell ya! It'd be like trying to fill a
bottomless bucket with water. Oh, and don't forget the fruit flies. The smell of overripe and rotting bananas would attract fruit flies like... um, flies. Yeah, exactly like flies. Those annoying little boogers would magically materialize out of nowhere, and they'd establish a brand new thriving community faster than a hungry gorilla can inhale a banana . </div>
<div><br /></div>
<div>
So, um no. Not gonna try that. I'll happily bake some banana bread or a
decadent banana cream pie, but ix-nay on the banana-building with a bunch of
rapidly rotting bananas... while being swarmed by fruit flies.
</div><div><br /></div><div>But what would be fun is... a banana CAR. You know, like the famous Oscar Meyer weinermobile... only instead of a rolling hot dog, it'd be a rolling... banana. I find that idea rather... a-peel-ing. </div><div><br /></div><div>Evidently, a guy named Steve Braithwaite liked the idea, too. </div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWgwKMfFKjyvHL_j_2L_eYrG5EM3EAM4YxpKO95B_KkpTYwitowpCrTUU66fnhycdquJc_VqfWBUfWbnwZoOwfKqAgPDfwex2qIYfSwPiI6eHHea5zo_QJaKdwIOmjgoyRNtUUe4Ffnhw/s1158/big+banana+car.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="660" data-original-width="1158" height="228" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWgwKMfFKjyvHL_j_2L_eYrG5EM3EAM4YxpKO95B_KkpTYwitowpCrTUU66fnhycdquJc_VqfWBUfWbnwZoOwfKqAgPDfwex2qIYfSwPiI6eHHea5zo_QJaKdwIOmjgoyRNtUUe4Ffnhw/w400-h228/big+banana+car.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td></tr></tbody></table><div>This self-proclaimed goofy fella decided about a decade ago to up his eccentricity credentials by creating a unique vehicle to tour around the U.S. and spread joy. He wanted something totally ridiculous and fun. Looks like he got just what he wanted, dontcha think? Built on the chassis of a 1993 Ford pick-up truck, this impressive never-rot banana mobile measures twenty-three feet long and is 9.8 feet tall. Like everything else, the pandemic has changed things for this adventurous gent, but no doubt, as conditions improve, I reckon he'll be able to resume his appearances at fairs and festivals all over the country. His license tag? SPLIT. </div><div><br /></div><div>Hmmm, which reminds me... do you know why the banana split? </div><div><br /></div><div>He had artistic differences with the rest of the bunch. </div><div><br /></div><div>And how about the banana smoothie?</div><div><br /></div><div>He's the one who gets all the girls. </div><div><br /></div><div>Ever hear of shoes made out of bananas? </div><div><br /></div><div>Yep, they're called slippers... (Totally nonfriction!)</div><div><br /></div><div>Okay, how about some fun facts about bananas?</div><div><ul style="text-align: left;"><li>The inner skin of a banana peel works well to polish leather. (I wonder what inspired someone to try this for the first time...?)</li><li>Bananas can float on water, because they're less dense. (Does that mean they're smart? )</li><li>Bananas grow on plants considered herbs, but the banana itself is classified as a... berry. ("Berry" is a botanical term, indicating the presence of seeds, pulp, and three separate layers: the <i>exocarp </i>is the outer skin, the <i>mesocarp</i> is the part we eat, and the <i>endocarp</i> is the part closest to the seeds... which are on the <i>inside.</i> Ironically, blackberries, mulberries, strawberries and raspberries aren't actually berries at all... but bananas, pumpkins, avocados, and cucumbers ARE.)</li><li>Bananas are low in salt and high in potassium, generously providing a natural way to help lower blood pressure. Most of you probably already knew that, but did you know banana potassium is slightly radioactive? (K-40) Not dangerous... just interesting. (If someone eats too many bananas, do you think he could go into banana-phalactic shock...?)</li><li>Bananas may serve as a mood enhancer. That's because they contain tryptophan and B-6, which help the body produce seratonin. (All they do for me is give me gas... which makes me giggle. So yeah... mood enhancer... never mind.)</li><li>In addition to polishing your leather shoes with a banana peel, you can also rub that inner peeling on your skin to alleviate itching and inflammation. (And the fruit flies will just LOVE you!)</li><li>Would you believe humans share about 50% of the same DNA that's in a banana??? </li><li>A cluster of bananas is known as a <i>hand</i>, and each banana is a <i>finger.</i></li><li>In China, it's illegal to stream videos of anyone eating a banana.</li><li>Despite the banana's phallic shape, alas, its sex life stinks. Cavendish, the kind of banana most of us eat, is sterile. In the wild, most bananas have very large seeds and are mostly inedible, and what we eat is a mutation, in which the seeds are underdeveloped and incapable of sexual reproduction. Farmers use cuttings to start new plants and replant cuttings to clone.</li></ul><div>There. Now you know far more about bananas than you ever cared to know. You're welcome. </div></div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/-9EHdp1ynUU" width="320" youtube-src-id="-9EHdp1ynUU"></iframe></div><br /><div> <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/TsqbxwQLeEE" width="320" youtube-src-id="TsqbxwQLeEE"></iframe></div><br /></div><div> Until next time, take care of yourselves. And each other.</div><div><br /></div><div>P.S. The picture of the <i>giant elephant made out of bananas </i>that my friend sent me is actually a depiction of the Hindu god Ganish, made of green bananas. It was created in Odisha, India, in 2017, and at the conclusion of a 10-day festival, the ripened bananas were then distributed to the poor.</div>
Susan Flett Swiderskihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09425315552148200073noreply@blogger.com57tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6034142332858737641.post-2842904493000691332021-02-01T17:15:00.000-05:002021-02-01T17:15:03.070-05:00But I've Got an Excuse<p> <b>Thought for the day: </b><i>Everything is possible. The impossible just takes longer. </i>[Dan Brown]</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtdrPSym2iIpGXt2p4yRlFGMv_poFc8gypZoYqBrJ-kXR831SGuRB9zUJQ_Tie8HJobTTW7fhAYBAPCToqBqkNASqS_ODeFW4HXZaO82-BBmRDsfNa9wHoU3S8l4iO_alkCmor4JPzlIo/s620/time+flies.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="449" data-original-width="620" height="290" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtdrPSym2iIpGXt2p4yRlFGMv_poFc8gypZoYqBrJ-kXR831SGuRB9zUJQ_Tie8HJobTTW7fhAYBAPCToqBqkNASqS_ODeFW4HXZaO82-BBmRDsfNa9wHoU3S8l4iO_alkCmor4JPzlIo/w400-h290/time+flies.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>Hi-ya. Well, crap. What the hell happened to January? Didn't it just start? How could it be gone already?<div><br /></div><div>Sorry about that. I've all but disappeared from the blogosphere over the past year, but I thought I could at <b>least </b>come up with something once a month. I mean, that isn't too much to ask, is it? </div><div><br /></div><div>Evi-damned-dently, it is. </div><div><br /></div><div>I hate to be the one to break it to you, but it's becoming increasingly apparent that we're all trapped in a rather bizarre time warp. Maybe you've noticed it, too? Each day drags by on leaden feet, possibly an indication that there's been a shift in the time-space continuum, causing each day to surpass what used to be its usual 24-hour allotment. Yet, paradoxically, the weeks and months slip through our fingers faster than a greased pig's leg on a hot summer day. </div><div><br /></div><div>Or perhaps not. Maybe it's just me. Okay, fine. Sounds like the title of an article in an old <i>True Confessions</i> magazine, but here is it: Trapped in a Time Warp. That's my excuse. You buying it?</div><div><br /></div><div>Oh well, that's the only excuse I've got for letting January get away from me without posting some kind of update. No promises, but I'll try to do better. So how are you guys doing?</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRjZO8ozgFTk045sanpeUDfpBaR3FmFaGRRgzJWORdc2dIowlGrtFBRyjb1_l8cI2q5qkWdpD4cEUWDlxPMX9wqv_HdQ5TPUGTcEOM6havwlh7ov8GCpJradvQf4AtU6aKBgu6CtQgTq0/s891/time+flies+i+think+i+can.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="891" data-original-width="800" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRjZO8ozgFTk045sanpeUDfpBaR3FmFaGRRgzJWORdc2dIowlGrtFBRyjb1_l8cI2q5qkWdpD4cEUWDlxPMX9wqv_HdQ5TPUGTcEOM6havwlh7ov8GCpJradvQf4AtU6aKBgu6CtQgTq0/w359-h400/time+flies+i+think+i+can.jpg" width="359" /></a></div>Me? I'm doing okay. Matter of fact, I've kinda been doing the... <i>impossible. </i>When I look back at the number of seemingly impossible things I've tackled in the past six months, it boggles my mind. There's still a loooong way to go, (I'm afraid my dear husband was a bit of a hoarder... pack rat... junk collector... archivist.... whatever you choose to call it) but I've gotta say, dismantling Mike's main amateur radio operating position last week... clearly a daunting <i>I can't do that </i>endeavor... was one of my biggest victories to date. His Emergency Communications Central Extravaganza was based at a massive computer desk, and every square inch of it was covered with multiple stacks of radios, power supplies and converters, amplifiers, antenna tuners, laptops, mikes, keys, and a host of other equipment, all interconnected with a baffling maze of cables and power lines. The rear of the desk held four (Count 'em... four!) power strips, and various cords snaked all over the place, all screwed or otherwise clamped in place. Stuff plugged in here and there, cables fed through holes drilled throughout the desk, and to make things interesting, there was also some nifty homebrew stuff that he built to fit his needs. (It helps to figure out what something is before attempting to take it apart, especially when dealing with high voltage.) Anyhow, suffice it to say, it was all very complex... but I did it! Then I had to get that big-assed desk out of the house. OY. Not just BIG, but also very HEAVY. Had to dismantle some shelves and remove a door, but by golly, I got that son of a gun out the door. I still have to finish removing 25 coaxial cables that were feeding his station. They're now cut off about six inches below the ceiling, and they have to be pulled out to the exterior of the house, so I can fill the hole. (A task that'll have to be repeated at several other spots around the house. <span style="font-size: xx-small;">yippee</span>) But ya know what? I've got a plan, and I think I can implement it. No, I know I can. Who knew? I had no idea I was so... <i>capable.</i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div><i>Whether you believe you can do a thing or not, you are right.</i> [Henry Ford]<br /><div><i><br /></i></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi35O8pNR9HmrOmIl8b6CEtJB6i0_LandvcYdqcrv9JD8UVZatq4bXsn3h-2CIoaUYXAudZkjqP9tDyYz1oodvoHl619GHVxjezj5TGiZHEggi5sVTjz-2i4ESfW3OLNhBgtaP9YCJg1rU/s396/time+flies+bad+ass.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="359" data-original-width="396" height="363" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi35O8pNR9HmrOmIl8b6CEtJB6i0_LandvcYdqcrv9JD8UVZatq4bXsn3h-2CIoaUYXAudZkjqP9tDyYz1oodvoHl619GHVxjezj5TGiZHEggi5sVTjz-2i4ESfW3OLNhBgtaP9YCJg1rU/w400-h363/time+flies+bad+ass.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><i><br /></i><div><p>My friends and kids kinda think I'm a bad-ass, too. </p><p><br /></p><p>(shhhh) Feels kinda good.</p><p><br /></p><p>I don't particularly <b>like </b>having to do so many things by myself, but it's reassuring to know that I <b>can</b>. There are things I'll definitely need help with, but they can wait. Sure, it'd be nice to get our five towers and bazillion antennas down now, but they can wait. I may sometimes forget I'm such an old broad, but I don't think I'm ready to climb to the top of any towers to dismantle antennas. Not impossible... just not smart. Best wait until the pandemic is under control and invite some young hams over to lend a hand. If they take 'em down, they can have 'em. Win-win, right?</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxKl4PuQ5taFtYJpSw6rSiZ1Dcp2wTAHUpuAHHizFWky-86LG6RxM6cT-1d04SCy2pl3F-aURjOASQX99DYQG8trJOqAS8XWyxG_AxShwTEEkXfWcVxm0IBse489uvOojjEOlbRfaPtfM/s501/time+flies+list+unsplash.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="501" data-original-width="332" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxKl4PuQ5taFtYJpSw6rSiZ1Dcp2wTAHUpuAHHizFWky-86LG6RxM6cT-1d04SCy2pl3F-aURjOASQX99DYQG8trJOqAS8XWyxG_AxShwTEEkXfWcVxm0IBse489uvOojjEOlbRfaPtfM/w265-h400/time+flies+list+unsplash.jpg" width="265" /></a></div><br /><p>So what else has been happening? My wonderful daughter Sunshine fell at work on December 17. It was a freak accident in which she not only dislocated her right ankle, but she also fractured it in three places. Poor thing. She was whisked away in an ambulance, and after a considerable wait... alone, of course, because of the surge in Covid cases... an orthopedic surgeon finally addressed the dislocation. Then they put her in a temporary cast and... sent her home! She had to wait two whole weeks before getting surgery. Extensive surgery, too, because there were lots of bone fragments floating around in there... and now she has more metal holding her ankle together than I ever would've believed possible. All in all, it's been a painful ordeal for her, but she's been a real trooper. I'd say she's a<i> bona fide </i>bad-ass, too. We've got our fingers crossed that she gets upgraded to a boot when she goes to the doc later this week.</p><p>I used to read a lot. I mean... a LOT. Now? Not so much. Took me a while, but I figured out howcum. I used to do most of my reading in the evenings while Mike watched TV. But now, for the first time in my life, I'm in charge of the remote control. HA! It's funny how much more interesting the tube can be when you're the one doing the choosing. Plus... I've got several streaming services now, too, so I've been indulging in some binge watching. How cool! In addition to binge-watching shows like <i>This is Us</i> and <i>Outlander, </i>my other new hobby is buying stuff from Amazon. All kinds of stuff. One of my latest acquisitions is a stud finder. What a great idea! I haven't taken it out for a test run yet, but I have high hopes for it. Using a simple handheld gadget would be soooo much easier than having to sign up on some stupid online dating site... </p><p>I used to write, too. Not any more. My PC died shortly after Mike did, and that's where my manuscript lies. I do have it stored on a backup hard drive, so all is not lost, but I haven't made any attempts at replacing the PC yet. For now, I'm relegated to this, my old laptop. It'll do for now. Good enough for checking email and making a brief foray into Facebook from time to time. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhE-iKSfGLEH0uzAXmG46Eff_Jxr2jYL0h7iX8jP_PdCDwM8F7nHK6GYoV1dQfWy7_f2rJEKM2heutHqCXEU5h3zYfQA3BFHbspCKB5r-3MGwQxc7dS6tKGIZ_gOZh1IRf5d79kXJWKyDU/s640/time+flies+minion.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="640" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhE-iKSfGLEH0uzAXmG46Eff_Jxr2jYL0h7iX8jP_PdCDwM8F7nHK6GYoV1dQfWy7_f2rJEKM2heutHqCXEU5h3zYfQA3BFHbspCKB5r-3MGwQxc7dS6tKGIZ_gOZh1IRf5d79kXJWKyDU/w400-h400/time+flies+minion.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p>Ugh... Facebook. A very brief foray is more than enough.There's way too much negativity for me on there these days. </p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p>But working on this laptop is a little rough on my old eyes. (sigh) I wish they were as young as I am... </p><p>You wouldn't believe how many hours I've been working on this post. Ridiculous. But I'm about done. It's been kinda nice sitting on my butt this long. It gave my back a bit of a break from the heavy-lifting I did yesterday, so it's all good. I can get back at it tomorrow. Gotta stay busy. Busy, busy. busy.</p><p><i>I have the choice of being constantly active and happy or introspectively passive and sad. Or I can go mad by ricocheting in between. </i>[Sylvia Plath]</p><p>I choose active...</p><p>Before I go, I'm gonna share a video. This song has been running rampant through my mind all day... care to join me?</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/WM7-PYtXtJM" width="320" youtube-src-id="WM7-PYtXtJM"></iframe></div><br /><p> Until next time, take care of yourselves. And each other.</p></div></div></div>Susan Flett Swiderskihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09425315552148200073noreply@blogger.com68tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6034142332858737641.post-69370564174080487752020-12-25T12:02:00.000-05:002020-12-25T12:02:22.884-05:00Joy to the World<p><b>Thought for the day: </b><i>Hang onto your hat, hang onto your hope, and wind the clock, for tomorrow is another day. </i>[E.B. White]</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHT5XUNb4H6H6TteRzkf2u-MfKPl_MtA9mczTELgAW6cRNtxruVItSMe4KvddHzPYf7cSsIgLCp4Y0PAmf1gJ0vXtMHwb4eFzrb_pC7Q-_g5_l4J1JC23xuX-kcPjBzp6wJaqOsM00tEs/s320/santa+thumbs+up.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="240" data-original-width="320" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHT5XUNb4H6H6TteRzkf2u-MfKPl_MtA9mczTELgAW6cRNtxruVItSMe4KvddHzPYf7cSsIgLCp4Y0PAmf1gJ0vXtMHwb4eFzrb_pC7Q-_g5_l4J1JC23xuX-kcPjBzp6wJaqOsM00tEs/w400-h300/santa+thumbs+up.png" width="400" /></a></div>Well, it's Christmas. Doesn't <i>feel </i>like it... but it is. The house is very quiet, making it easier to hear the ever-present high-pitched monotone ringing in my ears. Both cats sit close beside me, the feeling of their warm bodies a reassuring reminder that I'm not entirely alone. Oh, I could've gone to Alabama to spend the Holidays with my son and his family... but I wanted to stay home. Really. I'm hanging in there pretty doggone well since my husband died five month ago today, but I'm not ready for any raucous celebrations just yet. I seek solace in the quiet... the <i>normal. </i>Not much in the way of decorations here this year. Our same-old, same-old wreath hangs at the front door, and bright red poinsettias sit atop the shelf above the fireplace and on the coffee table in the sunroom. Also on that fireplace shelf are two candles that I've had forever... one of a jolly waving Santa, and the other a snowman with a huge smile. My kissing Santa and Mrs. Claus salt-and-pepper shakers sit up there, too... and one other cheerful snowman figure. Next to the TV is a seated fabric Santa that my mother made years ago, and the hooked rug my father made is in the sunroom. That's it, but don't you dare feel sorry for me. I didn't want all of the trappings this year. No cards, no gifts, no twinkling lights. Just a peaceful day with a minimum of tears. I'm not exactly pretending that it isn't Christmas, but I don't want to be reminded any more than I am every other day that Mike isn't here. <p></p><p>It seems I'm not the only one who skipped sending cards this year. Mike and I used to get a kazillion cards, but this year, there's only been a trickle. Which is fine. Better than fine, actually, because that makes me feel less guilty about not sending any myself. But holy moley! I got cards from some of YOU. People I've never met face-to-face, but whom I've grown to love, nonetheless. Thank you. Thank you for caring. Thank you for spurring me to sit down to write this message to all of you. I know you care, and that means so much to me. I care about you, too. It's been a hard year for all of us, but today is a day for joy. For hope. Next year, we can celebrate, hopefully, but for today, let's embrace hope. Hope that each day will be a little better than the day before and that <i>normal </i>is right around the corner. Don't despair. We'll get there. You and me. All of us. We'll get there.</p><p>One tiny bit of <i>normal </i>is the following post, one I've shared almost every year since I started this blog. It's... a tradition. That's what you guys told me. So fine, let's go with that tradition. It seems I can do quite well without decorations and presents, but who knew? It appears I don't wanta do without Louise...</p><p>************************************</p><p><b><br /></b><b>Thought for the day: </b><i>We don't stop laughing because we grow old; we grow old because we stop laughing.</i><br /><i><br /></i><br /></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcYd4YeoZraPyU0V2i-OKmotrqQmcWvPXfpd_sa2h33kvSCEJh_bpOUnzMJuBdHNSK1nKUx5fU46nuXbfPBj4tTOXqg_PUmkUGs47QgqqSHw0XdndfVL3sSKKtdtRAg_vK9v-BPrYB7w2Y/s1600/car+show+rat+rod+%2526+xmas+shots+014.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcYd4YeoZraPyU0V2i-OKmotrqQmcWvPXfpd_sa2h33kvSCEJh_bpOUnzMJuBdHNSK1nKUx5fU46nuXbfPBj4tTOXqg_PUmkUGs47QgqqSHw0XdndfVL3sSKKtdtRAg_vK9v-BPrYB7w2Y/s400/car+show+rat+rod+%2526+xmas+shots+014.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px; text-align: center;">No telling how many years this wreath has graced our front door.</td></tr></tbody></table><p>We never made a huge production out of outdoor decorations, but every year, our kids made the same grand proclamation after we cruised our decorated-out-the-wazoo neighborhood on the way home from the candlelight service on Christmas Eve.<br /><br />"The best one of all!" they'd lie as we pulled into our driveway.<br /><br />Okay, so maybe they weren't really lying through their braces. Maybe anticipation of the hidden presents awaiting inside added a certain luster to their perception of our decorations.<br /><br />Anyhow, I'd say decorating styles can pretty much be divvied into three categories: traditional, enlightening, and inflated. Us? We're<b> traditional</b><i>. </i>That means, except for an occasional new acquisition, I've pretty much used the same decorations every year. For a LOT of years. Like the ornaments that hung on my parents' tree when they were first married, some of which are now paper thin, and considerably faded with age. And a slew of decades-old goodies fashioned by our children with copious quantities of felt, glue and glitter, construction paper, walnut shells, clothespins, eyeglass lenses, and even a Mason jar lid. A black spider in a golden web and a huge decorated crab shell, both made by my sister-in-law. Boxes of tinsel painstakingly applied, strand by strand, and then painstakingly removed to store in a box for yet another year. Like I said, traditional. Well, to be more accurate, I suppose we've become more traditional <i>cum lazy, </i>because each year, I use less and less decorations, and some of them don't even make it down out of our attic anymore. This year, very few decorations found their way out of the storage boxes. (A RED tablecloth counts as a decoration, right???)<br /><br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOjFGokqbZwZG2D6Ld293_RCFAFp2mV32RlnqOJi6-TjPSLV7OquRCTzKeC1X0YLtYOCTewx5eDiZmQkgoP1cxI7-D3GLeVFGKChriKJol15UjxxRPKrecMbFGpm9a147WqZKlUmY8r5Os/s1600/car+show+rat+rod+%2526+xmas+shots+015.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOjFGokqbZwZG2D6Ld293_RCFAFp2mV32RlnqOJi6-TjPSLV7OquRCTzKeC1X0YLtYOCTewx5eDiZmQkgoP1cxI7-D3GLeVFGKChriKJol15UjxxRPKrecMbFGpm9a147WqZKlUmY8r5Os/s400/car+show+rat+rod+%2526+xmas+shots+015.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;">These carolers once belonged to my grandmother.</td></tr></tbody></table><p><br />Everybody knows the <b>enlightening </b>type of decorator. They're the ones with so many lights blazing in their front yards, they risk causing a blackout across three states every time they turn 'em on. Very flashy. Sometimes, they even incorporate animation and music, too, and carloads of people stop by every night to ooh and aah over their winter wonderland. It isn't at all unusual for a competition of sorts to begin when multiple enlighteners live in close proximity. (Those neighborhoods can be seen from the space station.)<br /><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxjko7Jyyzwr3Sp67y1v3NasuzpFM3FGJwplE0qFIqMeO5od-vLMNOgdeX0334sxa73Ai2qjbZh-UkPbNDBTSiAnWPPbQTpNkXa_3zDPWOilnIicvgJfiZl7r9m8iuWkpXJ_h2jeSMWKrJ/s1600/christmas+decorated+house.jpg"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxjko7Jyyzwr3Sp67y1v3NasuzpFM3FGJwplE0qFIqMeO5od-vLMNOgdeX0334sxa73Ai2qjbZh-UkPbNDBTSiAnWPPbQTpNkXa_3zDPWOilnIicvgJfiZl7r9m8iuWkpXJ_h2jeSMWKrJ/s400/christmas+decorated+house.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p><br /> We're more like the house on the right these days:<br /><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi67vK1tdH7H6DBHCbp2ZdXBVZI2D9BAfOpvb9wbvSdKewjaQzQhDGzPRNXRpvTk7LtodkqVEfMrYw_s-bJcKo012Ymjbr90XUTyq-crZx1ctULz1tkc53nFrTlfiroQz0GAOaT_Cv4W1sD/s1600/christmas+lights+ditto.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi67vK1tdH7H6DBHCbp2ZdXBVZI2D9BAfOpvb9wbvSdKewjaQzQhDGzPRNXRpvTk7LtodkqVEfMrYw_s-bJcKo012Ymjbr90XUTyq-crZx1ctULz1tkc53nFrTlfiroQz0GAOaT_Cv4W1sD/s400/christmas+lights+ditto.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p><br /><br />And then, there's the <b>inflated</b><i>. </i>This is a fairly recent category. I sure don't remember seeing this sort of display when I was a kid. Nowadays, you can purchase just about any character you can think of ... inflate it ... and stick it on your front lawn. And if you can't find a particular character, for the right price, you can probably have someone make one for you. Then, all those characters can weave and bob all over your yard.<br /><br /><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhE67fyqEkky9Mj7DAEzPjYdMcPc-vrAaqSb2EEB2TYamxSCAIxMwq0Wghklkhb_idU4Fa8IORjd2SkGJSE60o41RQikLQ06gVuKT-uw3DxITHnfZFzPp8DkSSdwTzv0DLX1O8gEuoV-_ls/s1600/christmas+outdoor+inflatables.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhE67fyqEkky9Mj7DAEzPjYdMcPc-vrAaqSb2EEB2TYamxSCAIxMwq0Wghklkhb_idU4Fa8IORjd2SkGJSE60o41RQikLQ06gVuKT-uw3DxITHnfZFzPp8DkSSdwTzv0DLX1O8gEuoV-_ls/s400/christmas+outdoor+inflatables.jpg" width="331" /></a></div><p><br /><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><img height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvArDk0ADCAHx3CqtRev4qARGa2oLwH-kNNHq5zs9vrYh46NfPomxwmbEpW6rk0pmNNzKdS7hRKZrFOsnLJdEl5zYCGAJVxbweme6xfQwOMVZSIOmtYipa2xkQo4IE3uy7cEUe65ym4AVh/s400/christmas+outdoor+inflatables+2.jpg" width="400" /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqqqNDX67djs085RhBJ0GmMhKByjAJ_64Ze62rn5pwf9Pb_xOT4GkDY-2DlglrRrl9KYP_1_oPAeXjm8JbfatEU65WVmCw5rrN2f-E_zLdtWwqz0O5fNhwhMqNPzS9AWl5ksXr0DD7fgq3/s1600/christmas+inflatables+threesome.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="177" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqqqNDX67djs085RhBJ0GmMhKByjAJ_64Ze62rn5pwf9Pb_xOT4GkDY-2DlglrRrl9KYP_1_oPAeXjm8JbfatEU65WVmCw5rrN2f-E_zLdtWwqz0O5fNhwhMqNPzS9AWl5ksXr0DD7fgq3/s400/christmas+inflatables+threesome.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Now then, to the point of today's post. Time for a tale about a Christmas <i>inflatable</i> of an entirely different ilk. This story originated in 1999, and was alleged to be the winning entry to a <i>Louisville Sentinel</i> contest about the wildest Christmas dinner. Turns out, no such newspaper ever existed, and the writer remains unknown, but the story lives on, thanks to the good ol' Internet. (WARNING: Better put your drink down before you read it.) Now here, after a bit of minor editing on my part, is that story:<br /></p><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgp2ARHBS1-V-6i_nFGuGG88_mUdQeer_Lizmj3asr7S5l42Ep7Jxxzgxf9UXbLLQA6cbxDJmhFOnSZxEYL0plUd8TXim5JG0Vsn38J3dwSCD8jlUaGMYtDyEr5c9vQpwfpepGLRVdB6YUI/s1600/car+show+rat+rod+%2526+xmas+shots+021.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgp2ARHBS1-V-6i_nFGuGG88_mUdQeer_Lizmj3asr7S5l42Ep7Jxxzgxf9UXbLLQA6cbxDJmhFOnSZxEYL0plUd8TXim5JG0Vsn38J3dwSCD8jlUaGMYtDyEr5c9vQpwfpepGLRVdB6YUI/s400/car+show+rat+rod+%2526+xmas+shots+021.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p><br /></p><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>As a joke, my brother Jay used to hang a pair of pantyhose over his fireplace every Christmas Eve. He said the only thing he wanted was for Santa to fill them, but what they say about Santa checking his list twice must be true, because every Christmas morning, the other stockings would all be bulging with treats, but Jay's poor pitiful pantyhose were always left dangling as empty as ever.</div><div><br /></div><div>So one year, I decided to make his dream come true. I put on sunglasses, a fake nose, and a ski cap, and went in search of an inflatable love doll.<br /><br />Know what? They don't sell those things at Wal-Mart. I had to go to an adult bookstore. By the way, if you've never been in an X-rated store before, two words: don't go. You'll only confuse yourself. I was there for an hour saying things like, "What does this do?" "You're kidding me!" and "Who would buy that?" </div><div><br />So anyway, I finally made it to the inflatable doll section. I wanted to buy a standard, uncomplicated doll that could also substitute as a passenger in my truck so I could use the car pool lane, but finding what I wanted was difficult. Love dolls come in many different models. The top of the line, according to the side of the box, could do things I'd only seen in a book on animal husbandry, but I settled for the bottom of the price scale: <i>Lovable Louise</i>. To call her a <i>doll </i>required a huge leap of imagination.</div><div><br /></div><div>On Christmas Eve, with the help of a bicycle pump, Louise came to life. My sister-in-law was in on the plan, and she let me in during the wee morning hours. Long after Santa had come and gone, I filled Jay's pantyhose with Louise's pliant legs and bottom. I also ate some cookies and drank what remained of a glass of milk on a nearby tray. Then I went home and giggled for a couple of hours.</div><div><br /></div><div>The next morning, my brother called to say that Santa had been to his house and left a present that had made him VERY happy, but his poor dog was very confused. She would bark, start to walk away, then come back and bark some more. We agreed that Louise should remain in her pantyhose so the rest of the family could admire her when they came over for the traditional Christmas dinner.</div><div><br /></div><div>My grandmother noticed Louise the moment she walked in the door. "What the hell is that?" she asked.<br /><br />My brother quickly explained, "It's a doll."<br /><br />"Who would play with something like that?" she snapped.<br /><br /> I had several candidates in mind, but kept my mouth shut.<br /><br />"Where are her clothes?" she continued.<br /><br />"Boy, that turkey sure smells nice, Gran," Jay said, trying to steer her into the dining room.<br /><br /> But Granny was relentless. "Why doesn't she have any teeth?"<br /><br />Again, I could have answered, but why risk it? It was Christmas, and nobody wanted to spend it in the back of an ambulance saying, "Hang on, Granny, hang on!"</div><div><br /></div><div>My grandfather, a delightful old man with poor eyesight, sidled up to me, waggled his eyebrows, and said, "Hey, who's the naked gal by the fireplace?"<br /><br />I told him she was Jay's friend, and a few minutes later, noticed Grandpa standing by the mantel, talking to Louise. And not just talking. He was actually flirting. It was then we realized this might be Grandpa's last Christmas at home.</div><div><br /></div><div>The dinner went well. We made the usual small talk about who had died, who was dying, and who should be killed, when suddenly Louise made a noise that sounded a lot like my father in the bathroom every morning. Then she lurched from the pantyhose, flew around the room twice, and fell in a heap in front of the sofa. The cat screamed. I passed cranberry sauce through my nose, and Grandpa ran across the room, fell to his knees, and began administering mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. My brother fell back over his chair and wet his pants, and Granny threw down her napkin and stomped outside to sit in the car.</div><div><br /></div><div>It was indeed a Christmas to treasure and remember. Later in my brother's garage, we conducted a thorough examination to decide the cause of Louise's demise. We discovered that she'd suffered from an acute case of hot ember to the back of her right thigh. Fortunately, thanks to a wonder drug called duct tape, we restored her to perfect health.</div><div><br /></div><div>After that, Louise went on to star in several bachelor party movies, and I'm pretty sure Grandpa still calls her whenever he can sneak out of the house.</div><div><br /> *****************<br /><br /> Merry Christmas! May all your dreams... no matter how inflated... come true.<br /></div><div><br /></div><div> Until next time, take care of yourselves. And each other.</div><div><br /></div><div> As for 2020?</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzFMXVZSv5ryk9TJnwtOQ9rq5zO97JgV8haJmIHWuFcCPQBMyWV785DKLZMTg1VObA1uPTihsXPiVQbO9frWMy8FdrvcJUqjcRXOjf4PY7pSE-I4gYICrq2VMTZ-nErp8yT23yJZWVQsw/s500/xmas+2020.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="374" data-original-width="500" height="299" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzFMXVZSv5ryk9TJnwtOQ9rq5zO97JgV8haJmIHWuFcCPQBMyWV785DKLZMTg1VObA1uPTihsXPiVQbO9frWMy8FdrvcJUqjcRXOjf4PY7pSE-I4gYICrq2VMTZ-nErp8yT23yJZWVQsw/w400-h299/xmas+2020.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div><div style="font-family: "times new roman";"></div>Susan Flett Swiderskihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09425315552148200073noreply@blogger.com51tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6034142332858737641.post-51169100879774355552020-11-25T00:34:00.004-05:002020-11-25T00:34:00.257-05:00Gratitude and Joy<p><b>Thought for the day: </b><i>I don't have to chase extraordinary moments to find happiness--- it's right in front of me if I'm paying attention and practicing gratitude. </i>[Brene Brown]</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6H0uFfUEg-6OMkgKqgmD1-WgKIPrQrxfzdFsyU1mq_xeC0Yzqe0mOYGPdoXk4_keaczHUMzzJ5jUwEHfMUyNaQR_CEFq9887MbTOkc717STJjtvYSoHQfiULLEuFeNTK7_R6l8MT4fP8/s400/turkey+Jake.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="309" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6H0uFfUEg-6OMkgKqgmD1-WgKIPrQrxfzdFsyU1mq_xeC0Yzqe0mOYGPdoXk4_keaczHUMzzJ5jUwEHfMUyNaQR_CEFq9887MbTOkc717STJjtvYSoHQfiULLEuFeNTK7_R6l8MT4fP8/w309-h400/turkey+Jake.jpg" width="309" /></a></div><br /> Tomorrow is Thanksgiving here in the U.S. For a number of years, this drawing, along with my silly Thanksgiving poem, provided an easy-peasy starting point for a blog post to celebrate this time of the year. A good way to ease into the Holiday season with a smile.<p></p><p>But this year feels different.</p><p>Because it is.</p><p>This year is different in many ways, not just for me, but for all of you, as well. How do we give thanks when the entire world is being swamped by the third... and largest... wave of this relentless pandemic? When our healthcare workers are being overwhelmed by the sheer number of patients, by their own exhaustion, and by what must be utter frustration at the number of people who still refuse to wear a damned mask? </p><p>How do we rejoice when we're still isolated, for the most part, from our families and friends? How do I rejoice without my husband? How do you rejoice without that special person you may have lost this year? How do we keep smiling through our tears?</p><p> One day at a time... one blessing at a time. </p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuoBTdTeFu_iWHPuZ4qwG0JwOPskT9Of98aW4T2HEN9CUi1ZXrV1JpUXZjORy8Mn3o-joiKUIbYJPQMEn7_RMnhBhkawEm-Sx51sef1r9Sg_Ar3f3DjMlGqdOt2af3THPptswD06RN_Sg/s667/turkey+grateful.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="667" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuoBTdTeFu_iWHPuZ4qwG0JwOPskT9Of98aW4T2HEN9CUi1ZXrV1JpUXZjORy8Mn3o-joiKUIbYJPQMEn7_RMnhBhkawEm-Sx51sef1r9Sg_Ar3f3DjMlGqdOt2af3THPptswD06RN_Sg/w400-h300/turkey+grateful.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">image courtesy of Unsplash<br /></td></tr></tbody></table>It's been four months since my husband died, and I must admit, it's still sinking in that he's truly gone... and each time that soul-sucking reality punches me in the gut, it knocks the wind out of me all over again. Yes, it brings tears to my eyes, but not for long. What good will tears do?<div><br /></div><div>Far better to concentrate on the many blessings that still remain. We can spend all of our time lamenting what is gone... what has changed... or we can choose to accept our circumstances and be grateful for the many good things remaining. Goodness and joy are still all around us... we just have to look away from our sadness and anxiety and pay better attention. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4cHfnbdok0VPD9C3F2pOblvZ6zKVJm74aNW2Nu7Ecv-5oPTxX2ZDZoTZsLCVlMHiAalYK44jn8N0M68jxpzCAk_BmyCC0ZGzbNCvz23WQcDcIh5UA32SSwH4MxHJgQVY6qPv-CfxuG4E/s360/turkey+cartoon+2.gif" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="360" data-original-width="300" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4cHfnbdok0VPD9C3F2pOblvZ6zKVJm74aNW2Nu7Ecv-5oPTxX2ZDZoTZsLCVlMHiAalYK44jn8N0M68jxpzCAk_BmyCC0ZGzbNCvz23WQcDcIh5UA32SSwH4MxHJgQVY6qPv-CfxuG4E/w334-h400/turkey+cartoon+2.gif" width="334" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><br /><div>I betcha turkeys are finding it easier to be grateful this year, eh? Especially the really big ones. Not much demand for 20-something pound turkeys when our gatherings will be so much smaller. My daughter, her husband and a family friend will be sharing Thanksgiving dinner with me... but no turkey. Not even a little one. It almost feels like blasphemy to have something other than turkey, but Mike was the big turkey-and-all-the-fixings fan in our family, and it seems almost disrespectful to go through all the hoopla without him. So we won't. New beginnings. New traditions. We'll eat lighter fare, and we'll enjoy each other's company. And we'll shoot pool. Maybe play some board games. The one thing I'll try not to do is cry. Laughter is so much better for the soul. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-ozTs6j3ZxAflMp5GlnENG3rcyHjLKRe-p66seMVjnr9WwfNDBdy3z6pL019pL6CfDHTX25tN74m4VvKHLTf_OU1ABiMPTaEtGCGr8XmoX9qtsAC5FYvLxyjNNRqiqq21-9amE_j7oGU/s400/Turkey-Pick-Up-Lines.gif" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="309" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-ozTs6j3ZxAflMp5GlnENG3rcyHjLKRe-p66seMVjnr9WwfNDBdy3z6pL019pL6CfDHTX25tN74m4VvKHLTf_OU1ABiMPTaEtGCGr8XmoX9qtsAC5FYvLxyjNNRqiqq21-9amE_j7oGU/w494-h640/Turkey-Pick-Up-Lines.gif" width="494" /></a></div><br /><div>For all of you, I wish much joy and laughter, too. Whether you're celebrating Thanksgiving or just enjoying a regular run-of-the-mill Thursday, I wish you a grateful heart and many blessings. In spite of everything, life is still good. Different, yes. But still good. I am soooooo grateful for my kids... my friends... you. Hang in there, people. We've got this.</div><div><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">y<iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/gBEI1F22uqE" width="320" youtube-src-id="gBEI1F22uqE"></iframe></div><br /><p> Until next time, take care of yourselves. And each other.</p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgt9gDKcVQVyCwzzxEO_lKgRJRb0S7Pqf76OKT_oU-4dZN52Ax3e-oZYBBJpU_N2M9J6jlIHwm_ToIpqIS5Hd_4KspKSeQ0BldGXMh9TUauv5H876pDSxfuINfuiV7vJqiQ1ouCCXy8t3I/s237/turkey+Maxine.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="237" data-original-width="166" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgt9gDKcVQVyCwzzxEO_lKgRJRb0S7Pqf76OKT_oU-4dZN52Ax3e-oZYBBJpU_N2M9J6jlIHwm_ToIpqIS5Hd_4KspKSeQ0BldGXMh9TUauv5H876pDSxfuINfuiV7vJqiQ1ouCCXy8t3I/w448-h640/turkey+Maxine.jpg" width="448" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p></div>Susan Flett Swiderskihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09425315552148200073noreply@blogger.com46tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6034142332858737641.post-69786465822022105282020-10-30T00:34:00.032-04:002020-10-30T00:34:12.741-04:00If I Could Turn Back Time<p> <b>Thought for the day: </b><i>If you don't like something, change it. If you can't change it, change your attitude. </i>[Maya Angelou]</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxMN9toEUG7G4QNskAbuqEn9V1QFscKrpasLFoJRspUrJqkfxVxZliQcLB5wjrlOGJ9Rbcf8qexZdjbz9CNUofec8gFdfvsyH4B9dmAB0xk2Rv00EqEHYgvcPhbwvZbY9ZQhH4pUEr36g/s500/2020+sucks+6.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="296" data-original-width="500" height="236" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxMN9toEUG7G4QNskAbuqEn9V1QFscKrpasLFoJRspUrJqkfxVxZliQcLB5wjrlOGJ9Rbcf8qexZdjbz9CNUofec8gFdfvsyH4B9dmAB0xk2Rv00EqEHYgvcPhbwvZbY9ZQhH4pUEr36g/w400-h236/2020+sucks+6.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>I reckon we've all had to change our attitudes to survive this crazy Twilight Zone of a year. Fine, I can do that... I have done that. I'm sure you have, too.<div><br /></div><div>But one thing I <b>don't </b>want to change is my darned clock. I mean, why in the name of all that's good and holy would <b>any</b>one choose to nudge the clock back an hour this weekend? Who, I ask you, is delighted at the prospect of prolonging this year from Hades by adding an extra hour to it? Now, if the powers that be really want us to turn back time, I think they should make it worth our while. Why not crank it back ... oh, I dunno... maybe twenty years or so? Betcha <b>that </b>would garner near-unanimous support.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhY7F6nHOQ8gohNgrR6yyHDuJpJYrP3Y-ItXyejYbCsXPg_YkpgwRjw9kWerf1H5cDDSbO7ofXxychjm197AjTV0KijeEX2Q60vn-PCBqdaODu06ebKn2au2rEty325qC-WLlNtWA8V9b4/s800/2020+sucks+2.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="753" data-original-width="800" height="376" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhY7F6nHOQ8gohNgrR6yyHDuJpJYrP3Y-ItXyejYbCsXPg_YkpgwRjw9kWerf1H5cDDSbO7ofXxychjm197AjTV0KijeEX2Q60vn-PCBqdaODu06ebKn2au2rEty325qC-WLlNtWA8V9b4/w400-h376/2020+sucks+2.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Could be worse, I suppose. </div><div><br /></div><div>At least we don't have to rearrange huge stones to change the time, eh?</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div> </div><div> A handy-dandy guide just for you...</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3iRTveU4gpSM-bifpwhM6ymF3UKW3NNq52Mht6662oqGIHnbnePEonWNdoYqkIFuLxTuBhhBTh4yuGklCo02f6X6CCmN1tOq-Kr_5i4QopH9bX9SyHp3-F5JVEWXAP8rfvG-QTmwghaA/s720/2020+sucks.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="665" data-original-width="720" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3iRTveU4gpSM-bifpwhM6ymF3UKW3NNq52Mht6662oqGIHnbnePEonWNdoYqkIFuLxTuBhhBTh4yuGklCo02f6X6CCmN1tOq-Kr_5i4QopH9bX9SyHp3-F5JVEWXAP8rfvG-QTmwghaA/s320/2020+sucks.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDqCix49nyQEgufg9CYZGnO70j2dtua1rmYi5JYbTKUB5ryFx9i6ZY19qG3qEp0eLgY1SoWivG-zjEn6NPcJxVZuWvhyphenhyphenR9wKYz296y1tFUZxV-E2WrRAmAueCKjLHZyyiLpuScxq_kis8/s1189/2020+sucks+4+de+unsplash.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="669" data-original-width="1189" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDqCix49nyQEgufg9CYZGnO70j2dtua1rmYi5JYbTKUB5ryFx9i6ZY19qG3qEp0eLgY1SoWivG-zjEn6NPcJxVZuWvhyphenhyphenR9wKYz296y1tFUZxV-E2WrRAmAueCKjLHZyyiLpuScxq_kis8/w400-h225/2020+sucks+4+de+unsplash.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div>Yeah, I know it's a pipe dream to think we could dig our heels in and forget about changing the clock. (Now if we could move it <b>forward</b> ... like past the election, past the pandemic, past the insanity...)</div><div><br /></div><div>I trust that, like me, you've had <b>enough </b>of this stinking year. We've had our fill of the pandemic... the needless deaths... the racial divide... the protests and rioting... the toxic political atmosphere... the lies... the venomous hatred. It sucks. All of it. But wait! That's not all! Let's not forget the horrific wildfires, the hurricanes, and the floods. And how about them murder wasps? The brain-eating amoebae? And of course, for me, the worst thing, the most definitive thing, has been my husband's death. Some of you have lost loved ones this year, too. I say ENOUGH, already! We're <i>full </i>of this year. Fed up! Done with it. Then again, so many bad things have already happened this year, what else could possibly go wrong?</div><div><br /></div><div>WHOA!!! Scratch that! I take it back. If the zombie apocalypse is coming, I don't wanta know. This year has been for the birds. I tell ya, it's enough to make a saint swear.</div><div><br /></div><div>Come to think of it, birds, too. Yep, I've got it on good authority that birds are fed up with this year, too. Specifically, ever since five African grey parrots were adopted (from five separate sources) by the Lincolnshire Wildlife Park in London, those angry little guys have been cursing a blue streak. To keep their <i>fowl </i>attitudes from spreading to the other parrots in the sanctuary, the ornery little potty mouths had to be moved away from the others. Quaranteed. So to speak. Hmmmm, I bet that didn't do much to improve their attitudes...</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/mGebhU9b5NM" width="320" youtube-src-id="mGebhU9b5NM"></iframe></div><br /><div><br /></div><div> On the plus side, this year... this pandemic... this unrest... can't last forever. Before we know it, it'll be winter. Then a new year... and hopefully, a better year. A more hopeful year. Less stress. More joy.</div><div><br /></div><div> But FYI: best to be careful this winter. I mean, it's this kinda year... </div><div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbZtsXLWqoYSL722vPq7tjY1SSK8QXnTSZdJTo8cxxADTZIcA3nXiWoX1ucc6B1AbPbYxaSMx53T8WDeWq2d3EzVq0I4tPS3ELn1njutw4Eby8Pv5puQxXNImcpTCK5m5Y0wCZZZgreJU/s225/2020+sucks+7.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="225" data-original-width="225" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbZtsXLWqoYSL722vPq7tjY1SSK8QXnTSZdJTo8cxxADTZIcA3nXiWoX1ucc6B1AbPbYxaSMx53T8WDeWq2d3EzVq0I4tPS3ELn1njutw4Eby8Pv5puQxXNImcpTCK5m5Y0wCZZZgreJU/w400-h400/2020+sucks+7.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /> Sure, this year has given us all a ton of challenges, but it hasn't been all bad. There's been some good stuff, too. Like I found a really good company to fix our air conditioning when it went belly-up smack dab in the middle of our Georgian summer. I've also gotten pretty darned good at fixing toilets, if I must say so myself. Plus, all that hand-washing and disinfecting has made toilet-cleaning easier than ever. It seems the stuff has permeated my skin, so now the toilet gets cleaned every time I tinkle. Woo HOO! Oooh, and our younger son got me set up on Netflix. Awesome! I loved it, and quickly developed a brand new binge-watching talent. Until it stopped working. (My TV isn't "smart," so he fed the stream through our DVD player... which decided to stop working. ) BUT... a new TV... a "smart" one... is supposed to be delivered today. I also got a cellphone. A first for me. Something I never ever wanted, but I got tired of my friends and family insisting I "had" to get one. So I did. A week ago. I hope they're all happy now. (Just because I have it doesn't mean I'm gonna use it.) Just kidding. A little. At first, I kept it nearby... in its box. Turned off. (sigh) Fine. It's still in its box, but at least, I turned the darned thing on. Baby steps, right?</div><div><br /></div><div>Anyhow, chins up, people! (Otherwise, you'd be staring at your feet or your boobs all day. And that's just weird.) Maybe if we were to rate 2020, we'd struggle to give it any stars at all, and we wouldn't recommend it to anyone, but this, too, shall pass. Honest. Sure, if 2020 were a drink, it'd be hemlock or maybe that <i>yumm</i>y colonoscopy prep stuff.. If it were a movie, it'd be ... what? <i>Baby Boss</i>, maybe? <i>Sausage Party? </i>Which song...? Oh, I've got it. It'd have to be the dogs barking <i>Jingle Bells. </i>Come on... help. Which song and/or movie do you think suits the essence of 2020? Sock it to me. I've got nothing but time.</div><div><br /></div><div> Until next time, take care of yourselves. And each other.</div><div> </div><div> <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/taM7k2QhJe8" width="320" youtube-src-id="taM7k2QhJe8"></iframe></div><br /></div><div> <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBMhlPsqKNZr-6FWTpECVopJdxKqkvVFPsXRW1B0CW2aJGklQX42l4vdqyBp6NZSWRU5Fr8Y2A2BnhxxoV17AoF5qFEwe2AWF-C010_LrotNBZ5VAOmFNDWRXcEt2SL9xL_dPeshzFGuI/s275/2020+sucks+5.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="275" data-original-width="183" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBMhlPsqKNZr-6FWTpECVopJdxKqkvVFPsXRW1B0CW2aJGklQX42l4vdqyBp6NZSWRU5Fr8Y2A2BnhxxoV17AoF5qFEwe2AWF-C010_LrotNBZ5VAOmFNDWRXcEt2SL9xL_dPeshzFGuI/w266-h400/2020+sucks+5.jpg" width="266" /></a></div><br /></div>Susan Flett Swiderskihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09425315552148200073noreply@blogger.com64tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6034142332858737641.post-11930678142224848272020-10-09T00:34:00.007-04:002020-10-09T00:34:04.031-04:00A Salute and a Toot to Sophisticated HumorAfter being such a barely there blogger for the past few months, I'm kinda late to the game. You guys got a big ol' fat head start on me, but I'm only just now beginning to "appreciate" the "new and improved" version of Blogger that's been foisted upon us by the mighty blogging powers that be. (Yippee, huh?) Turned out, I freaked out over nothing. Yeah, the draft of this old post looked weird... I mean, the html coding showed in lieu of the pics and videos that were in the earlier post... but that was it. Much to my delight, everything re-appeared like magic once I hit the preview button. So not a big deal. But even if it had been, it would've totally been worth it. See, my wonderful son-in-law is verrrry musically talented (in oh-so many ways) and I simply HAD to rerun this oldie-but-goodie "just for him." And for you guys, too, of course. I mean, we ALL need to lighten up and laugh, right? (Right!)
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<b>Thought for the day: </b><i>Beans, beans, the musical fruit; the more you eat, the more you toot. The more you toot, the better you'll feel, so beans, beans for every meal!</i><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px; text-align: center;">Nope; it wasn't ME!</td></tr>
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Have you ever wondered what makes something funny? What makes one person laugh uproariously at a comedian, while the next holds his nose and says the routine <i>stinks</i>? I mean, we all laugh at <b>something</b>. Even little babies laugh.<br />
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Music and laughter ... universal languages. Is there anything better than the sound of a baby's unbridled belly laugh? That in itself sounds like the sweetest music, doesn't it? So we cross our eyes, stick out our tongues, and make all kinds of faces at babies. We tickle their chubby little bellies, make utter fools out of ourselves, and generate weird noises... all in the hopes of getting to hear their precious laughter.<br />
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And what, I ask you, does almost every baby in the world think is funny?<br />
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Apparently, they're partial to... farts ... those <i>musical toots</i>.<br />
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Please don't think lesser of me, but (shhh!) so am I. There must be something wrong with me. Maybe a twisted kink in my DNA helix has stunted my maturation process. That would explain it. Why <b>else</b> would a woman my age still think flatulence is so darned funny?<br />
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I know. Embarrassing, isn't it?<br />
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What three qualities matter most to you in the people you hang around with? For me, it'd have to be kindness, intelligence, and a good sense of humor. But lately, I've begun to question the quality<i> </i>of <b>my</b> sense of humor, because I must admit, few things are off-limits when it comes to cracking a joke or twisting words into a groan-worthy pun, and it doesn't take much to make me laugh.<br />
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Like last week. While talking to a gastroenterologist's appointment nurse on the phone, I asked her where I should report. Upstairs, where my regular doc saw patients? No, I was to go downstairs. "Figures," I said. "In the bowels of the building." Nothing. (Tough audience.) So I apologized, and said she must hear that all the time. Nope. I was the first. See? Sick sense of humor.<br />
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Then there was the time Smarticus came home from a hunting trip and told me about a harrowing experience he'd had after one of the other fellas fell out of a tree stand. While driving his friend to the hospital, my poor hapless hubby looked out his truck window and saw a wheel roll past... HIS wheel. Needless to say, he got everything fixed, and got the guy to the hospital okay, but what would YOU have said to him under the circumstances? Me? I sang. Uh-huh. I sang, <i>You picked a fine time to leave me, loose wheel ... </i>See? Sick, sick, sick. <i> </i>But not as sick as my penchant for potty humor.<br />
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Years ago, when our daughter was about eleven, she ... how shall I say this ... <i>cut the cheese</i> in church. Not noisily, mind you, but with an exuberant and lingering bouquet. Most normal mothers would have scolded her for not saving her stink for the bathroom, or at least given her a suitably disapproving look. Not me. I leaned over and whispered, "Gives a whole new meaning to church pew, huh?"<br />
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Fortunately, we weren't asked to vacate the premises.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px; text-align: center;">This is an ACTUAL musical!</td></tr>
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But I can't help it. I think the sounds of flatulence are absolutely hysterical.<br />
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Call me <i>gauche</i>, but the very idea of a musical about a man's <i>fartistic </i>abilities strikes me as fall-down-on-the-floor funny. (I mean, really! Can you imagine a man on stage tooting his arse like a trumpet?)<br /> But I'm not kidding! 'Twas an honest-to-goodness off-Broadway play intended to delight all lovers of potty humor and "pull my finger" shenanigans. Entitled <i>The Fartiste</i>, this play, based on fart artist (I kid you not!) Joseph Pujol, a 19th century Moulin Rouge tooting star, blasted its way to some great reviews and thunderous applause. Pujol had the unusual ability to suck air in through his anus, and then blow it out again, which enabled him to use his posterior portal to tootle tunes on a trumpet, emulate the sounds of thunder and ripping fabric, and even to blow out the theater's gas jet lights. What can I say? From what I've read about it, the play didn't stink.
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Can you watch this video without laughing? I can't.<br />
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A few years ago, Smarticus and I saw two boys in a Dollar Store aisle playing with Whoopee cushions they'd pulled off the shelf. The more rude noises they squeezed out, the more they laughed. Um, me too. Matter of fact, I just HAD to get me one of those things. For one of our grandsons, of course. Didn't mean I couldn't entertain myself by squeezing it as we went through the store. (WHAT? I had to make sure it worked, didn't I?) Anyhow, the intended recipient of the grand gift didn't enjoy it nearly as much as his younger siblings. Especially the twenty-month-old, who would squeeze out a good one, wrinkle his nose, and say, "EWWWWW! Schtinky!" Then he'd laugh hysterically. Um, me too.<br />
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It was about then I began to wonder if some aspects of my humor weren't a tad juvenile. I mean, laughing at the same thing a twenty-month-old found amusing? The same thing that makes babies all over the world laugh?<br />
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But, as it turns out, I'm not alone. That book on the right? Belongs to my husband. One of our grandsons picked it out for him.<i> </i>The shameful truth is ... our whole family cracks up at bathroom humor.<br />
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And we aren't the only ones. The reason for this, I don't know, but many people find flatulence hilarious. Not burps, or hiccoughs, or sneezes ... just poots.<br />
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Smarticus once emailed me a newspaper article about a little girl who won a speech contest with her speech about ... you guessed it ... farts. I even read an article in a scientific journal about a medical researcher whose major focus is studying ... you guessed it ... farts. (Guess his lab is in the bowels of the building too, eh?) <span style="font-size: xx-small;">Sorry</span>. And another about an Australian study to determine whether pooting in the O.R. could contaminate the field of operation. The conclusion? There's a minute possibility, but only if the perpetrator is naked and taking direct aim at the surgical site. But, don't worry about your surgeon eating beans. According to the study, flatus germs are as benign as the bacteria in your yogurt. Both of these article, I must say, although reporting on the results of serious studies, (or as serious as studies in this particular field can be) were full of puns, innuendos, and fart jokes. Y'know, like something I would've written.<br />
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Kinda made me proud.<br />
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So, um bottom line, maybe I'm okay after all. Right. I'm a mature sophisticated woman. (Shut up. This is MY fantasy.) And maybe I'm not the only one with an inner child squealing<i> I don't wanta pull your finger.</i><br />
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So, how's the wind blow with you? Fart jokes crack you up, too, or do they just plain <i>stink</i>? And what's the most inappropriate thing you've ever said or done in the name of humor? Come on. You can tell me ...</div>
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<i> There was an old fellow named Clyde</i></div>
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<i> Who fell into an outhouse and died.</i></div>
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<i> One day, his brother</i></div>
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<i> Fell into another,<br /> And now they're in-turd side by side.</i></div>
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Until next time, take care of yourselves. And each other.<br />
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Susan Flett Swiderskihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09425315552148200073noreply@blogger.com58tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6034142332858737641.post-22499762780575813642020-09-18T00:34:00.001-04:002020-09-18T00:34:00.151-04:00Just Call Me Edison<p> <b>Thought for the day: </b><i>Regret won't change the past. Anxiety won't change the future.</i></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSs73OTRooJUEQ0SWSziKpZNInD5iRNveQXt8j-vIXNNc0mWIYcCukaN-VhRNLMuZvKG8mymC01XwczGki4tZQl8yeDRB8HHZ6-4aoyfmAbcZSI4rtpYUamYbSm_VDz0vw0gn-_8SCuCg/s410/reinvent+myself+2.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="300" data-original-width="410" height="293" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSs73OTRooJUEQ0SWSziKpZNInD5iRNveQXt8j-vIXNNc0mWIYcCukaN-VhRNLMuZvKG8mymC01XwczGki4tZQl8yeDRB8HHZ6-4aoyfmAbcZSI4rtpYUamYbSm_VDz0vw0gn-_8SCuCg/w400-h293/reinvent+myself+2.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>Hi-ya, guys. So how are things going with you? I know... I know... some days, it feels like a tsunami of anxiety is threatening to engulf the whole darned planet, but hang in there, okay? Just grab yourself a gnarly surfboard so you can ride that wave with a big ol' smile on your face. <p></p><p>So to speak.</p><p> I mean, we may not be able to change what's happening in the world... or in our lives... but we always always have the power to make the best of it. And we can always always search for the bright spots, the humor, and the hope. If it's too hard to smile, fake it. Whistle a happy tune, people, because we're gonna get through this. Really.</p><p>Me? I'm doing okay. I miss the crap out of my husband, but I don't reckon that'll ever change. There's a big ol' empty spot in my heart, but I still have the privilege of knowing a bunch of caring people, and the world doesn't feel empty to me at all. Just... different. It will always be... different. But the stark truth of it is, the long and beautiful saga Mike and I wrote together is over. The ending sucked, and he's gone, but it's time for me to write a new story. My own. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3kQknQ0zSYpPNrlnd0TtAyU5xHTi5qpOTnM4ZFNdEj5e01zpMFgANsDVzZjin3ZLTR1ZUloQed6Km7C6lSQZgD4UwOPOZ5IOUALL2uOLCclu_STD94THiAN_0Jp6SO4BB7cjDQF6tFKU/s430/reinvent+myself.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="430" data-original-width="418" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3kQknQ0zSYpPNrlnd0TtAyU5xHTi5qpOTnM4ZFNdEj5e01zpMFgANsDVzZjin3ZLTR1ZUloQed6Km7C6lSQZgD4UwOPOZ5IOUALL2uOLCclu_STD94THiAN_0Jp6SO4BB7cjDQF6tFKU/w389-h400/reinvent+myself.jpg" width="389" /></a></div>Yep, time to reinvent myself, because my life ain't over. Not yet. <div><br /></div><div><i>Life isn't about finding yourself. Life is about creating yourself. </i>[George Bernard Shaw]<br /><div><br /></div><div>Mr. Shaw was a brilliant man, but I don't think I need to create myself so much as I need to figure out who the heck I am. See, I've been <i>Mike's wife</i>... or <i>Mike's girlfriend... </i>for well over half a century, and after decades of bending over backwards to accommodate him and keep him happy, I kinda lost myself in the process. Now I'm taking baby steps to find out who I am and what I want. Simple things like putting yummy mushrooms in the lasagna sauce... which he never liked... and getting rid of some stuff he liked... that I secretly hated. As stereotypically 1950s-like as I was as his wife, he was equally as 1950s-like stereotypical in his role, too. He took care of things. Fixed everything. Took care of the financial planning. Paid all the bills. And I've gotta tell ya, as scared as I was at being thrust into the position of suddenly having to do all of that stuff myself...rising to those tasks has given me a sense of accomplishment. I'm a tad surprised... but also proud. </div></div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjAXJvd7WiUJ07Dc24AU9T46nwWnzKM9sdK9JrrdUQcpSOv9FGs8ESVUwglVzko2CwccrQZWZYFUD4NP2FrY_76nrgsG5tOAoWAv8E248ub42uIoqdte610hlPxof05Vu0zpCuMIHnjBo/s899/reinvent+myself+3.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="899" data-original-width="800" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjAXJvd7WiUJ07Dc24AU9T46nwWnzKM9sdK9JrrdUQcpSOv9FGs8ESVUwglVzko2CwccrQZWZYFUD4NP2FrY_76nrgsG5tOAoWAv8E248ub42uIoqdte610hlPxof05Vu0zpCuMIHnjBo/w356-h400/reinvent+myself+3.jpg" width="356" /></a></div>I don't know how <i>extreme </i>my makeover is gonna be, but I think it's gonna be okay, and so am I. For quite a while, the changes are mostly gonna be in our house. My <i>raison d'etre</i> right now is getting rid of a bunch of stuff and simplifying everything so it'll be easier for my kids to handle when I shuffle off to join their dad. Oh, and I want to turn one of Mike's many storage areas back into a bedroom... and fit it with a couple of bunk beds. Then, the grandkids can stay with me from time to time. Once the coronavirus has passed and a certain amount of normality has returned to everyday life, there may be more changes. Like... I might like to join our local community theater group. Maybe take tai chi classes. Heck, maybe I'll even learn to tap dance. Who knows? It's a new adventure, and I can set my own path. (Hopefully, my woeful sense of direction won't prove to be too problematic...) The jury is still out as to whether the <i>new me </i>is gonna be a blogger... or a writer. I think so. Maybe. Then again, I might be too busy learning how to play the saxophone... <div><br /></div><div>Heck, maybe we all need to reinvent ourselves to some extent. No matter how old we are, or what our circumstances may be, it's not too late to climb out of that rut to explore new things and learn how to bloom again. How about you? What new things might you try?</div><div><br /></div><div><i>Don't ever feel like your best days are behind you. Reinvention is the purest form of hope. Make today your best yet. </i>[Phil Wohl]</div><div><br /></div><div>Okay, so I'll be Edison... who wants to be Tesla...?</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/vb1JvzxgMAI" width="320" youtube-src-id="vb1JvzxgMAI"></iframe></div><br /><div><br /><div> Until next time, take care of yourselves. And each other.</div></div><div><br /></div><div> Still feeling a little <i>blah</i>? This video's guaranteed to lift you up.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/lvm8f4rb56k" width="320" youtube-src-id="lvm8f4rb56k"></iframe></div><br /><div><br /></div>Susan Flett Swiderskihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09425315552148200073noreply@blogger.com51tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6034142332858737641.post-15459780647248225922020-08-14T00:34:00.062-04:002020-08-14T07:42:11.718-04:00Treading Water<p> <b>Thought for the day: </b><i>It is a curious thing, the death of a loved one. We all know that our time in this world is limited, and that eventually all of us will end up underneath some sheet, never to wake up. And yet it is always a surprise when it happens to someone we love. It is like walking up the stairs to your bedroom in the dark, and thinking there is one more stair than there is. Your foot falls down through the air, and there is a sickly moment of dark surprise as you try and readjust the way you thought of things.</i>{Lemony Snicket]</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiH-qttc99-GiyRnsxt1vSbYLknXnjNcgoCTi-NSUt7bIEp71fLVTdYuQylLyuxXfYnpTsn3AugRJ0M6j1wzDHX9_pJgB2gnftFylCnayViAGu3GsZqML0vyd-KoavJqdKS1ONdBouUW3s/s200/image001.jpg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0px;"><img border="0" data-original-height="200" data-original-width="200" height="489" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiH-qttc99-GiyRnsxt1vSbYLknXnjNcgoCTi-NSUt7bIEp71fLVTdYuQylLyuxXfYnpTsn3AugRJ0M6j1wzDHX9_pJgB2gnftFylCnayViAGu3GsZqML0vyd-KoavJqdKS1ONdBouUW3s/w489-h489/image001.jpg" width="489" /></a></div><p>Hi. Last time I posted was July 24, when I told you the end was near. It was even nearer than I feared. The love of my life took his last breath the very next day, and life will never again be the same. </p><p>And yet, somehow, life goes on. It's chaotic, a little scary and sometimes overwhelming, but there are still moments of levity amid the tears. Our daughter Sunshine spent the night on the 24th, and my gal pal Pam was planning to stay the next night. I guess you could say they were kinda circling the proverbial wagons around me, offering their support and trying to shield me from what we all knew was coming. I'll be forever grateful Sunshine was here when Mike died, and even more grateful that she stayed another night. That afternoon, my daughter-in-law Sarge popped in for a surprise visit. She was on her way home to Alabama from visiting a friend in Charlotte, and she just planned to stop by to give me a hug, but she ended up staying overnight, too. Sunshine's husband came over for five hours or so, and I know Mike would've approved of how the four of us spent the evening... we ordered pizza, turned on the music he and I always played while shooting pool... and we shot pool. Sure, there were some tears, but there was plenty of reminiscing and laughter, too.</p><p>There's been so much to do, so many things I had to learn to do that I never expected or wanted to do. (Being the adult in charge sucks!) Everything from having to fix a squealing toilet to dealing with all kinds of government agencies and a multitude of banks, insurance companies, and the probate court. Because the titles to all seven of our vehicles are in Mike's name, I have to go through probate before I can have them re-titled in my name. Not a pleasant discovery, I'll tell ya. The will leaves everything to me, but that doesn't matter. Nope, because those stupid titles are in his name, the kids, as heirs, still have to attest not to contest said will. Then the judge will provide me with the required letter to take to the tag-and-title folks so I can change those titles to my name. At that point, I can sign over six of the vehicles to our kids. (Hopefully, before I have to pay insurance on all those buggers.) A tip to you guys: if you're married, consider putting all of your assets in both of your names. It makes things a lot easier.</p><p>To tell the truth, it still doesn't seem real. After being a part of my life for more than sixty years, it doesn't seem possible that he's gone. I arrange his pillow lengthwise in the bed every night, so if I wake up in the middle of the night, I'll see a shape in the dark beside me. Not that I'm fooling myself, but it's a teeny tiny crutch to keep me from breaking down if I open my eyes and see the obvious expanse of empty bed next to me. A million times a day, I think I have to ask him something... or tell him something. If I doze off in front of the TV, I startle awake and immediately look at his half of the love seat. When I don't see him there, my first thought is... he went to bed without me...?</p><p>Going through his stuff, I'm astounded at what a pack rat he was, and touched at some of the "treasures" he'd tucked away. Like ticket stubs to the movies, shows, and museums we went to together. Our kids' baby teeth! Poems I'd written to him over the years. Lots of crap, too, like a bazillion cheap hand-outs he'd picked up at the many trade shows he attended over the years. It seems like he placed the same relevance to old yellowed receipts for items we owned forty years ago and to long-defunct insurance policies as he did to current banking, stock information and insurance policies. To be sure, it's been a challenge, and if I continue working at it every day for the rest of my life, I don't think I'll ever get it all squared away. But I'll try. It's my goal to clear things out and simplify things as much as I can to make it easier on the kids when I go to that great big pool parlor in the sky. I sometimes wonder if Mike left me this ungodly mess on purpose... you know, to keep me so busy I don't have much time to think or wallow in grief.</p><p>I have a feeling he's watching and laughing his ass off at me trying to figure it all out. Before we were married, he took great pleasure in driving me to the middle of nowhere and challenging me to find the way back home. Me? Directionally challenged me? Oh yeah, I got us home eventually, but sometimes we meandered in clueless circles for hours, until he'd start saying things like, "Are you <i>sure</i> you want to go that way?" Laughing. Making me laugh. Reminding me that we both had to go to work the next day...</p><p>Now, I'm struggling to navigate through a whole new kind of existence, and he's no longer here to nudge me in the right direction. I'll undoubtedly make some wrong turns, and sometimes, I feel a tsunami of emotions washing over me, but I'm treading water as fast as I can. So far, so good. I like to think he's somehow helping me keep my head above the water. </p><p>There's a shelf above the big-screen TV in our pool room. That's where his ashes rest... right in front of a triangularly-folded U.S. flag,...and surrounded by five smile-inducing minions. I think he'd like that. </p><p>My kids, grandkids, and friends... including you guys... have been tremendously supportive. In a way, lots of people are helping me keep my head above the water. That's good. After all, Mike might have something better to do these days. I sincerely hope so.</p><p> Until next time, take care of yourselves. And each other. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjR83WaCzDLHr9CTAY1sGM4HhELIWOpqW9yINNmnqg0wUs_bJ0Z3kIeAX-pElOrb7uvAmzedxO5t9oLdafIk2nVps4V_N2gzdvAGaj46aU-sSTVhoQW0TnpUlZc-2iOtwW64Imh5GGzPFo/s425/balloons-in-sky.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="282" data-original-width="425" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjR83WaCzDLHr9CTAY1sGM4HhELIWOpqW9yINNmnqg0wUs_bJ0Z3kIeAX-pElOrb7uvAmzedxO5t9oLdafIk2nVps4V_N2gzdvAGaj46aU-sSTVhoQW0TnpUlZc-2iOtwW64Imh5GGzPFo/s0/balloons-in-sky.jpg" /></a></div><p><i>I've told my kids that when I die, to release balloons in the sky to celebrate that I graduated. To me, death is a graduation. </i>[Elisabeth Kubler-Ross]</p>Susan Flett Swiderskihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09425315552148200073noreply@blogger.com57tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6034142332858737641.post-70275242979413450392020-07-24T00:34:00.000-04:002020-07-24T13:21:58.052-04:00Another Update <b>Thought for the day: </b><i>Appreciation is the highest form of prayer, for it acknowledges the presence of good wherever you shine the light of your thankful thoughts. </i>[Alan Cohen]<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiPBAkovcKeKTpfdSvj7HHdkl-eIrE4AapQCJnW8ddE5WMeOn0rr2DJjYDC6p_I6MCgNlntPHM50P4gXhaFxSKLWvig5zIly4ObWDMGcPbNefKFukdBQ5ml8SveWCEN2xreKpgOHvnejQ/s1600/SAM_2913.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="296" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiPBAkovcKeKTpfdSvj7HHdkl-eIrE4AapQCJnW8ddE5WMeOn0rr2DJjYDC6p_I6MCgNlntPHM50P4gXhaFxSKLWvig5zIly4ObWDMGcPbNefKFukdBQ5ml8SveWCEN2xreKpgOHvnejQ/s400/SAM_2913.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">May, 2019, when we were in Charleston celebrating our 50th anniversary</td></tr>
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First off, let me express my sincere appreciation for all of you guys and your continued thoughts and prayers. Your kind words have meant the world to me, and they've never failed to put a smile on my face. Thank you, thank you, thank you.<br />
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What can I say? The end is near. As much as I hate to say it, or to even think it, I know it to be true. I can't bear the thought of losing him, but I also know he wouldn't want to live like this, either. No one would. It's beyond horrifying what cancer does to the human body. I lie on the bed beside him and hold his hand. Stroke his arm. But I don't know if he even knows I'm there. I like to think he does, but I don't know, because it isn't really <i>him </i>any more. It's some bizarre bastardized shell of who he used to be.<br />
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The end will come as a blessing. For him. But God forgive me, not for me.<br />
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I know. It isn't about me. That's what I tell myself umpteen times a day when the tears start to fall. It's about him and about me taking care of him, but it's so hard to think of a world without him in it. It's hard to think of the things he'll never do again... all the things we'll no longer be able to do together. After knowing someone for more than sixty years, it's terrifying to envision the enormous vacuum he's going to leave behind.<br />
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Thank God for the hospice nurse. Mike didn't want any part of anyone else from hospice coming, and he didn't want any part of having a hospital bed, either, but he did agree to let the nurse come. Everyone keeps telling me to get the hospital bed, because it'd be <i>easier </i>for me. But that isn't the point, is it? He wants to die in his own bed. Without benefit of some stranger... i.e. a nurse's aide... taking care of him. End of discussion, even if he can no longer speak for himself. That's what he told me, and my only choice is to honor his wishes.<br />
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Anyhow, the nurse... Kathy... has been coming twice a week to check Mike's vitals, and after a couple of weeks, she arranged her schedule so her visit with us is the last stop of her workday. That way, she can hang around and spend as much time here as she'd like. Really cool, huh? Yesterday, she was here for more than two hours. Talk about a blessing. We just talk (and talk and talk...) like normal people. And laugh. She feels more like a friend than someone who's here to do a job, and her visits are helping preserve my sanity. (Because no matter what anyone tells you, doing in-home hospice is HARD. The hardest thing I've ever done.) She says she spends more time with me because she likes me. Whether that's the case, or she simply sees me as someone desperately in need of company, I appreciate the living daylights out of her.<br />
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She agrees that the end is near. That means she'll be back today... and every day... for as long as I need her. Says I can call her any time, day or night.<br />
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I think there's gotta be a special place in Heaven for people like her, don't you?<br />
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So, bottom line, he's still hanging on, but just barely. As hard as it is, I'm grateful. We've had more years than most, and we sure had a helluva run.<br />
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Until next time, take care of yourselves. And each other.<br />
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<i>Death is not extinguishing the light; it is only putting out the lamp because the dawn has come. </i>[Rabindranath Tagore]<br />
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<br />Susan Flett Swiderskihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09425315552148200073noreply@blogger.com29tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6034142332858737641.post-67804073069318263532020-06-19T14:08:00.000-04:002020-06-19T14:08:12.645-04:00A Quick UpdateHi-ya, guys. I just wanted to take a sec to update y'all on what's happening with us. First off, thank you so much for your continued support and caring messages. I appreciate them more than I can say. Bottom line, we're now doing hospice care in our home. This isn't the outcome we would've chosen, but we're blessed to have had so many years together. Sure, we would've liked to have had another 51 years of marriage... hey! we coulda made it into the Guinness book of world records... but no, alas, that's not to be. Things are kinda rough right now, but the hospice folks are a Godsend, and somehow, somehow, I'll make it through. I think. I dunno when.... or even if... I'll return to blogging. But if I can... I will.<br />
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Y'all take care of yourselves. And each other.Susan Flett Swiderskihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09425315552148200073noreply@blogger.com44tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6034142332858737641.post-91925229693051587792020-05-29T00:34:00.000-04:002020-05-29T00:34:03.917-04:00More Than a Number<b>Thought for the day: </b><i>Time is but a stream I go a-fishin' in. I drink at it, but while I drink, I see the sandy bottom and detect how shallow it is. Its thin current slips away, but eternity remains. </i>[Henry David Thoreau]<br />
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I didn't just want to go fishing in it; I wanted to stand in it. I wanted to feel the waters of time swirl around my feet, to be made poignantly aware once again of its dual nature of fleeting and eternal. I wanted to hear the haunting call of the seagulls, and breathe in the distinctive briny scent of the ocean. And five years ago...when Smarticus took this picture of me at Myrtle Beach... he and and our friends Kati and Cliff allowed me to do just that. Even though none of them share my passion for the ocean, they indulged me by granting me some time to stand in the surf and replenish my soul. I appreciated it more than I could say. Having them do that for me was humbling and made me feel cared for.<br />
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Recently, while struggling to keep my footing in a surf of swirling emotions, I momentarily felt as alone as I look in that photo. As a number of you already know, Smarticus... AKA Mike... my Number One and only... went into the hospital last week. Watching that ambulance take him away and knowing that because of coronavirus safety precautions, we can't see each other while he's there, was as painful as a kick in in the solar plexus. With a steel-toed pointy boot. But thankfully, that devastating feeling of being totally alone has passed.<br />
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Our kids and friends circled the wagons, reminding me that I'm not alone at all... and that circle includes you guys. I'm humbled by your expressions of concern, and I appreciate your outreach more than I can say. Thank you.<br />
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We can... and do... talk on the phone multiple times a day. He's been getting treatments to ease his pain and make him more comfortable, and he'll be transferred to an acute physical therapy place today, where the hope is to get him back on his feet again so he can come home. Believe me, if anybody can accomplish that, he can. Then we'll be ready to tackle whatever comes next. For more than 51 years, I've leaned on him, and now it's his turn. He can relax and lean on me now, and much to my surprise, I've discovered that I'm more than strong enough to hold us both up. We've got this, and we're still laughing together... even if it's only over the phone for now.<br />
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I'd planned to post the following video last Friday for Memorial Day, but you know what they say about the best-laid plans. But ya know what? It isn't too late to post it. I'm one of those strange folks who still thinks of Memorial Day as falling on May 30, as opposed to the last Monday of the month, so as far as I'm concerned, this post is right on time.<br />
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Yesterday's newspaper said we've now surpassed 100,000 deaths from the coronavirus here in the U.S. It's hard to wrap our minds around such a big number, isn't it? Hard to imagine such a profound loss. It's as difficult to assimilate the number of global deaths from this virus as it is to grasp the huge numbers representing the men and women who've died during wartime. Stark heartless numbers<i> </i>tend to dehumanize the <i>reality</i> of each of those individual deaths. In 2013, British artists Jamie Wardley and Andy Moss organized an amazing artistic endeavor called <i>The Fallen</i> that poignantly depicts the reality of the 9000 who lost their lives on the beaches of Normandy:<br />
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<i>To those who died, honor and eternal rest; to those still in bondage, remembrance and hope; to those who returned, gratitude and peace. </i>[engraved on the Illinois Vietnam Veterans Memorial]<br />
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[Yes, that's my hubby in the header pic... taken when he was a grunt in Vietnam. He's writing me a letter...]<br />
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Again, thank you all. Your caring truly lifted me up. And psssst... keep smiling. I am.<br />
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Until next time, take care of yourselves. And each other.<br />
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<br />Susan Flett Swiderskihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09425315552148200073noreply@blogger.com60tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6034142332858737641.post-63876777719380804112020-05-15T00:34:00.000-04:002020-05-15T00:34:00.820-04:00Vive Les Differences!<b>Thought for the day: </b><i>Do you think God gets stoned? I think so... look at the platypus. </i>[Robin Williams]<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">[image: wikipedia]</td></tr>
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You ever feel like you're moving in slow motion? Unmotivated and more than a little lazy?<br />
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(ahem) Yeah, me neither.<br />
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Who am I kidding? Lately, I feel like my inner self is turning into a sloth.<br />
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Not that I don't appreciate the sloth, mind you... I do. With that Chewbacca-like long hair and those diva-like long nails, it's a veritable glamour queen of the animal world, and it undeniably marches to the beat of its own drummer. A verrrry slow beat. But as much as I appreciate the sloth, one of the animals I appreciate even more is the wonderful, amazing, totally unique duck-billed platypus. Talk about individuality! I dunno if Robin Williams was right to say God was stoned when he created the platypus, though. I prefer to think of the platypus as being the manifestation of a great sense of humor.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">[image: wikipedia]</td></tr>
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I mean, really. Think about it. The platypus has clawed feet in the rear, webbed feet in front, a beaver-like tail, otter-like fur, and a soft pliable duck-like bill. Believe it or not, this unusual-looking guy shares DNA with mammals, birds, AND reptiles. It's as though he were made from a bunch of spare parts, all thrown together willy-nilly. (The original case of cosmic recycling?)<br />
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<i>I like the duck-billed platypus</i><br />
<i>Because it is anomalous.</i><br />
<i>I like the way it raises its family,</i><br />
<i>Partly birdly, partly mammaly.</i><br />
<i>I like its independent attitude</i><br />
<i>Let no one call it a duck-billed platitude. </i>[Ogden Nash]<br />
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Um, then again, maybe the platypus wasn't one of the <i>original </i>animals from the get-go. Maybe there was a little bit of (ahem) hanky panky taking place on that ark...<br />
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Alas, most of us will never have the pleasure of seeing a duck-billed platypus in person, although it's one of those <i>bucket list</i> kinda things for me. You folks in Australia might not even ever see one in the wild, because they're pretty introverted and <i>vant to be alone </i>most of the time. But at least you guys have the option of seeing them in your zoos and conservation facilities. (Lucky you!)<br />
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Some interesting fun facts about the platypus:<br />
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<li>They don't have stomachs! (So <b>that's </b>how they stay so slim...) Instead, like fish, they have a gullet that connects directly to their intestines.</li>
<li>Their bills are covered with thousands of super-sensitive cells that detect the electric fields of other critters... kinda like a sixth sense. When a platypus goes underwater, a protective flap of skin covers his eyes and ears, making him both blind and deaf, but his bill more than makes up for it. That handy dandy electrolocation ability in his bill takes over and allows him to zero right in on his prey. </li>
<li>They're one of only two egg-laying mammals in the world. (The other is the echidna, also native to Australia.) And although they lactate, they have no nipples! What they do have are mammary glands, and their babies simply suck the milk from their mother's abdominal skin or fur.</li>
<li>The males have a venomous spur on each hind leg, which is only activated during mating season, presumably to prevent other amorous males from getting too chummy with their ladies. </li>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">[image of spur: wikipedia]</td></tr>
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<ul>
<li>The webbing on their front feet is retractable. It helps them swim in the water... using their front legs, like a <i>doggy paddle... </i>and then retracts on land to reveal sharp claws.</li>
<li>They have no teeth. The adults don't, anyway. (Babies have tiny teeth, but they don't last long, and once they fall out, they don't grow new ones.) They scoop up gravel from the river bottom to use as makeshift teeth to grind their food. Pretty cool, huh?</li>
<li>Their tails may look like beaver tails, but they serve a different purpose. Platypuses don't use them to slap the water as a warning, like beavers do. Nearly half of their body's fat is stored in the tail... kinda like a back-up pantry... and it serves as a food source during times of scarcity. Moms also shelter their incubating eggs against their warm bodies with those tails. </li>
<li>Know what platypus babies are called? Puggles! Isn't that adorable? Wouldn't you love to <i>snuggle with a puggle</i>...? (They're such spiffy dressers!)</li>
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Is it any wonder I'm so enamored of these creatures?</div>
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In December of 2019, there were so many duck-billed platypuses in Australia, they were deemed <i>common. </i>(As if!) Sadly, as of January of this year, they've joined the ranks of endangered species, due largely to drought and wildfires. Thankfully, there are many people dedicated to saving them... like these folks with the Taronga Zoo in Sydney:<br />
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If you're like me, that isn't NEARLY enough footage of these critters. So how about a little bit more?<br />
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There are sooooo many incredible, awe-inspiring creatures in this world of ours, but to me, the duck-billed platypus is in a class by itself. Truly unique, in every sense of the word... kinda like... us! So I say embrace your differences, people! Celebrate the unique! You may not have the privilege of being a platypus, but, by golly, YOU are the only YOU in the entire world. Like the platypus, you are truly one of a kind.<br />
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Oh, yeah! I almost forgot. Did you ever wonder what a platypus <i>sounded </i>like? Well... wonder no more:<br />
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(You're welcome!)<br />
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Until next time, take care of yourselves. And each other.Susan Flett Swiderskihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09425315552148200073noreply@blogger.com46tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6034142332858737641.post-75459938717963452772020-05-06T00:34:00.000-04:002020-05-06T00:34:05.195-04:00In the Zone<b>Thought for the day: </b><i>Hopeful thinking can get you our of your fear zone and into your appreciation zone. </i>[Martha Beck]<br />
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Yes, indeedy. It's that time again, people. Yet another month has slipped through our fingers, and it is once again time for our IWSG monthly posts. As always, thanks to our fearless leader, Alex Cavanaugh, for founding this fine group, and thanks to all the other nurturing guys and gals who've helped turn it into the thriving community it is today. I'm telling ya, this group offers better support and lift than the world's most expensive bra. (No pesky underwires, either!) To join this super duper supportive group of writers and to see links to other participating blogs, please go <a href="http://www.insecurewriterssupportgroup.com/p/iwsg-sign-up.html">HERE</a><br />
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Well, yes sirree, I took most of the month of April off from blogging, ostensibly to get back to my poor neglected manuscript, which has been gathering dust for the past year. I knew it would be difficult to get back into the groove after so long, but um, I failed to even find the darned groove. To tell the truth, I didn't spend much time looking for it, either. I still believe in the value of the story I want to tell, but the truth is, I don't know if I can regain the enthusiasm it requires to <i>get 'er done</i> or not. At least, not right now, because I'm having a hard time believing writing even... matters. (Yeah, I know. Blasphemy, eh?) But I'm not quite ready to give up yet.<br />
<br />
Because of my current situation, this month's question is particularly pertinent:<br />
<br />
<span style="color: red;"><b>Do you have any rituals that you use when you need help getting into the ZONE? Care to share?</b></span><br />
<span style="color: red;"><b><br /></b></span>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglN34KKgPuO4ltDYih1F5oOxeadYcHWDDGaE8XwGK9Xj5mW_roeH-_Rp5URq4DutOL7nIzmsO5Z9i5KkD-zAo5sREdo4a-bsuxXzcM7pOkcbPLifsiusEIqqVavZ3shCt22A91mEINC_0/s1600/end+zone+de+unsplash.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="700" data-original-width="1050" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglN34KKgPuO4ltDYih1F5oOxeadYcHWDDGaE8XwGK9Xj5mW_roeH-_Rp5URq4DutOL7nIzmsO5Z9i5KkD-zAo5sREdo4a-bsuxXzcM7pOkcbPLifsiusEIqqVavZ3shCt22A91mEINC_0/s400/end+zone+de+unsplash.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">[image: unsplash]</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Well, that's a real challenge, isn't it? Or as someone much smarter than I said, "Therein lies the rub..."<br />
<br />
OY! I'd LOVE to get back into the normal zone again. I really would. I'd love to fire that ol' football into the end zone in a perfect spiral, right into the hands of a deft receiver. Woo HOO! Touchdown!<br />
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Or, um... I'd settle for a few successfully written pages.<br />
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Unfortunately, I seem to have... <i>dropped the ball. </i>And rather than trying to recover it, I've retreated to the bench. I don't feel like playing.<br />
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<i>The zone is a state of mind which is marked by a sense of calmness. In addition, there is a heightened sense of awareness and focus. Actions seem effortless and there is an increased belief that your dreams or goals can become achievable and real. In addition, there is also a sense of deep enjoyment when the person is in this unique, special, and magical state of being. </i>[Dr. Jay Granat, sports psychologist]<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsOtXemkbHqVZG2L8AOXP7FurKaGNTjhRaM_UezPRNKagJeO2ybIM6ebyIzfRsXdNE_Mzl8YrZ2cVKwT8jKIfJ4uwXG00qpK7tb55BtrQ6NQ3flOV_hcdzYwlyaayb9p5VOouFqLxSeAM/s1600/zone+strike+de+unsplash.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="700" data-original-width="1050" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsOtXemkbHqVZG2L8AOXP7FurKaGNTjhRaM_UezPRNKagJeO2ybIM6ebyIzfRsXdNE_Mzl8YrZ2cVKwT8jKIfJ4uwXG00qpK7tb55BtrQ6NQ3flOV_hcdzYwlyaayb9p5VOouFqLxSeAM/s400/zone+strike+de+unsplash.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">[image: unsplash]</td></tr>
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You ever been in that kind of zone? The closest I've ever been was at the bowling alley some years ago. At the time, I bowled on multiple leagues, and I was pretty good... but certainly not great. But that one night... it was as though I could do no wrong. STRIKE! STRIKE! STRIKE! Some of my balls curved into the pocket like magic, but even the ones that weren't exactly on target resulted in yet another strike. It was incredible! A crowd gathered behind our lanes, watching and cheering me on, but I could barely hear them for the pounding of my heart. I could barely breathe.<br />
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And I blew it. Got a split in the tenth frame and ended up with a 261. But man oh man, it sure felt good while it lasted. It felt good when I was writing regularly every day, too, but if I were to compare what's happening now to what happened in that once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to roll a perfect game, I haven't just rolled a split in the tenth frame. I didn't roll a ball at all. I simply shoved it back into my bag and retreated to the lounge to sing some karaoke.<br />
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9Wfb66qHvo_ET4gVywB0DHl7yiHO-FuQUhlW8ImKUbvnK57unuz7pqgwIk0l6mfHmhiszgV_F2JpGTrhmxoCheJyMUsedVg2Xhgn7GwCeTn2bEwpi_WY8qbn2KVu1VlyFn4zGOHLIkCk/s1600/maze+zone+de+unsplash.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="700" data-original-width="1050" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9Wfb66qHvo_ET4gVywB0DHl7yiHO-FuQUhlW8ImKUbvnK57unuz7pqgwIk0l6mfHmhiszgV_F2JpGTrhmxoCheJyMUsedVg2Xhgn7GwCeTn2bEwpi_WY8qbn2KVu1VlyFn4zGOHLIkCk/s400/maze+zone+de+unsplash.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">[image: unsplash]</td></tr>
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<br />
Alas, my bowling days are over, but it's probably just as well. Judging by how lost I feel these days, I'd probably roll the ball in the wrong direction.<br />
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It's the same with writing. I've been in the zone there before, too, but I'm having a hard time finding my way back. Then again, I'm not looking very hard, either.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglBQPsXI-X_GYSqnpSy1LmuFOBujF6SOzdWoY_NbaI4W8TdU82HjM-gy59wt2jP4GM9AuHn0w6s1eEYFFpeHGpU4W_ApkOSahCVHV9rqdZ3DVdI-UnmZUDCB8GG3HxNLF8kifIisHnm8c/s1600/ritual+zone+de+unsplash.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="700" data-original-width="1050" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglBQPsXI-X_GYSqnpSy1LmuFOBujF6SOzdWoY_NbaI4W8TdU82HjM-gy59wt2jP4GM9AuHn0w6s1eEYFFpeHGpU4W_ApkOSahCVHV9rqdZ3DVdI-UnmZUDCB8GG3HxNLF8kifIisHnm8c/s400/ritual+zone+de+unsplash.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">[image: unsplash]</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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Sure, I used to have some writing rituals. I learned to write first thing in the morning... before I even allowed myself to read the newspaper. And I'd stop writing for the day right in the middle of a scene, which made it easier to get back to it the next day.<br />
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Now, it's like my inner self is rebelling. Reading the newspaper comes first. Writing generally loses out, because there's always something else that requires my attention.<br />
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Clearly, I need some new rituals if I ever want to finish my book(s). (Or maybe I just need to get back to the old rituals.)<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbC31zGZDFgGtF4BPuU2gru6zzJFGftfl7LGl8ZDtQMxxyRE2-bG0N2HnB1Xy4FrShupCf4MEqn2y2qCDDurl2PVbW6yFRB5Nsk0rUo1JPQBQoO5ZgUGrBrC7hlextkUVwUZu91wOT3RQ/s1600/zone+cartoon+rituals.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="380" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbC31zGZDFgGtF4BPuU2gru6zzJFGftfl7LGl8ZDtQMxxyRE2-bG0N2HnB1Xy4FrShupCf4MEqn2y2qCDDurl2PVbW6yFRB5Nsk0rUo1JPQBQoO5ZgUGrBrC7hlextkUVwUZu91wOT3RQ/s400/zone+cartoon+rituals.gif" width="316" /></a></div>
<br />
But rituals don't always work.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdQ3LGgDcK7grC-tYXX48emCe-kJDZDGttOG25OSAyVt9H7ycBkLCXmytP8EzkYNKz92uw3huPx4qxdbwhU0_1i3z3FxK6YGLsoRzT3w6GpXi6_xS4G0r-BRHPKFjq8HMgk_5iS-xwHPc/s1600/twilight+zone+de+wikimedia.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="675" data-original-width="800" height="337" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdQ3LGgDcK7grC-tYXX48emCe-kJDZDGttOG25OSAyVt9H7ycBkLCXmytP8EzkYNKz92uw3huPx4qxdbwhU0_1i3z3FxK6YGLsoRzT3w6GpXi6_xS4G0r-BRHPKFjq8HMgk_5iS-xwHPc/s400/twilight+zone+de+wikimedia.png" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">[image: wikimedia]</td></tr>
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Not that I'm not in the zone... of course I am! For better or worse, we're all in <b>some </b>kinda zone. The problem is, it feels like I've ventured into the twilight zone.<br />
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Life has been rather surreal for the past year. Between my husband's whack-a-mole battles with cancer and now, this pandemic, somehow, whether or not I write doesn't seem to matter very much in the scheme of things, ya know?<br />
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What matters most is spending time with my husband. What matters is laughing and making the most of each day. In due time, perhaps writing will regain its level of importance in my life that it once enjoyed. But ya know what? If it doesn't, I'm okay with that. Life is good. And besides, writing isn't the only game in town. (Think I'm too old for football...?)<br />
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How about you? How do you get... and keep... yourself in the zone? Go on... I'm all ears...<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpI1q3Nwmxie6W_mO1r9s2tlHX_tLu2sIGFlpDuVeY-C8y95EaNjsUnVyPX1bzkJSbRBOz_3Rnpp_YKKzSfgnr723xa56fxUVIIMWyVxXV4dq0TeMWL7NgNhBxBXqCzX4ycF-mPjOBN_s/s1600/all+ears.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="530" data-original-width="425" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpI1q3Nwmxie6W_mO1r9s2tlHX_tLu2sIGFlpDuVeY-C8y95EaNjsUnVyPX1bzkJSbRBOz_3Rnpp_YKKzSfgnr723xa56fxUVIIMWyVxXV4dq0TeMWL7NgNhBxBXqCzX4ycF-mPjOBN_s/s400/all+ears.jpg" width="318" /></a></div>
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Until next time, take care of yourselves. And each other.Susan Flett Swiderskihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09425315552148200073noreply@blogger.com65tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6034142332858737641.post-34503721863595167722020-05-01T00:34:00.000-04:002020-05-01T00:34:08.832-04:00May Day Mayday<b>Thought for the day: </b><i>The beautiful spring came, and when nature resumes her loveliness, the human soul is apt to revive also. </i>[Harriet Ann Jacobs]<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrbJarC7ExCUgHW02p5bGRr8XcX2-Yl_BLD0WzzcL5F73osMYlJwGtcz-AwFh2KPi090YFpJ6jb6HL-gl28WYmvOx04nsSIWtnkTORsQ2P2NzgdS1K4MmD28Jvoc4EDF8yHBT29oxGsuo/s1600/imaginary+worlds+115.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="296" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrbJarC7ExCUgHW02p5bGRr8XcX2-Yl_BLD0WzzcL5F73osMYlJwGtcz-AwFh2KPi090YFpJ6jb6HL-gl28WYmvOx04nsSIWtnkTORsQ2P2NzgdS1K4MmD28Jvoc4EDF8yHBT29oxGsuo/s400/imaginary+worlds+115.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
Aaaaaah... (CHOO!)... spring! Is there anything more beautiful and uplifting than seeing and smelling the earth burst forth in brilliant colors and heady aromas every year?<br />
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<i>The earth laughs in flowers. </i>[Ralph Waldo Emerson]<br />
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Today is May Day, the day that's been set aside for centuries to celebrate the glories of springtime. It's also International Workers' Day, set aside to honor the working class<i>, </i>but seeing's as how so many workers in the world aren't actually working right now, we're gonna ignore that in favor of singing the praises of springtime, okay?<br />
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9k0zcBzWz4wLsK52EGODF3VRvjMOUxuP3UmpWz2Ew2-yJRfM2jA0v2u23zAjcvsuiS4l7dgE_cHe-17P7ZSATZL159GwYxrYv2w7WvDoWJgfqj7_l5Xn7CdM3B6Y9DqeG4gU-bqPYZo0/s1600/maypole+de+wiki.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="831" data-original-width="1280" height="256" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9k0zcBzWz4wLsK52EGODF3VRvjMOUxuP3UmpWz2Ew2-yJRfM2jA0v2u23zAjcvsuiS4l7dgE_cHe-17P7ZSATZL159GwYxrYv2w7WvDoWJgfqj7_l5Xn7CdM3B6Y9DqeG4gU-bqPYZo0/s400/maypole+de+wiki.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">[image: wikipedia, source: Geoff Charles]</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Did you ever dance around a maypole as a child? I did. Once, when I was in fifth or sixth grade. Not to step on anyone's toes... although it's entirely possible... nay, probable... that I did back then... but I thought it was kinda dumb.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGA0EsR1Xrv7eR2vd-IVPhSzZ4Fnfcqk4CAFlWIydz2TNYfGYU6OSodM05zVX95-zuuLkddd9neoes2idXdaojFX__PuRxFMICrnxA5Jp56EYxudCYfAUZDZEoauYSuFrrFead1efiF10/s1600/may+day+cartoon.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="434" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGA0EsR1Xrv7eR2vd-IVPhSzZ4Fnfcqk4CAFlWIydz2TNYfGYU6OSodM05zVX95-zuuLkddd9neoes2idXdaojFX__PuRxFMICrnxA5Jp56EYxudCYfAUZDZEoauYSuFrrFead1efiF10/s400/may+day+cartoon.jpg" width="343" /></a></div>
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But I'm definitely in favor of celebrating the wonders of springtime.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwIKMhkgcvyp2CHYp4Z5SLk_VRgdO37jKVAx0-aEoGLvJGVgjSUt7KroRK1AC1Ycu0QMwqYxvM-FM2k4E7fc6-oKfLfi_c496z_e2_aMSiXA_it5o-b7TU2dcXfRf2K538gLQS1Sd6Ln8/s1600/smily+faced+balloon.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="225" data-original-width="300" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwIKMhkgcvyp2CHYp4Z5SLk_VRgdO37jKVAx0-aEoGLvJGVgjSUt7KroRK1AC1Ycu0QMwqYxvM-FM2k4E7fc6-oKfLfi_c496z_e2_aMSiXA_it5o-b7TU2dcXfRf2K538gLQS1Sd6Ln8/s400/smily+faced+balloon.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">[image: morguefile]</td></tr>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdfBGxArcoaMShyphenhyphenMHH6DNNN1n_wTiPvCt0kl8DllglNLoQ-kE85fyqn_NHtbhiFuifadG769Z09qi4Mtuefu583phiyOoTCEY27VMbuUatKugLl9t1sKp1P1SU_5v6YN0qw03uvkuuxxU/s1600/coronavirus+de+unsplash.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="669" data-original-width="1189" height="221" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdfBGxArcoaMShyphenhyphenMHH6DNNN1n_wTiPvCt0kl8DllglNLoQ-kE85fyqn_NHtbhiFuifadG769Z09qi4Mtuefu583phiyOoTCEY27VMbuUatKugLl9t1sKp1P1SU_5v6YN0qw03uvkuuxxU/s400/coronavirus+de+unsplash.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">[image courtesy of unsplash]</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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Only THIS year is... different.<br />
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THIS year we have an ominous not-so-lovely <i>flower</i> to contend with. COVID-19.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJy-tlnJV2BgxO2ObH9B765zKvULpHQ68pU_Fk7H0ChEbbE5i0iHGGeyONZ9Fsgjt6pfUwTF4XHh0q9GI91zt1y4eqU6Pdxx5jvXBFvWiToKbr-2TR4Lx800vakgr0Pmxrt-BPEJ91aXQ/s1600/mayday+cartoon.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="204" data-original-width="247" height="331" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJy-tlnJV2BgxO2ObH9B765zKvULpHQ68pU_Fk7H0ChEbbE5i0iHGGeyONZ9Fsgjt6pfUwTF4XHh0q9GI91zt1y4eqU6Pdxx5jvXBFvWiToKbr-2TR4Lx800vakgr0Pmxrt-BPEJ91aXQ/s400/mayday+cartoon.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<br />
And to many people worldwide, the havoc caused by the pandemic makes today feel more like MAYDAY! than May Day... like our lives are out of control and that devious <i>brat </i>COVID has taken the helm.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">[image courtesy of unsplash]</td></tr>
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<i> </i>It's surreal. And just a tad scary.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">[image courtesy of unsplash]</td></tr>
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Since the entire world is being affected by this pandemic, perhaps a universal distress call like MAYDAY! is appropriate... but I think not.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">[image courtesy of seniorark]</td></tr>
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I believe hope <i>springs</i> eternal, and as terrible as things may seem today, this, too, shall pass, and we'll return to some semblance to normalcy.<br />
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We will get past it.<br />
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The world will survive.<br />
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And the world will rebuild, God willing, more caring, more appreciative, and much wiser than before.<br />
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<i>Every sunset gives us one less day to live, but every sunrise gives us one day more to hope.</i> [unknown]<br />
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So, let's hope for the best, shall we? And let's celebrate spring... or whatever season it may be in your corner of the world. Let's celebrate life.<br />
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Until next time, take care of yourselves. And each other.<br />
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<br />Susan Flett Swiderskihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09425315552148200073noreply@blogger.com50tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6034142332858737641.post-19721097699521397992020-04-10T00:34:00.000-04:002020-04-10T07:30:49.185-04:00Interview with a Monster<b>Thought for the day: </b><i>Stowy Jenkins is a deliciously vile character, but thank goodness, we the readers have the good fortune of encountering him from a safe distance. </i>[me]<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">[image courtesy of morguefile]</td></tr>
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A few years ago, as a participant in Yolanda Renee's blog tour to promote her book <i>The Snowman, </i>I had the dubious honor of using my handy-dandy Flight of Fancy gizmo to go to the Spring Creek Correctional Center in Seward, Alaska, to interview the creepy-as-hell serial killer Stowie Jenkins, AKA the Snowman. (You can find that earlier interview <a href="https://susan-swiderski.blogspot.com/2017/05/sweating-in-alaskan-cooler.html">HERE</a>.)<br />
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Well, this time, I didn't sign up to be an official part of her current tour to promote her newest book <i>Murder, Just Because</i>, but it's my pleasure to help her unofficially, because I love HER and I love her book. But ain't no way I'm going back to interview that psycho. Nuh-uh. It was scary enough interviewing that psychopath when he was behind bars, but now, after ten years in the joint, he's escaped, and he's even scarier than before.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">[image courtesy of unsplash]</td></tr>
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So I did what any reasonable writer would do.<br />
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I returned to the handy-dandy Gizmo store and purchased a special attachment for my Flight of Fancy gizmo. It allows me to be... invisible. Ta DA! Pretty smart for an old broad, huh?<br />
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Besides, there was no need for me to do an interview this time, anyway, because professional journalist Denise Cochran already did that in the book. In her family's secluded cabin in the middle of nowhere, Alaska. (Yeah, she's a lot braver than I am.)<br />
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But, ya see, the actual give-and-take of the interview isn't included in the book, so I'm gonna take another Flight of Fancy trip just for you guys, so I can observe the interview unseen and tell you all about it. (You're welcome.)<br />
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And awaaaaaay we go...<br />
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<i>Wow! This is some cabin! Cozy and homey, with a nice fire burning in the fireplace. But where the heck is Denise? The creep's over there sitting in a classy-looking wing-backed chair, as if he owned the place... and a number of cameras are pointed in his direction... but no Denise. So what gives? She must be one smart cookie. Obviously smarter than I am...</i><br />
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DENISE'S VOICE: Thank you so much for allowing me to interview you today, Mr. Jenkins, but I'm curious. Would you mind telling our audience why you agreed to it?<br />
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ME: (rolling my eyes) <i>Oh puhleeeze. The creep's a publicity slut. Duh.</i><br />
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<span style="text-align: center; text-indent: 0in;">STOWY:</span><span style="text-align: center; text-indent: 0in;"> </span><span style="text-align: center; text-indent: 0in;"> (grinning into one of the cameras) You can call me Stowy... or Stone. Mr. Jenkins was my old man's name. (He sweeps the room with ice cold blue eyes, pausing for a beat too long as he looks in my direction. The hairs on the back of my neck stand at attention and a chill dances up my spine.</span><span style="text-align: center; text-indent: 0in;"> <i>He can't see me, he can't see me, he can't see me... can he? </i>Then he looks back into the camera, allowing me to breathe again.) </span><span style="text-align: center; text-indent: 0in;">Thank you for hosting me, Ms.</span><span style="text-align: center; text-indent: 0in;"> </span><span style="text-align: center; text-indent: 0in;">Cochran, but I must say, as much as I appreciate being here in your lovely cabin, I'm more than a little disappointed you aren't actually here with me. I’ve always admired your beauty and your
honesty. It would've been so nice to see you... (He grins again.) in the... flesh. </span><br />
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<span style="text-align: center;">DENISE'S VOICE: Yeah, well, I appreciate that, but a girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do. No point in taking any chances. So why did you agree to come? </span><br />
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<span style="text-align: center;">STOWY: (shrugging) I suppose I can't blame you for not wanting to entertain the Snowman face-to-face, but like I said, I admire you, so I would never hurt you. (He pauses for a moment before continuing. Then he gazes into a camera with a pseudo sincere <i>aw shucks</i> look on his face.) I agreed to talk to you so I could assure your devoted listeners that I mean them no harm. My</span><span style="text-indent: 0in;"> only quarrel is with those people who did</span><span style="text-indent: 0in;"> </span><span style="text-indent: 0in;">me wrong.</span><br />
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DENISE'S VOICE: Is that so? And how exactly have any of those people wronged you, Stowy?<br />
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STOWY: (eyes widening and voice rising) Are you kidding? They sent me to prison! For ten years of unmitigated hell. No man should have to endure that kind of treatment, especially me!</div>
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DENISE'S VOICE: Wait a second. Let me get this straight. Isn't it an established fact that you killed those women?</div>
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STOWY: Well, technically, yes, but my mother tortured and molested me for years, and she's the real murderer here, not me. I think of myself as more of an... artist. </div>
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DENISE'S VOICE: I see. Are you saying your mother controlled you... that she<b> made</b> you kill? </div>
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STOWY: (with a humorless snort) Not at all. The stupid cow wasn't even aware of my hobby, but when I was nine years old, I saw her kill my father. She fed him her special chicken soup, and then she just stood there watching while he convulsed and died. Then she winked at me, tucked him into bed as if he were merely sleeping, and then waited an hour before calling the paramedics.<br />
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DENISE'S VOICE: I see...</div>
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STOWY: No, you DON'T see! (He leans toward the camera, his eyes wide and unblinking.) I'm telling you the old bat was a homicidal maniac! She killed Winnie's mother the same way. (He sits back in his chair and folds his arms across his chest.) She's the one who should have been in prison. Not me. <span style="text-indent: 0in;"> </span><br />
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DENISE'S VOICE:<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> This is all news to me. </span>Did any of this information come out at your
trial?<o:p></o:p><br />
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STOWY:<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> HA! What</span> trial? There was no trial. That was a kangaroo court. A travesty of justice! They put me away for life, and then added ten more life <span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>sentences on top of that. I was railroaded.<o:p></o:p><br />
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DENISE'S VOICE:<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>But your mother is dead now, right?<br />
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STOWY:<span style="mso-tab-count: 2;"> (Looking straight at me, he grins broadly, his eyes and white teeth sparkling in the bright lights.) </span>Yesssss, she is.<o:p></o:p><br />
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ME: (With a sudden overpowering urge to run out the door and into the Alaskan wilderness... or at least, back home to do the laundry.) <i>Holy crap.</i><span style="text-indent: 0in;"> <i>Can he see me? </i>I hiccup and he furrows his brow in my direction. Shaking, I fumble in my pocket for the gizmo control. <i>Where in the...</i></span><br />
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STOWY:<span style="mso-tab-count: 2;"> And I must say, it was one of my most enjoyable kills</span>. <o:p></o:p><br />
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ME: <i>I'm outta here!!! </i>(I just remembered... my fella's in desperate need of clean socks...)<i> Sorry, but if you want to know how the rest of the interview went, you'll have to read the book and figure it out for yourselves.</i><br />
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<b><u><span style="background-color: #b6d7a8; border: 1pt none; color: blue; font-size: 24pt; padding: 0cm;">Murder, Just Because<o:p></o:p></span></u></b></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhF_XDlEuBgLExif2BNxcDyrtdi-4xfPos9Q2cKZo7E3iF0EC2Hvxrxz26CU7lg4T4nQJ1O8WfeLNF55ANfCU4DENy1lmSPIPM65Sjn7oYRjn8fhm8LjyMubZ08BhyVnyRq99DBahzEgLE/s1600/MJB+New+Cover+Thumbnail.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; color: #a6798f; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-decoration-line: none;"><span style="background-color: #b6d7a8;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhF_XDlEuBgLExif2BNxcDyrtdi-4xfPos9Q2cKZo7E3iF0EC2Hvxrxz26CU7lg4T4nQJ1O8WfeLNF55ANfCU4DENy1lmSPIPM65Sjn7oYRjn8fhm8LjyMubZ08BhyVnyRq99DBahzEgLE/s320/MJB+New+Cover+Thumbnail.jpg" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; border: 1px solid rgb(255, 255, 255); box-shadow: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.1) 1px 1px 5px; padding: 5px; position: relative;" width="201" /></span></a><b><span lang="EN-US" style="background-color: #b6d7a8; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 22.8267px;">Short Blurb:<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="background-color: #b6d7a8; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 19.9733px;">The Snowman is back, and as his bloody rampage continues, terrified Alaskans increasingly doubt Quaid’s abilities. In a deadly game of cat-and-mouse, Jenkins starts picking off the people in Quaid’s life… and drawing closer to the most important person in Quaid’s life...his wife. The Snowman’s cruelty knows no bounds, but the object of his hate knows no fear!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="background-color: #b6d7a8; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 17.12px;"><b>The Snowman’s cruelty knows no bounds, but the object of his hate knows no fear.</b><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: #b6d7a8;"><b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 16pt; line-height: 22.8267px;"><br /></span></b><b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 16pt; line-height: 22.8267px;">Bio:<o:p></o:p></span></b></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4CLen8eLqwV79wxsRcJOZ5zF_5lRXove7_TpWQ59bItGtIHpCbPlJ9MUQKK8eVK5vijNTod2Do4d3U4cb6mEc52qUPzDPd574McIofFuXxjFUVmXZRqUcUMgmI-wnnjW5cWcICEhndDk/s1600/Author+Photo+Official+3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; color: #a6798f; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-decoration-line: none;"><span style="background-color: #b6d7a8;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4CLen8eLqwV79wxsRcJOZ5zF_5lRXove7_TpWQ59bItGtIHpCbPlJ9MUQKK8eVK5vijNTod2Do4d3U4cb6mEc52qUPzDPd574McIofFuXxjFUVmXZRqUcUMgmI-wnnjW5cWcICEhndDk/s320/Author+Photo+Official+3.jpg" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; border: 1px solid rgb(255, 255, 255); box-shadow: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.1) 1px 1px 5px; padding: 5px; position: relative;" width="228" /></span></a><b><span lang="EN-US" style="background-color: #b6d7a8; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 22.8267px;"><br /></span></b></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="background-color: #b6d7a8; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 17.12px;">Looking for a new adventure, Renee recently moved to Myrtle Beach, South Carolina. A storyteller from a very early age, an avid reader, and with an education and background in business and accounting, becoming a writer only made sense. And writing mysteries pure logic.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: #b6d7a8;"><b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 18pt; line-height: 48px;"><br /></span></b><b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 18pt; line-height: 48px;"><br /></span></b><b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 18pt; line-height: 48px;"><br /></span></b><b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 18pt; line-height: 48px;"><br /></span></b><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: 24px;"><b><br /></b></span></span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: 24px;"><b>More titles from Yolanda:</b></span></span></span><br />
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<b style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="background-color: #b6d7a8; font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 18pt; line-height: 48px;">MURDER, JUST BECAUSE</span></b></div>
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<b><span lang="EN-US" style="background-color: #b6d7a8; font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 18pt; line-height: 48px;">LINKS<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<span style="background-color: #b6d7a8;"><span lang="EN-US"><a href="about:blank" style="color: #a6798f; text-decoration-line: none;"><b><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 42.6667px;">Buy Link Amazon:</span></b></a></span><b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 42.6667px;"><o:p></o:p></span></b></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: #b6d7a8;"><span lang="EN-US"><a href="about:blank" style="color: #a6798f; text-decoration-line: none;"><b><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; line-height: 30.8px;">https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B081XHNX69/ref=dbs_a_def_rwt_bibl_vppi_i0</span></b></a></span><b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; line-height: 30.8px;"><o:p></o:p></span></b></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: #b6d7a8;"><span lang="EN-US"><a href="about:blank" style="color: #a6798f; text-decoration-line: none;"><b><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 42.6667px;">Buy Link Smashwords</span></b></a></span><b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 42.6667px;"><o:p></o:p></span></b></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: #b6d7a8;"><b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 37.3333px;"> </span></b><span lang="EN-US"><a href="about:blank" style="color: #a6798f; text-decoration-line: none;"><b><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 37.3333px;">https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/1008496</span></b></a></span><b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 37.3333px;"><o:p></o:p></span></b></span></div>
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<b><span lang="EN-US" style="background-color: #b6d7a8; font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 42.6667px;">Author Links:<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<span style="background-color: #b6d7a8;"><span lang="EN-US"><a href="about:blank" style="color: #a6798f; text-decoration-line: none;"><b><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 37.3333px;"> </span></b><b><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 37.3333px;">Blog</span></b><b><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 37.3333px;">:</span></b></a></span><b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 37.3333px;"> </span></b><span lang="EN-US"><a href="about:blank" style="color: #a6798f; text-decoration-line: none;"><b><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 37.3333px;">Defending the Pen</span></b></a></span><b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 37.3333px;"><o:p></o:p></span></b></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: #b6d7a8;"><b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 37.3333px;"> </span></b><span lang="EN-US"><a href="about:blank" style="color: #a6798f; text-decoration-line: none;"><b><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 37.3333px;">http://yolandarenee.blogspot.com/</span></b></a></span><b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 37.3333px;"><o:p></o:p></span></b></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: #b6d7a8;"><span lang="EN-US"><a href="about:blank" style="color: #a6798f; text-decoration-line: none;"><b><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;">https://www.amazon.com/YolandaRenée/e/B008HPQ5PO/ref=dp_byline_cont_ebooks_1</span></b></a></span><b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;"><o:p></o:p></span></b></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: #b6d7a8;"><b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 32px;"> </span></b><a href="about:blank" style="color: #a6798f; text-decoration-line: none;"><b><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 42.6667px;">Twitter:</span></b></a></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: #b6d7a8;"><span lang="EN-US"><a href="about:blank" style="color: #a6798f; text-decoration-line: none;"><b><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 37.3333px;">https://twitter.com/yolandarenee</span></b></a></span><b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 37.3333px;"><o:p></o:p></span></b></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: #b6d7a8;"><span lang="EN-US"><a href="about:blank" style="color: #a6798f; text-decoration-line: none;"><b><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 37.3333px;">https://www.facebook.com/Murder-Madness-Love-202510393095051/?ref=hl</span></b></a></span><b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 37.3333px;"><o:p></o:p></span></b></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: #b6d7a8;"><b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 37.3333px;"> </span></b><b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 37.3333px;">Email: </span></b><span lang="EN-US"><a href="about:blank" style="color: #a6798f; text-decoration-line: none;"><b><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 37.3333px;">yolandarenee@hotmail.com</span></b></a></span></span></div>
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If you enjoy chilling thrilling books, look no farther. This one will definitely fill the bill. So, for that matter, will all of Ms. Renee's books. While you're hunkered down during this pandemic, you might as well cower under the covers with a good book or two, eh? (But pssstt! It's best to read them during the day...)<br />
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Until next time, take care of yourselves. And each other.<br />
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P.S. I hope y'all are doing well. Turns out, I WILL be taking the rest of this month off, and I WILL be writing. After reading my poor neglected manuscript, I decided it's just might be worth finishing, after all. So I'll see you guys next month. Take care, y'all!<br />
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<br />Susan Flett Swiderskihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09425315552148200073noreply@blogger.com64tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6034142332858737641.post-59302037473293345062020-04-01T00:34:00.000-04:002020-04-02T13:05:04.052-04:00On Seeing Clearly<b>Thought for the day: </b><i>See as much as you can, I guess. Rachel Carson said most of us go through life 'unseeing.' I do that some days... I think it's easier to see when you're a kid. We're not in a hurry to get anywhere and we don't have these long to-do lists you guys have. </i>[Jim Lynch- <i>The Highest Tide</i>]<br />
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Yep. It's that time again. Yet another month has slipped through our fingers, and as you can <i>clearly see</i> by that nifty badge on the left, it's once again time for our monthly IWSG posts. As always, thanks to our fearless leader, Alex Cavanaugh, for founding this fine group, and thanks to all the other nurturing guys and gals who've helped turn it into the thriving community it is today. I'm telling ya, this group offers better support and lift than the world's most expensive bra. (No pesky underwires, either!) To join this super supportive group of writers and to see links to other participating blogs, please go <a href="http://www.insecurewriterssupportgroup.com/p/iwsg-sign-up.html">HERE</a><br />
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It's April first, (No fooling!) and for the past, I dunno, eight years or so, I've taken the month of April off from blogging to concentrate on writing and editing, but here we are at April's front door, and I still haven't decided whether to take a break or not. So tell ya what... if I show up, as usual, I reckon I decided to hang around. If I don't? Don't worry. I'm just fine, and heck, who knows? I might even be writing. (What a concept!)<br />
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The pandemic that's been gathering momentum this past month is on everybody's mind these days, so it only makes sense that this month's question is about COVID-19:<br />
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<span style="color: red;"><b>The IWSG's focus is on our writers. Each month, from all over the globe, we are a united group sharing our insecurities, our troubles, and our pain. So, in this time when our world is in crisis with the COVID-19 pandemic, our optional question this month is: how are things in your world?</b></span><br />
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Thanks for asking. Because of the medical stuff that's been going on in our household for quite some time, <i>staying at home </i>( except for obligatory trips for chemo and radiation) is a verrrrry easy order for us to follow. It helps that we thoroughly enjoy each other's company, but we also like to eat. And I like to cook. Which means, even though I keep a well-stocked pantry, it was clear that a trip to the grocery store was in order. Fortunately, our local store instituted an old farts hour last week.(Um, NO, they don't actually call it that...) On Tuesdays and Wednesdays, we oldie but goodie folks can now shop at 7AM before the younger folks gain entry. Cool, huh? So I planned to go last Wednesday.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMlXB7UdbS-ygAKQndaHMM6Mswl1zdpo6rsPssiEUS7OQZzKmhpod4F4-pseYJLJuAZZvV0NZVOZb_9t_rLzswHQ88D0mzVr_bWT7mFiUC9FtnjC3XwWl4t7bSYWK2sE1mSkFkHkGk1I0/s1600/dark+night+de+morguefile.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="817" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMlXB7UdbS-ygAKQndaHMM6Mswl1zdpo6rsPssiEUS7OQZzKmhpod4F4-pseYJLJuAZZvV0NZVOZb_9t_rLzswHQ88D0mzVr_bWT7mFiUC9FtnjC3XwWl4t7bSYWK2sE1mSkFkHkGk1I0/s400/dark+night+de+morguefile.jpg" width="340" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">[image courtesy of morguefile]</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I must confess, though, I was a tad uneasy about the whole thing. See, my night vision isn't so hot, and at 7AM, it's still plenty dark here. In the past, I've had so much trouble seeing in the dark, I'm ashamed to say Smarticus had to drive us home from the hospital after one of his surgeries. We were supposed to leave the hospital in the early afternoon, but they kept him in recovery much longer than expected, and by the time he was discharged, it was way past midnight... and very dark. I tried to drive us home, but it simply wasn't safe, so I had to pull over and let him get behind the wheel. Since that awful experience, I had some eye surgery that's definitely helped, but I hadn't had an occasion to test my ability to drive in the dark since then... until last week. In the house, I make sure to flip light switches on so I can see my way safely through the house at night... but how was I going to manage outside???<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimJoN0uW6m7vx0Q23u21nbAPwKozzi4kxYUxzHMTryfo5lHlSU_aNMBJI-WLCoE8voX0qhKUOoGzdk7_TcI197107jo5EfpSjT40JKn4nVwnfvW7lCqVFybErJYvKvenl_J10BRClJI60/s1600/old+lady+squinting+2.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="248" data-original-width="300" height="330" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimJoN0uW6m7vx0Q23u21nbAPwKozzi4kxYUxzHMTryfo5lHlSU_aNMBJI-WLCoE8voX0qhKUOoGzdk7_TcI197107jo5EfpSjT40JKn4nVwnfvW7lCqVFybErJYvKvenl_J10BRClJI60/s400/old+lady+squinting+2.png" width="400" /></a></div>
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I went outside. So far, so good. I go out early every morning to get the paper, so that was no problem.<br />
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It was too dark to see the buttons on my fob, so I fumbled the key into the door lock and got the door open. Eventually.<br />
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Buckled in and started the car. No problem.<br />
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Then... BIG problem. I couldn't SEE!!! Not a thing! I mean NOTHING!!!<br />
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I turned on the high beams.<br />
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Nope. Still couldn't see. I wasn't exactly in panic mode at that point, but I was a teensy bit upset. I mean, I needed to go to the grocery store, but Smarticus needs his sleep. I did NOT want to wake him up just to take me to the store...<br />
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Then I started laughing.<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhabiZASrJ-cHSvZzZ88uAMBYtG7V0j39ErKljNtnEMZABDGjQspEDfcleL_aLJ9DWP_Fx3g0SmNutcoYThV3C45Hv2LGL8Kc-ZY2GsuE3gC1EqRpe1wmnkTmGhjAFgRgJR7YS9f4hSBeQ/s1600/sharing+a+laugh+w+a+pal.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="352" data-original-width="424" height="331" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhabiZASrJ-cHSvZzZ88uAMBYtG7V0j39ErKljNtnEMZABDGjQspEDfcleL_aLJ9DWP_Fx3g0SmNutcoYThV3C45Hv2LGL8Kc-ZY2GsuE3gC1EqRpe1wmnkTmGhjAFgRgJR7YS9f4hSBeQ/s400/sharing+a+laugh+w+a+pal.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">[image courtesy of morguefile]</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<i>The only thing worse than being blind is having sight but no vision. </i>[Helen Keller]</div>
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<br />
What a DOOFUS! I had it all ass-backwards!<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoLwyZV-NpHMSqfZzDzx1QuupMzRriIRnX6qUX6EEZ7PHHaxhqrqb__H_UlyvsrkCDsEJi9cAAW4pfBgoTbCspcaBpBkuXK9EabibRooMSWOn0iMUhKsb35f6azpbyXhBGfEgyAo63-8I/s1600/gal+backwards+on+horse.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="401" data-original-width="500" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoLwyZV-NpHMSqfZzDzx1QuupMzRriIRnX6qUX6EEZ7PHHaxhqrqb__H_UlyvsrkCDsEJi9cAAW4pfBgoTbCspcaBpBkuXK9EabibRooMSWOn0iMUhKsb35f6azpbyXhBGfEgyAo63-8I/s400/gal+backwards+on+horse.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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When I stopped laughing, I removed the sun screen from the windshield.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjU42-zbzfyMPVOT8FD6zwrsmaxYQOybGlF4zbXttMBhLkvYZre-F4lkSeCCi9S4cTdLh34WmQyq_nMfQ1CcfzhX0Ela4tn9ZTV6ASP5laH-4PVhx2BPJsxZLIYcenjtbZ51tUcGWz1CRY/s1600/old+people+funny.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="323" data-original-width="400" height="322" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjU42-zbzfyMPVOT8FD6zwrsmaxYQOybGlF4zbXttMBhLkvYZre-F4lkSeCCi9S4cTdLh34WmQyq_nMfQ1CcfzhX0Ela4tn9ZTV6ASP5laH-4PVhx2BPJsxZLIYcenjtbZ51tUcGWz1CRY/s400/old+people+funny.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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I could see just FINE. I still can't believe I did that. How could I be so dumb? (Don't answer that!)<br />
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The trip to the store was uneventful. Actually, it was kinda nice sharing the space with the handful of other seniors who were there, even though a lot of the shelves were woefully bare. (Would you believe even the frozen Brussel sprouts were completely sold out?!)<br />
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<i>After all, the true seeing is within. </i>[George Eliot]<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHM8jD23pTSY5bHwsqf7H5sUbMPiJndY7MUzimsHDZC3jDV-PCZwQQZFCHRwXJgKL5zQOU_mPYhUa6TrcarFCd3XJAulsqbdkxXSQ8BKj2yb6Pv9lxZjWJ_A_rhsctPnwO9RocQCq8bPM/s1600/OK+sign+over+moon+de+unsplash.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1600" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHM8jD23pTSY5bHwsqf7H5sUbMPiJndY7MUzimsHDZC3jDV-PCZwQQZFCHRwXJgKL5zQOU_mPYhUa6TrcarFCd3XJAulsqbdkxXSQ8BKj2yb6Pv9lxZjWJ_A_rhsctPnwO9RocQCq8bPM/s400/OK+sign+over+moon+de+unsplash.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">[image courtesy of unsplash]</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
It's a relief to know I can see well enough to drive safely in the dark now, but I need to do some serious <i>inner</i> <i>seeing </i>to figure out if I'm ever gonna finish the trilogy I started a while back. I <i>think </i>what I have so far for Book Two is really good, but it's been more than a year since I've even looked at the unfinished manuscript. Now that most of Smarticus' treatments are (hopefully) behind us, it's time to decide: to write... or not to write. If you don't hear from me for the rest of the month, that <i>might </i>mean I'm writing again. Or it might not. Who knows? I might be alphabetizing everything in my china cabinet and washing my spices. Or something like that. Either way, know that I'm okay. And I'm no longer afraid of driving in the dark.<br />
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How about YOU...? <br />
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<iframe allowfullscreen="" class="YOUTUBE-iframe-video" data-thumbnail-src="https://i.ytimg.com/vi/lzMKYtQB3YQ/0.jpg" frameborder="0" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/lzMKYtQB3YQ?feature=player_embedded" width="320"></iframe></div>
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Until next time, take care of yourselves. And each other.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjF30sBxNlrSG3n7RAXuiAeIHnsIeOUVvJ0tiznjQuot5mWXTWKdNpj45sFDvmtmoswnszgu8zt_s5acbFhf5QZK2zmB2YXqEenhpo_MFUB08LU9kqcIFHiSLfu2qSPRVammcsmMSha7yA/s1600/look+out+for+ea+other+de+pixabay.webp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="960" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjF30sBxNlrSG3n7RAXuiAeIHnsIeOUVvJ0tiznjQuot5mWXTWKdNpj45sFDvmtmoswnszgu8zt_s5acbFhf5QZK2zmB2YXqEenhpo_MFUB08LU9kqcIFHiSLfu2qSPRVammcsmMSha7yA/s400/look+out+for+ea+other+de+pixabay.webp" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">[image courtesy of unsplash]</td></tr>
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<br />Susan Flett Swiderskihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09425315552148200073noreply@blogger.com56tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6034142332858737641.post-3134970516568789712020-03-27T00:34:00.000-04:002020-03-27T00:34:08.611-04:00Happy Trails to You<b>Thought for the day: </b><i>Please don't squeeze the... HEY! Where's the Charmin???</i><br />
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsLOkEJcCGtDQ7_kQCSQnjHKG5-dNtnAe2RkkBvtnjmxwcoCmgl6DKAopd4SeW7Ln6gdYDKFjoEaEZR0KlVBpC7poBm8WHTd0tbFqxOyePKw3JQTI-GszsuF3ZhNNXeVmfKXcvPiFqXxU/s1600/t.p.+empty+shelves.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1123" data-original-width="1600" height="280" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsLOkEJcCGtDQ7_kQCSQnjHKG5-dNtnAe2RkkBvtnjmxwcoCmgl6DKAopd4SeW7Ln6gdYDKFjoEaEZR0KlVBpC7poBm8WHTd0tbFqxOyePKw3JQTI-GszsuF3ZhNNXeVmfKXcvPiFqXxU/s400/t.p.+empty+shelves.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This is a common sight all over the world right now.</td></tr>
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If poor ol' Mr. Whipple from the old Charmin television ads were still alive, wouldn't he be astounded? I mean, his very <i>raison d'etre </i>has disappeared. There's absolutely no reason to warn anyone not to squeeze the Charmin these days, because there's none left in the stores for anyone to squeeze... or buy.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhU4h2dYD8MGqImahhyphenhyphenEygQqaKLzZqRwLLxra6NcV3kyvOlUfE2Q6y33zpm70A21vtQEMsNSOtpuCVyFzoSECOHeMv1MxbODyWh2uiNBnTUcGf8sLTi0TNygcdHblMVvgnJq4JvBlIfV1Y/s1600/t.p.+bear.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="238" data-original-width="271" height="351" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhU4h2dYD8MGqImahhyphenhyphenEygQqaKLzZqRwLLxra6NcV3kyvOlUfE2Q6y33zpm70A21vtQEMsNSOtpuCVyFzoSECOHeMv1MxbODyWh2uiNBnTUcGf8sLTi0TNygcdHblMVvgnJq4JvBlIfV1Y/s400/t.p.+bear.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
Maybe we should blame the mysterious disappearing t.p. on those darned bears... (Or should I say <i>bares</i>?)<br />
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Believe me, I'm not making light of COVID-19. Like many of you, my hubby and I are both in the <i>high risk </i>category. But...( Or should I say <i>butt?</i>) as usual, I think the best way to cope with what's happening is with humor. (Surprise!)<br />
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So how about a silly little poem/song? (You can imagine me picking my guitar and singing, if you will...)<br />
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♪♫♪♫<br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>The pandemic news is scary,</i><br />
<i>And no telling what's to come.</i><br />
<i>We're locked down in isolation,</i><br />
<i>And some brains have gotten numb.</i><br />
<i>That's the simplest explanation</i><br />
<i>For this obsession oh-so-dumb.</i><br />
<i>The world's kinda crumbling around them</i><br />
<i>So– they crave paper to wipe their bum??? </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>CHORUS:</i><br />
<i>Buy it, buy it, and then buy some more.</i><br />
<i>Stack it in the closets; pile it on the floor.</i><br />
<i>Stash it in the basement; stuff it in the car.</i><br />
<i>Drink up all your bourbon, and then store it in your bar.</i><br />
<i>Throw out all your furniture; you can use it as your bed.</i><br />
<i>Build towers to the ceiling, and then</i><i> fill a backyard shed.</i><br />
<i>Ignore your grumpy neighbors when they look at you and frown,</i><br />
<i>Because you're gonna have the cleanest butt in town.</i><br />
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<i>Like a swarm of hungry locusts,</i><br />
<i>They ravage every store,</i><br />
<i>Grabbing every roll in sight</i><br />
<i>And then moving on for more.</i><br />
<i>This worldwide troop of buttheads,</i><br />
<i>Perhaps a million strong,</i><br />
<i>Care only about their precious rears</i><br />
<i>As they sing their hoarding song:</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>CHORUS:</i><br />
<i>Buy it, buy it, and then buy some more.</i><br />
<i>Stack it in the closets; pile it on the floor.</i><br />
<i>Stash it in the basement; stuff it in the car.</i><br />
<i>Drink up all your bourbon, and then store it in your bar.</i><br />
<i>Throw out all your furniture; you can u</i><i>se it as your bed.</i><br />
<i>Build towers to the ceiling, and t</i><i>hen fill a backyard shed.</i><br />
<i>Ignore your grumpy neighbors when they look at you and frown,</i><br />
<i>Because you're gonna have the cleanest butt in town.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Fat rolls, thin rolls, packs from four to forty-eight;</i><br />
<i>Soft stuff, rough stuff, and stuff that ain't too great.</i><br />
<i>It really doesn't matter... it's all about the hunt.</i><br />
<i>"Let no roll go unpurchased!" (A stinky selfish stunt.)</i><br />
<i>Until this pandemic's over a</i><i>nd the panic buys grow still, </i><br />
<i>They'll amass more toilet paper t</i><i>o leave their children in a will.</i><br />
<i>This behavior is atrocious; I think it's very wrong,</i><br />
<i>But that happy horde of hoarders still crow their hoarding song:</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>CHORUS:</i><br />
<i>Buy it, buy it, and then buy some more.</i><br />
<i>Stack it in the closets; pile it on the floor.</i><br />
<i>Stash it in the basement; stuff it in the car.</i><br />
<i>Drink up all your bourbon, and then store it in your bar.</i><br />
<i>Throw out all your furniture; you can u</i><i>se it as your bed.</i><br />
<i>Build towers to the ceiling, and t</i><i>hen fill a backyard shed.</i><br />
<i>Ignore your grumpy neighbors when they look at you and frown,</i><br />
<i>Because you're gonna have the cleanest butt in town...</i><br />
<i>♪♫ The cleeeeeanest buuutt in toooooown.... ♫♪</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
Okay, was that silly enough for you? No? Good, because I've got some cartoons for ya, too.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(Dime bags of t.p....)</td></tr>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiRami0KhjtY24NtfPUBEv5WbP85wkj_gpCZFph4ZBBBUI19_R-j1oLRtL7e1LlEfmgxreqOGgc8TuS8bb7H35Swj57dolyD6q3v8XrjJYbgKgO0B7p_2z9_FpO2Tl-Z5kg-YIBbFqsK0/s1600/t.p.+13.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" data-original-height="645" data-original-width="960" height="268" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiRami0KhjtY24NtfPUBEv5WbP85wkj_gpCZFph4ZBBBUI19_R-j1oLRtL7e1LlEfmgxreqOGgc8TuS8bb7H35Swj57dolyD6q3v8XrjJYbgKgO0B7p_2z9_FpO2Tl-Z5kg-YIBbFqsK0/s320/t.p.+13.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">our heroes... always eager to help</td></tr>
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Don't forget! It's more important than EVER to WASH YOUR HANDS!!! But...<br />
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Until next time, hunker down and take care of yourselves. And keep smiling.<br />
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P.S. On Wednesday, I took advantage of the early morning hour of shopping set aside just for us old farts at our local grocery store, and I thought I'd do you guys a solid by sharing a valuable public service announcement with you:<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZ-PtSZXsuiSWXiz2pb4sgELJOqeMeyXGy6uWhejYeQ1Ax2RaGWlmWVy9BQfb3f1kuRx8xi82NzWsp9AUg-Jl9TaHBUwVCJ97OLnFYKOXSiKvyYu6DYNsZoZAZFF4Em9aDnXnVe_WlyHY/s1600/t.p.+12.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="886" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZ-PtSZXsuiSWXiz2pb4sgELJOqeMeyXGy6uWhejYeQ1Ax2RaGWlmWVy9BQfb3f1kuRx8xi82NzWsp9AUg-Jl9TaHBUwVCJ97OLnFYKOXSiKvyYu6DYNsZoZAZFF4Em9aDnXnVe_WlyHY/s400/t.p.+12.jpg" width="368" /></a></div>
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You're welcome.<br />
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<br />Susan Flett Swiderskihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09425315552148200073noreply@blogger.com61tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6034142332858737641.post-6114779331800006142020-03-20T00:34:00.000-04:002020-03-20T00:34:03.358-04:00Going Home<b>Thought for the day: </b><i>You can't go home again, because home has ceased to exist except in the mothballs of memory. </i>[John Steinbeck]<br />
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhS2_y9S698M4UB5t-IPEIzDproq4Fi__VfeO6ALdwJekbMYD92n-n3Fq4BfigjZifcn-eK3p8knmBBMIgOc3VTy16jt5TlWnO7yyZtNOzlMfDnx3YRyKJITvuK5l0JHNpI-Y_79GaQEVg/s1600/home+written+in+sand+washing+away.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="415" data-original-width="620" height="267" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhS2_y9S698M4UB5t-IPEIzDproq4Fi__VfeO6ALdwJekbMYD92n-n3Fq4BfigjZifcn-eK3p8knmBBMIgOc3VTy16jt5TlWnO7yyZtNOzlMfDnx3YRyKJITvuK5l0JHNpI-Y_79GaQEVg/s400/home+written+in+sand+washing+away.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">[image courtesy of morguefile]</td></tr>
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Do you think that's true?<br />
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Is a yearning to go home nothing but useless nostalgia for a place that no longer exists?<br />
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And what IS home, anyway? Is it the place we came from... or is it the place we live now? Or perhaps we're like turtles, and no matter where we go, we take home with us?<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_tFZEFfyTyn-6TAP-lJm5nLaCMy74S30fLxy5MitChKorvDIy2Ne85ad7LKi7t0Cf3OkuZXMemhEs8452UQNyHVAhVAi5dDVdMceF43SZFcceJdmB17UOb2ansqnB_iWC-ZA9OxjUSos/s1600/home+is+where+the+heart+is.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="357" data-original-width="350" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_tFZEFfyTyn-6TAP-lJm5nLaCMy74S30fLxy5MitChKorvDIy2Ne85ad7LKi7t0Cf3OkuZXMemhEs8452UQNyHVAhVAi5dDVdMceF43SZFcceJdmB17UOb2ansqnB_iWC-ZA9OxjUSos/s1600/home+is+where+the+heart+is.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">[courtesy of morguefile}</td></tr>
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I kinda agree with the concept that home is where the heart is... but what if our heart aches for a different place... where we once lived, or maybe someplace we'd like to live?<br />
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Well, then I reckon we have to suck it up, cupcake, and make the best of it.<br />
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But not always.<br />
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIx1ypOfNeJmkXan_wRuYOFXObooJ2eHhYsqOPAL6Hq8sGYyVL-xzp5W3yxp_w58lQOp19C_kAPrVD4oQ1AoaZ5ayAqIeeFCxDGqkFj0CwF6ovwrJFwFr6WMFXs_GizN8rGQm4x1Ihsgc/s1600/yoshi+baby+de+two+oceans+aquarium.webp" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="1279" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIx1ypOfNeJmkXan_wRuYOFXObooJ2eHhYsqOPAL6Hq8sGYyVL-xzp5W3yxp_w58lQOp19C_kAPrVD4oQ1AoaZ5ayAqIeeFCxDGqkFj0CwF6ovwrJFwFr6WMFXs_GizN8rGQm4x1Ihsgc/s400/yoshi+baby+de+two+oceans+aquarium.webp" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">[image courtesy of Two Oceans Aquarium]</td></tr>
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<br />
Meet Yoshi, a loggerhead turtle. Evidently, no one told <b>HER </b>you can't go home again.<br />
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In 1997, some Japanese fishermen found her... injured... off the coast of South Africa, and they took her to the fine folks at Two Oceans Aquarium, where she was treated, rehabilitated and trained to regain her strength. As she grew, she quickly became a crowd favorite at the aquarium.<br />
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Here's a video of her at the aquarium in 2014:<br />
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Um, yeah, she grew quite a bit over the years.<br />
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In December of 2017, she was released back into the wild:<br />
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That gizmo on her back is a satellite tracking device. You know, so the folks at the aquarium... and around the world... could track her travels. And WOW! What a journey that ol' gal's been on.<br />
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixYnhHxx7kpD_taU5adNfc3sXeC-9YdJufY0irXQy0w79kwnVIYjwOGLAyDwCKUOdnl1WqnpglVqiUUnTvaChK3UReot2BkJf1YtAKE2a9zmjjA0xlpUvQZUlQF-O1R2N8iK8HR-Bawck/s1600/yoshi+route+de+aquarium.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="409" data-original-width="680" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixYnhHxx7kpD_taU5adNfc3sXeC-9YdJufY0irXQy0w79kwnVIYjwOGLAyDwCKUOdnl1WqnpglVqiUUnTvaChK3UReot2BkJf1YtAKE2a9zmjjA0xlpUvQZUlQF-O1R2N8iK8HR-Bawck/s400/yoshi+route+de+aquarium.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">[image courtesy of Two Oceans Aquarium]</td></tr>
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The green marker indicates the place where she was released into the wild. From there, she headed up the west coast of Africa near Namibia and Angola. Then she turned around, went back to the area she'd been released and then headed across the Indian Ocean.<br />
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For the past 26 months, she's been swimming, swimming, swimming. Her destination? Evidently, to a loggerhead breeding and nesting area off the coast of Australia. This determined loggerhead turtle has doggedly swam more than 23,000 miles... without a break. Now <b>that's </b>determination. Could it be that the breeding ground is the place she was hatched... her <i>home? </i>Seems like an amazing possibility, doesn't it? After being in captivity for twenty years, <i>something </i>guided her to those breeding grounds.<br />
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihix2XIQ-wXAwo0Td0talIijpJxbhAyYKzxKNyyE-WAwmeYpf31cYrOunZMm74u26MorhvIplc-xuhLUIStj6uBTQI8xHjy4QNa_hxV-BjADHFQQhSiB656YFl9alZh4FkjsK48RvLHms/s1600/home+written+in+sand+better.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="415" data-original-width="620" height="267" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihix2XIQ-wXAwo0Td0talIijpJxbhAyYKzxKNyyE-WAwmeYpf31cYrOunZMm74u26MorhvIplc-xuhLUIStj6uBTQI8xHjy4QNa_hxV-BjADHFQQhSiB656YFl9alZh4FkjsK48RvLHms/s400/home+written+in+sand+better.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">[image courtesy of morguefile]</td></tr>
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I like to think that she has, indeed, returned home.<br />
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At any rate, her journey is the longest, both in distance and longevity, that a tracking device has recorded.<br />
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She's quite the star. And hopefully, she'll be laying eggs of her own next breeding season.<br />
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<i>Home is where one starts from. </i>[T.S. Eliot]<br />
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No matter where you are, no matter where you may go, embrace that place, and I believe you will always feel... at home.<br />
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Until next time, take care of yourselves. And each other.Susan Flett Swiderskihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09425315552148200073noreply@blogger.com50tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6034142332858737641.post-58524964361838426122020-03-13T00:34:00.000-04:002020-03-13T07:39:13.849-04:00Gratitude<b>Thought for the day: </b><i>Gratitude is an attitude. </i>[Dr. Laura]<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifMQezW0jX5tpatOZ2ZNHJpztyGbInZGHk73O8KXvEbnSFaH8TyLeLJUw3E54MP_yH34rjbcfnTH33786T9kZuyh5l9ieW4kNBmwYdWYVChJ21qYfNfNK8w0v_cq74b1K3_tGF2GlBJCg/s1600/cartoon+why+retirees+are+happy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="484" data-original-width="453" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifMQezW0jX5tpatOZ2ZNHJpztyGbInZGHk73O8KXvEbnSFaH8TyLeLJUw3E54MP_yH34rjbcfnTH33786T9kZuyh5l9ieW4kNBmwYdWYVChJ21qYfNfNK8w0v_cq74b1K3_tGF2GlBJCg/s400/cartoon+why+retirees+are+happy.jpg" width="373" /></a></div>
Smarticus and I mostly stay happy, but I don't think it has anything to do with retirement... although being retired does merit a bunch of fist bumps and heartfelt <i>yippees</i>. (I honestly don't understand those people who hate retirement... we think it's GRRRRREAT!)<br />
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I think maybe being grateful has a lot to do with being happy, ya know? You know how some people wake up in the morning like they need a jump-start... with a industrial strength pot of coffee, or maybe a souped-up car battery? You could say their brains are just kinda warming up and operating with the wattage of a sweet little night light first thing in the morning. Me? When I wake up, it's more like every light in the house has been turned on at once... on high ... and a band is playing a jig in the background. Okay, not a jig. This is going to sound over-the-top corny, but that's okay. I'll admit to being a corny nerd. Anyhow, first thing every morning, a song goes through my mind... and the words set my mood for the day: <i>This is the day, this is the day. This is the day that the Lord has made, that the Lord has made. Let us rejoice, let us rejoice, and be glad in it, and be glad in it. </i>Yeah, I know. Not exactly fancy lyrics, but the tune is bouncy and the message is a reminder to be grateful.<br />
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<i>When you arise in the morning, think of what a precious privilege it is to be alive — to breathe, to think, to enjoy, to live — then make that day count. </i>[Steve Maraboli]<br />
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And I have even more reasons than usual to be grateful now. One GREAT BIG AMAZING reason.<br />
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Smarticus' lung cancer is G-O-N-E, GONE!!! Just typing those words makes me cry all over again. But it's a good cry, a really really good cry.<br />
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His oncologists are rather amazed, actually. Amazed that he suffered next to no side effects from the chemo and radiation, and amazed that he conquered the vile beast called lung cancer.<br />
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I'm grateful... but not amazed. Positive thinking made me believe, all along, that this would be the outcome. So that's one huge hurdle cleared, and a couple more to go. Monday, he'll be starting the first of ten rounds of radiation for brain cancer. Just between you and me, I know he's gonna kick its butt, too. But just in case I don't post for a couple of weeks, I want you to know all is well, and...<br />
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WE'RE VERRRRY HAPPY!!!<br />
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<i>Gratitude unlocks the fullness of life. It turns what we have into enough, and more. It turns denial into acceptance, chaos to order, confusion to clarity. It can turn a meal into a feast, a house into a home, a stranger into a friend. </i>[Melody Beattie]<br />
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Although I haven't had the pleasure of meeting most of you in person, I don't consider you strangers. I think of you as friends. My blogging pals. And I thank you all from the bottom of my heart for your kind thoughts, wishes, words, and prayers. Your support has been dynamite.<br />
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A quick aside. If you smoke, or if you stopped smoking in recent years, (Congratulations!) I highly recommend an annual CAT scan to keep an eye on your lungs. By the time a person shows symptoms of lung cancer, or it can be seen on a standard chest X-ray, it may be too advanced. Smarticus' lung cancer was caught very early, and he was completely asymptomatic. The once-a-year lung cancer screening program he was in... saved his life. His docs praised our positive attitudes, but that SCAN... I can't say enough good things about that scan, and about the doctor who got him into that screening program. Okay. End of my PSA.<br />
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Okay, so maybe our cats aren't exactly demonstrative about their gratitude... but that doesn't mean we should wait. Having appreciation and not expressing it is like having a beautifully wrapped gift and not opening it.<br />
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That's the way it seems sometimes, isn't it? Everybody's got a beef about something or another. Why not think of something that makes you... happy? That makes you smile, feel good, and feel downright grateful.<br />
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I wanted to close this post with a music video. At first, I thought about <i>This is the Day</i>, but nah. I'm feeling so full of joy, I decided <i>Ode to Joy </i>would be a better choice<i>.</i> Most of you are quite familiar with Beethoven's original arrangement, but this one is a little different. More... ragtime. Upbeat. Bubbling over with joy... just like me. I hope you like it. I think it's rather amazing. Just like this day. And this life.<br />
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Until next time, take care of yourselves. And each other.<br />
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<i> Don't miss today's sunshine worrying about rain that might be coming tomorrow. </i>Susan Flett Swiderskihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09425315552148200073noreply@blogger.com55tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6034142332858737641.post-52726681336411083432020-03-04T00:34:00.000-05:002020-03-04T00:34:00.139-05:00A Shout-Out for a Super Writer<b>Thought for the day: </b><i>Publishing a book is like being pregnant. By the end, you're just ready to get that baby out! </i>[Carmen de Sousa]<br />
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Yes, indeedy. It's that time again. Yet another month has slipped through our fingers, and it is once again time for our IWSG monthly posts. As always, thanks to our fearless leader, Alex Cavanaugh, for founding this fine group, and thanks to all the other nurturing guys and gals who've helped turn it into the thriving community it is today. I'm telling ya, this group offers better support and lift than the world's most expensive bra. (No pesky underwires, either!) To join this super supportive group of writers and to see links to other participating blogs, please go <a href="http://www.insecurewriterssupportgroup.com/p/iwsg-sign-up.html">HERE</a><br />
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Before I go forward, one step backward. Last month's question was about whether or not we'd ever been inspired to write something by a photograph. I said no. Um... oops. I was wrong.<br />
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THIS stunning photo inspired me to write a blog post. (Can ya blame me???) It was taken by photographer Todd Robinson at a KKK rally in a county just north of us in the 1990s.<br />
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[If you're interested, you can find that old February, 2013 post right <a href="https://susan-swiderski.blogspot.com/2013/02/a-captured-moment.html">HERE</a> ]<br />
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There. Now I feel better. (I didn't mean to lie to ya!)<br />
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Now, moving on to this month's question...<br />
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<span style="color: red;"><b>Other than the obvious holiday traditions, have you ever included any personal or family tradition/customs in your stories?</b></span><br />
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Um, probably. It'd only be natural, dontcha think? But rather than pontificate on this subject, I've got something much<b> better</b> to write about... a new book!<br />
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Nope, not mine. Somebody much better. It's a brand new release from the lovely Elizabeth Seckman. If you aren't familiar with her, she's one of the sweetest ladies around, and what's more, SHE CAN WRITE!!! Reeeeeeally well!<br />
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<i>A person who publishes a book willfully appears before the populace with his pants down. If it is a good book, nothing can hurt him. If it is a bad book, nothing can help him. </i>[Edna St. Vincent Millay]<br />
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I'm sure Elisabeth would feel a teensy bit insecure at the prospect of appearing on my blog with her pants down, but honest... she has nothing to worry about! Her books are ALL good. Really!<br />
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Let's check out her latest, <i>About Us, </i>shall we?<br />
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<b style="background-color: #b6d7a8;">Blurb:</b><br />
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<span style="background-color: #b6d7a8; font-family: "inherit" , serif; font-size: 10.5pt;">Hayden Matthews isn’t looking for love—she’s trying to get as far from it as possible. She's already wasted eight years in a failed marriage and is ready for a good life. A peaceful life. One where she can raise her daughter to be strong, independent, and happy. But to make that happen, she must fix her own life first.<br />
<br /><span style="font-size: 10.5pt;">Cam Vorelli has loved Hayden since he was in grade school. Always in the friend-zone, he stood on the sidelines, his heart breaking, as she said <i>I do </i>to the wrong man. A man he knew didn't deserve her, who could never love her as he did. But what could he say? She was marrying into his family. Cam would never break a holy vow, much less be disloyal to his kin. </span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: #b6d7a8; font-size: 10.5pt;">Until he sees the bruises on Hayden. Abuse is a game-changer.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: #b6d7a8; font-size: 10.5pt;">Leaving a husband like Tag, who has a hot temper, a badge, and a gun, is tricky. When Hayden calls Cam for help, she isn't trying to lure him into any romantic webs. She needs someone she can trust, and knowing her soon-to-be ex fears his former NFL cousin is a bonus. </span></div>
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<br /><span style="font-size: 10.5pt;">When Cam comes to her rescue, he isn’t doing it to win her love. He does it because it's the right thing to do. But if she starts to feel the same for him... couldn't it be fate?</span></span></div>
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<i style="background-color: #b6d7a8;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Was she a monster for wanting to be happy? Screw happy. She didn't start the divorce process so she could be '</span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">happy'</span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">. She wasn't a child. She knew '</span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">happy'</span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"> was an elusive, often selfish goal. </span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Being happy was Tag's thing. He wanted every day of his life to be some sort of </span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">party. </span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">She hadn't asked for anything so impressive. She didn't ask for </span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">a big house or a new car. Hell, she didn't even expect vacations. All she </span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">wanted was a simple life, a peaceful life. A life where she knew when her </span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">husband said he had to work late that he truly was working late, not diddling </span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">the bartender or dropping the grocery money into a slot machine. </span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">She'd have been content with a marriage that simply wasn't </span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">miserable.</span></i></div>
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<span style="background-color: #b6d7a8;">Amazon: <b>99 cents </b></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: #b6d7a8;">Elizabeth is a multi-published author of books for people</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgJL8KCOpkQn6Q0zGT67XxcYM1pq4oZGC4ftfygFOz6duLHwtKTddPwV_Pe96DJwQiBJZ0deF9-LcHKwcAjM_WI5Txgajf2A8ylV88vkS1qrxG8ebixKc0Iv3Zfb-5JVQPmD_DSGpw-TU/s1600/author+photo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="background-color: #b6d7a8;"><img border="0" data-original-height="250" data-original-width="250" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgJL8KCOpkQn6Q0zGT67XxcYM1pq4oZGC4ftfygFOz6duLHwtKTddPwV_Pe96DJwQiBJZ0deF9-LcHKwcAjM_WI5Txgajf2A8ylV88vkS1qrxG8ebixKc0Iv3Zfb-5JVQPmD_DSGpw-TU/s400/author+photo.jpg" width="400" /></span></a></div>
<span style="background-color: #b6d7a8; font-family: "verdana" , "geneva" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">who are believers in happily-ever-after, true love, and stories with a bit of fun and twists with their plots. The mother of four young men, she tackles laundry daily and is the keeper of the kitchen. She lives along the shores of the Ohio River in West Virginia, but dreams daily of the beach. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , "geneva" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">[And she's as cute as a button! sez ME]</span></span></div>
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<a href="https://www.facebook.com/Elizabeth-Seckman-Author-361427683923220/manager/">Facebook</a>/ <a href="http://eseckman.blogspot.com/">Blog</a>/ <a href="http://www.elizabethseckman.com/">Website</a><br />
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Until next time, take care of yourselves. And each other. </div>
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<br />Susan Flett Swiderskihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09425315552148200073noreply@blogger.com71tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6034142332858737641.post-24117478183203792282020-02-28T00:34:00.000-05:002020-02-28T00:34:09.056-05:00Patience<b>Thought for the day: </b><i>Patience is a virtue; keep it if you can. Seldom found in women, and never found in men. </i>[unknown]<br />
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That <i>thought for the day</i> is something my mother used to recite fairly often. Whether or not that helped me become as ridiculously patient as I am now or not, I don't know. But maybe. Or maybe it's simply because of my <i>training. </i>You know...kinda like a dog who's forced to sit still with a treat sitting on his snout until his owner gives him permission to eat it? When there is no other option, you darned well learn how to be patient.<br />
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My mom was fairly patient, but my father was always a gnat hair's breadth away from exploding in indignant fury. He didn't want to wait for anything... ever. I do remember one kinda funny result of that, though. One year, my mother bought him an electric razor for Christmas, and when he opened it on Christmas morning, lo and behold, there were already whiskers in it! He'd found the <i>hidden </i>razor weeks earlier and had been using it right up until my mother wrapped it. (I guess he musta liked it, huh?)<br />
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So are you the patient type? I think most mothers pretty much have to be, what with all the countless hours of waiting they have to do for their kids' appointments and activities. We older folks, too, what with all our trips to various doctors. Smarticus was never the patient type, but since his medical stuff started, he has little choice. When you've got all those appointments and procedures, week after week after week, you either learn to be philosophical about the endless waits and the <i>not knowing</i>, or you do yourself more harm by letting it get to you. We've learned to be more patient together. Right now, we're patiently waiting (And I ask you, why isn't HURRY THE HELL UP a virtue???) until we finally get results. Maybe next week... maybe not. At any rate, why focus on what's yet to come? It's better to make the most of THIS day, dontcha think? <i>Que sera sera. </i><br />
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How do you think you'd do with THIS test of your patience?<br />
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Let's take some more looks at the funny side of impatience, shall we?<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrvSZaCIVu2HB4Weiy5LvSQEtZk1yxUQYfxF5Ob7CiC7rahtr9lQef0178RpEAx10oPro-WWtldr-s-_74O92nunCuGftcxofZSbRm0ZbNM-lk-PBOv8BZyz8B6jBHDEZ07RN3Xk-rJwg/s1600/impatient+3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="803" data-original-width="800" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrvSZaCIVu2HB4Weiy5LvSQEtZk1yxUQYfxF5Ob7CiC7rahtr9lQef0178RpEAx10oPro-WWtldr-s-_74O92nunCuGftcxofZSbRm0ZbNM-lk-PBOv8BZyz8B6jBHDEZ07RN3Xk-rJwg/s400/impatient+3.jpg" width="397" /></a></div>
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Do you suffer in silence? We don't. We might be patient, but we're also yakkers, and we usually get the people around us talking, too. And the little kids giggling.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitDDt5sE8Ky-XqZ6csygVu1_vpIzzDUZBqpetQc2yehyhu2OI2ghzsJDvdWQpKSKTF6MTZwLqI2KPjokKT8VJ_mq7RCz2fM2yKPyTsj9MNFR6ykoXvQybxY5bnjx5j7-1d3B2o3MHRuKU/s1600/impatient+5.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="318" data-original-width="500" height="253" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitDDt5sE8Ky-XqZ6csygVu1_vpIzzDUZBqpetQc2yehyhu2OI2ghzsJDvdWQpKSKTF6MTZwLqI2KPjokKT8VJ_mq7RCz2fM2yKPyTsj9MNFR6ykoXvQybxY5bnjx5j7-1d3B2o3MHRuKU/s400/impatient+5.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBq9xQRbbqnjKuVeCa9SlyDEyEkxzueo89hi0a8R0K9WBfg9U84WncyFygFZbAONMoKylrMyliLG9dsIzvJ3udmJMYRSFLgzzyIe6GDOTpDnxLqNMS1z70wuZb9ruP82ZfKvOErgJYZ3w/s1600/impatient+7.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="800" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBq9xQRbbqnjKuVeCa9SlyDEyEkxzueo89hi0a8R0K9WBfg9U84WncyFygFZbAONMoKylrMyliLG9dsIzvJ3udmJMYRSFLgzzyIe6GDOTpDnxLqNMS1z70wuZb9ruP82ZfKvOErgJYZ3w/s400/impatient+7.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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We never had to push (or slingshot) our kiddos out of the nest, but I'm not surprised by the number of parents who do. I mean, when Johnny's old enough to invite his lady friend... and her children... over for the weekend, he's old enough to get his own place.<br />
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This one reminds me of a poster Smarticus used to have in his office at work. It showed a couple of buzzards, and one of them is saying, "Patience, my ass! I'm gonna kill something!"<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbTrzQUVQiSCa0Ybg8B8At4SB2V_CuGKYSyAUyWntXjLr-X3V3D1kZRoxeI-eNwAyIa-jfCdJ7JcAr6d7yd-yTyloWZ-YmzI-bjI7m632A_nFpp6EXbAmzkirgwUE-fW_oHWoTTCdjfrs/s1600/impatient+9.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="800" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbTrzQUVQiSCa0Ybg8B8At4SB2V_CuGKYSyAUyWntXjLr-X3V3D1kZRoxeI-eNwAyIa-jfCdJ7JcAr6d7yd-yTyloWZ-YmzI-bjI7m632A_nFpp6EXbAmzkirgwUE-fW_oHWoTTCdjfrs/s400/impatient+9.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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Hmmm, come to think of it, Noah must've had the patience of Job...<br />
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Okay, so let's give it up for patience!!! Gimme a P...<br />
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<i>Faith is not simply a patience that passively suffers until the storm is past. Rather, it is a spirit that bears things... with resignation, yes, but above all, with blazing, serene hope. </i>[Carazon Aquino]<br />
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Until next time, take care of yourselves. And each other.Susan Flett Swiderskihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09425315552148200073noreply@blogger.com51tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6034142332858737641.post-69047257805270566462020-02-21T00:34:00.000-05:002020-02-20T15:10:39.019-05:00Shall We Dance?<strong>Thought for the day: </strong><i>Dance like no one is watching, love like you'll never be hurt; sing like no one is listening, and live like it's heaven on earth. </i>[William Purkey]<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">[image courtesy of unsplash]</td></tr>
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I've never been all that great of a dancer. Not that I didn't love doing it... but let's just say no one ever tried to recruit me for a touring dance troupe. For the most part, what I lacked in talent, I made up for with enthusiasm. I did manage to take first place in a jitterbug contest a million years ago, but I attribute that entirely to my dance partner. Bobby reeeeeally knew how to lead.<br />
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And about forty years ago, believe it or not, I actually took belly dancing lessons. It was a lot of fun, but it was more of an exercise class than a genuine dance class. The instructor lured some of us into continuing with her "advanced" class by promising we'd make costumes and perform at a local nursing home. We did neither, which, in retrospect is probably a good thing. Not the costumes part. The part that would've had a handful of silly housewives jiggling and wiggling in front of a bunch of captive seniors.<br />
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In more than fifty years of marriage, Smarticus and I have done a lot of dancing. We even belonged to a club for a few years that gave us lots of opportunities to dance. But it's been a while. I still sway and clap or snap my fingers to the background music that's playing while we shoot pool, but I suppose my days of getting out on a dance floor may be near an end. (Maybe at one of our grandchildren's weddings...?)<br />
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But wouldn't it be nice... I mean, really really nice... if we could all dance with the reckless abandon of a child? To simply bubble over with the infectious feel of the music and the explosive joy of moving... without a single shred of self-consciousness? Without the self-doubts that tell us <i>I don't know how.</i><br />
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Why <b>can't</b> we? What's stopping us? I say... <i>nothing</i> is stopping us ... but us. I say forget about that <i>dance like nobody's watching</i> stuff. I say dance like a child. They don't even need music.<br />
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Matter of fact, I think I'm gonna go dance around our bedroom.(AFTER I take a couple of Aleve...) Pretend I know what I'm doing. Why the heck not? Nobody will be watching but the cats. And they might even join in. And, hmmm, if I'm not mistaken, I may still have some belly dancing music around here... THAT should be a REAL hoot! I may even scare up one <i>captive senior</i> who might appreciate it...<br />
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Talking about dancing with reckless abandon, I'm gonna share a portion of one of my early... way early... blog posts, back when I only had a handful of followers:<br />
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Do you remember Shirley Temple?</div>
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She was an amazing child star, and the absolute epitome of golly-gee-whiz cuteness, with her bouncy blonde curls, chubby cheeks and deep dimples. In the '50s, after she was already a grown woman, my friends and I were still watching her old movies, still watching her sing and tap dance across our tiny TV sets. Most of my friends hated her, but me? I wanted to BE her.</div>
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How I longed for my limp straight-as-a-stick hair to magically turn into those bouncy sausage curls. How I longed to sing those sweet songs as sweetly as she. And, oh! How I longed to tap dance!</div>
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In reality, my hair was worn in one of two styles, and I use the term loosely. Either it was straight and looked like Prince Valiant's do, which can be approximated by sticking a mixing bowl on your head and cutting around it, or it was tortured into a Little Orphan Annie frizz by virtue of a smelly home permanent. No sausage curls for me, bouncy or otherwise.</div>
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The singing I did okay. Never <i>American Idol</i> quality, but I could carry a tune. But dance? I could make my way around the neighborhood by walking strictly on top of the chain link fences, could climb the tallest trees, and could ride my bicycle down the multi-flights of concrete stairs by the elementary school without quite killing myself, but let's just say that I was never the most graceful kid on the block. I had two over-sized left feet, and my favorite aunt called me Lurch.</div>
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But one magical day, during one of our huge extended family gatherings, I made an amazing discovery in the shadows behind my uncle's cellar steps... my older cousin's long-forgotten and bee-yoo-ti-ful sparkly red tap shoes!<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">[image courtesy of morguefile]</td></tr>
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Believe you me, it took quite a while to squeeze into those tiny shoes. But I did it, and then in the shadows behind the cellar steps, I began to dance. Not sure it would've qualified as anything close to tap dancing, though. It was more like a Snoopy happy dance. If Snoopy had his feet shoved into shoes that were two sizes too small. Then, of course, I had to sing... <i>On the Good Ship Lollipop</i>.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjl1ehc92Q6Aah5N7B7_Ef_j38NQG7ZBDfg4RAV3hGO5P5yYQEe5lOfFyesm68WjJlYMLrwT4cw9uy2wl2LOVHougrxWWMUh8znosyEnQLGwiar3_dz5DDtH1jv6nvM0bDP_cTZiEB_Uc4/s1600/dance+happy+little+girl+de+unsplash.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="991" data-original-width="606" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjl1ehc92Q6Aah5N7B7_Ef_j38NQG7ZBDfg4RAV3hGO5P5yYQEe5lOfFyesm68WjJlYMLrwT4cw9uy2wl2LOVHougrxWWMUh8znosyEnQLGwiar3_dz5DDtH1jv6nvM0bDP_cTZiEB_Uc4/s400/dance+happy+little+girl+de+unsplash.jpg" width="243" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">[image courtesy of unsplash]</td></tr>
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I was having a grand ol' pinch-toed time until some of my relatives found me. And laughed. Laughed until they almost wet themselves. (Did I happen to mention that my relatives were terribly rude?) Nah, it was all in fun, and once my mother helped pry my poor feet out of those shoes, the family continued to tease me about that adventure for many years to come.<br />
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Even after all these years, I still remember how happy it made me to find those shoes and to dance with the sheer joy of dancing. We should all try to do that more often, don't you think?<br />
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<i>Dance and sing to your music. Embrace your blessings. Make today worth remembering. </i>[Steve Maraboli]<br />
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It's no secret that some dark health clouds have been hanging over our house for a while, but I think that's an even bigger reason to dance. To sing. To laugh. None of us get to live forever, so we've absolutely got to make the most of each day.<br />
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<i>Life isn't about waiting for the storm to pass. It's about learning how to dance in the rain.</i><br />
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How about you? Who did YOU want to be when you were a kid? Besides Shirley Temple, I also wanted to be Dale Evans. That didn't work out so hot, either. I remember going horseback riding one time, and carrying a nice apple to feed my horse. Poor ol' thing didn't have a tooth in her head. Not positive, but I'm pretty sure Dale Evans' Buttercup had teeth.<br />
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Until next time, take care of yourselves. And each other.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJ2wofJHbmD21hoPzNQA1FznGGOI2ffStRxAcWMjmFRlPRT6TIowpoweHlB_ZUOcE5HGtzlritHgPn3eqoeBDZ-dx-niYHzJSsQqPEfuA_PzkrCMiACx_FGyKd_stP6fGlW0-4IjLQ_qk/s1600/embracing+life+de+unsplash.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="675" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJ2wofJHbmD21hoPzNQA1FznGGOI2ffStRxAcWMjmFRlPRT6TIowpoweHlB_ZUOcE5HGtzlritHgPn3eqoeBDZ-dx-niYHzJSsQqPEfuA_PzkrCMiACx_FGyKd_stP6fGlW0-4IjLQ_qk/s400/embracing+life+de+unsplash.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">[image courtesy of unsplash]</td></tr>
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Embrace life. This may be the only one we get.<br />
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Susan Flett Swiderskihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09425315552148200073noreply@blogger.com63