tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-90985158746358817522024-03-13T04:13:08.840-07:00Butts and Ashes~ Life From End To End ~Marlahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18000815937078399278noreply@blogger.comBlogger384125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9098515874635881752.post-63769309233878742772021-06-26T21:35:00.001-07:002021-06-26T21:35:24.281-07:00Second Chances<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="background-color: white;">So, today was our 45th wedding anniversary. We were suppose to be grooving in Newnan, Georgia with Alan Jackson. There was also a surprise party planned for us, or so I was told. There were to be mariachis because every decent party has mariachis. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-slUidEdrvEM/YNfxYplcHyI/AAAAAAAAJsc/SpQOd-uROS8ICl3tFnYL5pvogpeK_M5XACLcBGAsYHQ/image.png" style="background-color: white; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img data-original-height="1920" data-original-width="1080" height="400" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-slUidEdrvEM/YNfxYplcHyI/AAAAAAAAJsc/SpQOd-uROS8ICl3tFnYL5pvogpeK_M5XACLcBGAsYHQ/w225-h400/image.png" width="225" /></a></div><div><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-qwiQ0x1YYHI/YNfxzGgZ7wI/AAAAAAAAJss/P_ZiW_w5n9wq-JrbN9GSj-mt60-_0jj-QCLcBGAsYHQ/image.png" style="background-color: white; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="810" height="400" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-qwiQ0x1YYHI/YNfxzGgZ7wI/AAAAAAAAJss/P_ZiW_w5n9wq-JrbN9GSj-mt60-_0jj-QCLcBGAsYHQ/w300-h400/image.png" width="300" /></a></div><div><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></div><span style="background-color: white;">But instead, we ended up grooving to the beep of a heart monitor here. There were no mariachis. I checked. <br /><br /></span></div><div><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-JPiGRIB-AKw/YNfx7DUT82I/AAAAAAAAJsw/X-ux0ZNtNSMxYFZYkj7QgjquqZIXZwgvwCLcBGAsYHQ/image.png" style="background-color: white; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="810" height="400" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-JPiGRIB-AKw/YNfx7DUT82I/AAAAAAAAJsw/X-ux0ZNtNSMxYFZYkj7QgjquqZIXZwgvwCLcBGAsYHQ/w300-h400/image.png" width="300" /></a></div><span style="background-color: white;"><br />As I walked down the hall alone, I read this sign and thought, yep. The heart often knows.</span></div><div><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-oa3tCsgCPYE/YNfyD3PE4kI/AAAAAAAAJs4/d7cc-rEejuYI23RvAqvOCGliHWnHwchfQCLcBGAsYHQ/image.png" style="background-color: white; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="810" height="400" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-oa3tCsgCPYE/YNfyD3PE4kI/AAAAAAAAJs4/d7cc-rEejuYI23RvAqvOCGliHWnHwchfQCLcBGAsYHQ/w300-h400/image.png" width="300" /></a></div><span style="background-color: white;"><br />This guy decided blocked arteries were more important than Alan Jackson. In forty-five years of marriage, I have never seen him eat vegetables. Not. Even. Joking. But suddenly, I find him eating every last carrot, a few bites of potato and leaving the mystery meat on the plate. Seems blocked arteries wake up your taste buds.</span></div><div><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-sEgobFCIwW4/YNfyKXt-qiI/AAAAAAAAJs8/QLr29FYjqAoc-v6Xmv73QazHVNc8BpTiQCLcBGAsYHQ/image.png" style="background-color: white; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img data-original-height="811" data-original-width="1080" height="300" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-sEgobFCIwW4/YNfyKXt-qiI/AAAAAAAAJs8/QLr29FYjqAoc-v6Xmv73QazHVNc8BpTiQCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/image.png" width="400" /></a></div><span style="background-color: white;"><br />Seems blocked arteries also wake up your sense of humor. The nurses are all crushing on the old man. I mean, the nurses all look to be twelve so......Slow your roll, Grandpappy.</span></div><div><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></div><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span><div><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-0IL8QhxTEgg/YNfxiVZx14I/AAAAAAAAJsg/MB3lnS4mdiMgpQbrlSEqK92TQwnVO97_gCLcBGAsYHQ/image.png" style="background-color: white; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img data-original-height="1654" data-original-width="1080" height="400" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-0IL8QhxTEgg/YNfxiVZx14I/AAAAAAAAJsg/MB3lnS4mdiMgpQbrlSEqK92TQwnVO97_gCLcBGAsYHQ/w262-h400/image.png" width="262" /></a></div><span style="background-color: white;"><br />This is the face of my beloved as a small child. My understanding is, this was his face more often than naught. </span></div><div><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-SdAGQzY1Tzk/YNf4e_hZleI/AAAAAAAAJtU/3KyUws3DEBU86d8bKz9saeYR4Dk_eSqxQCLcBGAsYHQ/image.png" style="background-color: white; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img data-original-height="768" data-original-width="678" height="400" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-SdAGQzY1Tzk/YNf4e_hZleI/AAAAAAAAJtU/3KyUws3DEBU86d8bKz9saeYR4Dk_eSqxQCLcBGAsYHQ/w353-h400/image.png" width="353" /></a></div><span style="background-color: white;"><br />Funny how some things never change.</span></div><div><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-hODYOm_n640/YNfyRyFNGZI/AAAAAAAAJtE/BYVWM0anX6AkGvkpwtkCXxrMShVF9FckQCLcBGAsYHQ/image.png" style="background-color: white; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="300" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-hODYOm_n640/YNfyRyFNGZI/AAAAAAAAJtE/BYVWM0anX6AkGvkpwtkCXxrMShVF9FckQCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/image.png" width="400" /></a></div><span style="background-color: white;"><br />There was no Alan Jackson. There were no mariachis or margaritas. But I received the best anniversary gift my husband has ever given me. I received hope of more time together. There is nothing, absolutely nothing, I want more than more time with my husband.</span></div><div><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="background-color: white;">Bob will be having triple by-pass surgery on Monday at noon. We are both scared and shocked and extremely grateful to God for second chances.</span></div><div><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="background-color: white;">Please pray.</span></div><div><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></div><div><br /></div>Marlahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18000815937078399278noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9098515874635881752.post-74830661013350601662021-05-22T20:34:00.002-07:002021-05-23T21:53:38.903-07:00Better Than A Swollen Head, I Suppose<p><span style="background-color: white;">So, yesterday I flew for almost three hours to get home from Texas. Then, an hour after landing, we jumped in the car for our five hour drive to Georgia. My almost not broken anymore ankle decided to be a jerk and let me know she did not appreciate the days activities by swelling up like a watermelon. I'm sure the decision to swell had nothing to do with the previous few days of margaritas, wine and fondue because even my almost not broken anymore ankle knows it would take more than that to make me change my ways.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: white;">Anyway, today I decided to show Leftie, that's what we've named her, who's boss by putting her back on ice. My grandson decided that a snake tattoo would really show Leftie who's in charge and I couldn't disagree so, I am now sporting a new tattoo.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-jH8U2WZPaXk/YKsszpi3wGI/AAAAAAAAJrk/W6NXBVY-yIcUmhQt7bf2TSiSPmHooyMxQCLcBGAsYHQ/image.png" style="background-color: white; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="810" height="400" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-jH8U2WZPaXk/YKsszpi3wGI/AAAAAAAAJrk/W6NXBVY-yIcUmhQt7bf2TSiSPmHooyMxQCLcBGAsYHQ/w300-h400/image.png" width="300" /></a></div><p><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></p><span style="background-color: white;">I think this tattoo makes me look quite tough and scary. Like I could handle anything. Even two little boys and a big, red dog for a few days. Bring it on!<br /><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-1t0QaXd2Jdo/YKss3Qg-rZI/AAAAAAAAJro/x6I7wEuDn6MTst5uo734L76jr76C8KB-ACLcBGAsYHQ/image.png" style="background-color: white; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img data-original-height="1790" data-original-width="1080" height="400" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-1t0QaXd2Jdo/YKss3Qg-rZI/AAAAAAAAJro/x6I7wEuDn6MTst5uo734L76jr76C8KB-ACLcBGAsYHQ/w242-h400/image.png" width="242" /></a></div><span style="background-color: white;"><br /><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="background-color: white;">Then the littlest guy decided to show me who's really in charge by firing water bombs at me. With a fire truck I bought. Talk about adding insult to injury.</span></p>Marlahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18000815937078399278noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9098515874635881752.post-45044833166596280542021-05-21T20:55:00.002-07:002021-05-23T21:53:19.219-07:00Free Advice Friday<p><span style="background-color: white;"> <span face="Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif" style="color: #333333; font-size: 14.85px;">Tonight's Free Advice:</span></span></p><p><span face="Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif" style="color: #333333;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 14.85px;">When visiting grandchildren, always make room on the bed for late night visitors, no matter how they smell. Because, you're Nono and Papa to all of them.</span></span></p><p><span face="Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif" style="color: #333333;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 14.85px;"><br /></span></span></p><p><span face="Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #333333;"><span style="font-size: 14.85px;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span face="Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif" style="color: #333333;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-CneBUBNmhHQ/YKsnxjtUK3I/AAAAAAAAJrc/45Qb8RujE1MhV9BgEjmeoIHfS3eE7lBlgCLcBGAsYHQ/image.png" style="background-color: white; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="1080" height="400" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-CneBUBNmhHQ/YKsnxjtUK3I/AAAAAAAAJrc/45Qb8RujE1MhV9BgEjmeoIHfS3eE7lBlgCLcBGAsYHQ/w300-h400/image.png" width="300" /></a></span></div><span face="Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #333333;"><br /><br /></span><p></p><p><span face="Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif" style="color: #333333;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 14.85px;"><br /></span></span></p>Marlahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18000815937078399278noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9098515874635881752.post-74087265001118946012021-05-20T20:55:00.073-07:002021-05-21T22:22:30.717-07:00Fondue Forks Make Me Happy<p><span style="background-color: white;">Tonight is my last night in Dallas. I fly out first thing in the morning, heading for home, for a minute anyway. Two dear friends from Oklahoma drove all the way down here to go out to dinner with me. I love these two kids. They are family to me. We first met over twenty years ago when they had one little baby boy. We quickly connected and through a series of events, they ended up living on the farm with us for a short while. The cool thing is, while they were living with us, their second baby, a girl, was born on the farm. I was there and got to help with the delivery. I'll never forget that day or the privilege of being a part of something so amazing as the birth of a baby.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: white;">I also got to experience Emily running naked across our back pasture one afternoon. Ok, she was being chased by a tornado but that's another story for another day. In fairness, I'm pretty sure she and Jon experienced Bob chasing goats in his underwear in the middle of the night, so yeah. Fun times. Being friends with the Hansen's is not for the faint of heart, that's all I'm saying.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: white;">Jon is the reason Bob and I got into the insurance business. He tried to convince us to do it for years and we finally listened. It's one of the best career moves we ever made and we're forever grateful to have a friend that loved us enough to not give up on us until we gave in. It changed our lives for the better in so many ways.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: white;">Anyway, tonight we went out, ate fondue, drank wine, (ok, I drank wine) and talked and cried and laughed until my stomach hurt. There is something absolutely healing about this kind of friendship. I am grateful and a little more whole tonight because of these two. </span></p><p><span style="background-color: white;">Thank you, Jon and Emily. I love you both.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-GGwNgPccHas/YKiPCtWXG8I/AAAAAAAAJrU/UnrrlR-OX_04RQSqvYru9F3EMCYtECjtgCLcBGAsYHQ/image.png" style="background-color: white; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="810" height="400" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-GGwNgPccHas/YKiPCtWXG8I/AAAAAAAAJrU/UnrrlR-OX_04RQSqvYru9F3EMCYtECjtgCLcBGAsYHQ/w300-h400/image.png" width="300" /></a></div><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span><br /><p></p>Marlahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18000815937078399278noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9098515874635881752.post-55973003318212187752021-05-19T20:30:00.007-07:002021-05-19T23:41:42.939-07:00No Mas<span style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit;">Had dinner at Abuelos with the other managers tonight. Ordered a margarita. This is exactly what you get when you order ONE EL JEFE MARGARITA. One full glass and a bottle of several more ready, waiting and taunting you, the victim.</span><div><span style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div><div class="item_top_line" style="border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; color: #392f2b; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><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://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-cf2heD9Kobg/YKYC2-8JPnI/AAAAAAAAJrE/63H_3OJbeeQL2dU_ZPck4a1RWApB_FUbwCLcBGAsYHQ/image.png" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit;"><img data-original-height="750" data-original-width="500" height="400" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-cf2heD9Kobg/YKYC2-8JPnI/AAAAAAAAJrE/63H_3OJbeeQL2dU_ZPck4a1RWApB_FUbwCLcBGAsYHQ/w267-h400/image.png" width="267" /></span></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #392f2b; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">El Jefe. Delicious. Don't do it. </span></span></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div class="item_top_line" style="border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; color: #392f2b; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit;">My mother was right. This old gray mare ain't what she use to be.</span></div><div class="item_top_line" style="border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; color: #392f2b; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div class="item_top_line" style="border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; color: #392f2b; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit;">That is all.<br /></span><br /></div></div>Marlahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18000815937078399278noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9098515874635881752.post-33811262031963685292021-05-18T21:44:00.002-07:002021-05-18T21:44:17.084-07:00Hi Ho, Hi Ho<p><span style="background-color: white;">So, today was my first time back in the home office in over a year. It was a bit stressful at first but before long, I was reminded of how much I actually like being a part of a work group. We went through our two strategic planning meetings and they were really productive. I actually don't recall this group ever laughing together as much as we did today. I think the last year of separation and working remotely full-time took a bigger toll on people than most of us realized. It's good to be heading back to some form of normal. I'm feeling pretty grateful.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: white;">Tomorrow will be a fairly normal work day in the office which is great because I have lots of catching up to do. Then, it was decided we'd all go out to dinner after work. There was quite a bit of discussion regarding margaritas. It's all starting to come back to me now.</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></div><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-rfAHz42hKLk/YKSXMJ_7g8I/AAAAAAAAJq4/8WGuOGcQPg0cjLHDsFagmlnLBBEOcW0ZACLcBGAsYHQ/image.png" style="background-color: white; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img data-original-height="653" data-original-width="600" height="400" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-rfAHz42hKLk/YKSXMJ_7g8I/AAAAAAAAJq4/8WGuOGcQPg0cjLHDsFagmlnLBBEOcW0ZACLcBGAsYHQ/w368-h400/image.png" width="368" /></a></div><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span><br /><p></p>Marlahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18000815937078399278noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9098515874635881752.post-71662637392038752992021-05-17T21:07:00.004-07:002021-05-17T21:07:51.759-07:00Ready, Set..........<p><span style="background-color: white;">I am absolutely beat. With less than five hours of sleep last night, I was at the airport by 6:00 AM this morning. No coffee. Gimping through the airport with a stupid mostly healed not quite broken ankle. And a bad attitude. Not Michael Jackson BAD. More like Maleficent BAD. </span></p><p><span style="background-color: white;">Then there was the two and a half hour non-stop flight which should have been good even for a flying hater like me. But nooooo. We had to encounter some "weather conditions." I've been on the Tower of Terror. Twice now after today.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: white;">Finally, I make it to Dallas, call the hotel for the shuttle that I've taken a bazillion times. No shuttle. Covid. Seriously? I'm throwing fireballs from my wonky eyes now. So I call a Lyft and the most wonderful Syrian man picks me up and we have the most amazing conversation during the fifteen minute ride and I think, ok, maybe this isn't so bad.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: white;">I get to the hotel, order some DoorDash food because the hotel won't do room service because of COVID. Don't. Even. Get. Me. Started. I start working on my presentation when I realize ninety minutes has passed with no food. I call Door Dash. Oops! Sorry. We don't have a Dasher for you. So many unkind Christmas themed remarks bounce through my brain but I still have a little of my Syrian happiness going for me, so I simply say no worries and hang up. Thirty minutes later, the second order I attempted arrives but the front desk calls and says I have to go downstairs and pick up the order because....COVID!! @*$Y(%%)Y$.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: white;">I get my crappy fast food because that's all I could find to deliver, I go back upstairs, eat on the bed, desperately want to sleep after but drag my sorry bad maleficent self back to the desk and work for another nine hours. Then my boss shows up, we head downstairs to the empty restaurant that wont deliver, doesn't have coffee, or hot tea, or cold tea but does have soda. I give the nice young waiter my best but I'm an old lady having a real rough time of it and I desperately need hot tea speech. The kid laughs and disappears only to reappear with enough hot tea for a year. He wanted to make sure I had enough to take to my room as well. Ok, maybe the day isn't all @*&%&)#(&%.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: white;">And here I am at midnight, setting my alarm for 6:00 AM so I'm not late for the day tomorrow. I have two presentations with the big mucky mucks and I'm hoping to not look totally stupid. Seriously, I'd settle for mildly stupid. </span></p><p><span style="background-color: white;">That's when I looked over and saw my pages and pages of notes with my tea and mints and I think God spoke to me. I think He reminded me that I'm original and usually celebrated probably because I tend to be curiously strong. It was either God or delirium. Pray for me, Saints.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-Aj51hJ-Blog/YKM2WAM__mI/AAAAAAAAJqg/pFBAIlSy_kMDTT3F88Em99bJmbZmzD6MQCLcBGAsYHQ/image.png" style="background-color: white; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="810" height="400" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-Aj51hJ-Blog/YKM2WAM__mI/AAAAAAAAJqg/pFBAIlSy_kMDTT3F88Em99bJmbZmzD6MQCLcBGAsYHQ/w300-h400/image.png" width="300" /></a></div><span style="background-color: white;"><br /><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></p><p><br /></p>Marlahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18000815937078399278noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9098515874635881752.post-34828163930906881142021-05-16T20:29:00.036-07:002021-05-16T21:39:49.358-07:00Texas, Here I Come<p><span style="background-color: white;">I'm heading to Texas in the morning for a week in the home office. I have been summons. </span></p><p></p><ul style="text-align: left;"><li><span style="background-color: white;">Alarm set for 5:00 AM ✅</span></li><li><span style="background-color: white;">Suitcase packed ✅</span></li><li><span style="background-color: white;">Laundry in the dryer because I was out of clean underwear so now I am praying I don't forget to get clean underwear out of the dryer at 5:00 AM because going commando in the office is more than likely frowned upon ✅</span></li><li><span style="background-color: white;">Working from home has ruined me for life ✅</span></li></ul><p></p><p><br /></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-m0FEoiqCHUY/YKHxW1nnFZI/AAAAAAAAJqQ/AHUxGNpr0OQ0xU4-R2pV3Cezy_j_ZDOKACLcBGAsYHQ/image.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img data-original-height="457" data-original-width="592" height="309" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-m0FEoiqCHUY/YKHxW1nnFZI/AAAAAAAAJqQ/AHUxGNpr0OQ0xU4-R2pV3Cezy_j_ZDOKACLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h309/image.png" width="400" /></a></div><br /><br /><p></p>Marlahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18000815937078399278noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9098515874635881752.post-43678403487864404682021-05-15T20:40:00.250-07:002021-05-15T23:32:10.924-07:00Oh, Tuna Boat, Where Art Thou?<p><span style="background-color: white;">My first car was a 1963 Ford Falcon. I was seventeen years old and my father had offered to buy me a new car if I'd stop my falderole with Bob Hansen. He also offered to send me to Europe and numerous other ridiculousness in exchange for Hansen's head on a silver platter. I wasn't having any of it because I was in love. Looking back, I'm just really thankful he didn't offer to buy me a Brown Swiss cow because that might have changed history. I'm just saying.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-5jip3T5jHkg/YKCic-QCwiI/AAAAAAAAJos/RlpHkKHsyMMIq3ZLV_gSI1s8x61rtfPQwCLcBGAsYHQ/image.png" style="background-color: white; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img data-original-height="478" data-original-width="640" height="299" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-5jip3T5jHkg/YKCic-QCwiI/AAAAAAAAJos/RlpHkKHsyMMIq3ZLV_gSI1s8x61rtfPQwCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h299/image.png" width="400" /></a></div><span style="background-color: white;"><br /><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="background-color: white;">Anyway, I had a friend that was selling his tan 1963 Ford Falcon, much like the one in this picture, for $125. That was one months rent back in the day but I really wanted the Falcon, so I bought it. My parents were not thrilled but I couldn't have been happier. I had paid for it with my own money and there was something exciting about that. Oh sure, the drivers window fell down if you closed the door too hard and the passenger seat fell into the backseat if you leaned too hard on it. There was also a choke that you had to pull out into just the right spot or the car would die. None of that mattered to me. I loved that funky little car. Truthfully, I wish I still had it.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-a1fapMxS0hY/YKClQSGiNDI/AAAAAAAAJpk/VlbecX_Me6Mnt1BBC8maUdrInQ5clpw_QCLcBGAsYHQ/image.png" style="background-color: white; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img data-original-height="461" data-original-width="800" height="230" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-a1fapMxS0hY/YKClQSGiNDI/AAAAAAAAJpk/VlbecX_Me6Mnt1BBC8maUdrInQ5clpw_QCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h230/image.png" width="400" /></a></div><span style="background-color: white;"><br /><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="background-color: white;">When we first met, Bob was driving a 1968 Mustang, pretty close to the one above. It was our first makeout car. We were both much smaller then, so it worked. </span></p><p><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-yIjRe6OVBRs/YKClm_-iQ-I/AAAAAAAAJps/zW1h0ilDMSwNZyKcACucChVaL35rnSFJQCLcBGAsYHQ/image.png" style="background-color: white; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img data-original-height="1466" data-original-width="1100" height="400" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-yIjRe6OVBRs/YKClm_-iQ-I/AAAAAAAAJps/zW1h0ilDMSwNZyKcACucChVaL35rnSFJQCLcBGAsYHQ/w300-h400/image.png" width="300" /></a></div><span style="background-color: white;"><br /><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="background-color: white;">Right before we got married in 1976, Bob decided he needed a truck so he bought a brand-spanking new bright yellow Datsun pickup similar to the one above. It cost $3,000 which was crazy money for us. Our Datsun took us up the coast for our honeymoon and a few years later to the drive-in theater with a baby sleeping between us in a carrier. Car seats? What were those? I drove our little truck up and down the Central Coast with our first son while Bob worked at the phone company. It's also the truck I gave more hitchhikers than I can remember rides in. Looking back, I can't believe how many times I brought people home so they could shower and we could feed them a meal. How did I not end up on some true crime magazine? </span></p><p><span style="background-color: white;">After the Datsun, a string of bad decision cars happened. Bob, like so many guys I know, (Charlie Casas) loved swapping out cars constantly. We had some big giant bomb of a Chrysler we called The Tuna Boat, then there was the little woodie Pinto station wagon. </span></p><p><span style="background-color: white;">Finally, we bought a brand-new minivan for our growing family of three boys. I really felt we could be happy hanging onto our Aerostar for decades. But nooooooo!</span></p><p><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-6AzZcynnJRU/YKCjWvty7gI/AAAAAAAAJpE/MlbUH87Fii0_hwoUkGe61CtDxC2iMsKFQCLcBGAsYHQ/image.png" style="background-color: white; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="300" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-6AzZcynnJRU/YKCjWvty7gI/AAAAAAAAJpE/MlbUH87Fii0_hwoUkGe61CtDxC2iMsKFQCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/image.png" width="400" /></a></div><span style="background-color: white;"><br /><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="background-color: white;">One Saturday, my husband and my minivan disappeared only to have something very similar to the picture above roll into our driveway. I mean, of course. Made perfect sense to swap our almost new minivan for this thing that had no heat, no air, was really loud when you rode in it and gassed you out of the front seat. I was completely outnumbered however. Our family of now five children loved the VW. They still talk about it to this day and our oldest son recently bought one. The legacy of crazy continues.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: white;">After a second VW Bus joined the family, my dad had had enough, so he bought a brand new Renault for us for our anniversary. He let it be known that he was not going to have his daughter and grandchildren driving around in some old beater and the Renault was going to ensure we were safe. The first time Bob and I took the Renault on a fancy couples weekend getaway with another couple, it stranded us and our friends in the middle of nowhere. More than thirty years later and we still haven't lived it down with Jim and Dawn. This also gave Bob the gumption for his next bad car decision. Oh no, yes he did. </span></p><p><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-4MAJ8FFk6pE/YKCj1YwdaWI/AAAAAAAAJpM/ZBMJ2YvTcK4sYbaMkZ4YOd5HamHosndlQCLcBGAsYHQ/image.png" style="background-color: white; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="300" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-4MAJ8FFk6pE/YKCj1YwdaWI/AAAAAAAAJpM/ZBMJ2YvTcK4sYbaMkZ4YOd5HamHosndlQCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/image.png" width="400" /></a></div><span style="background-color: white;"><br /><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="background-color: white;">That man o'mine took our year old Renault one morning, while I was still asleep, and swapped it for a Scooby Doo twelve passenger van that looked like this one in the picture, minus the fancy stripe. Yeah, ours looked like a prison van. I was often asked if I worked for a daycare or a church. Fun times. So, thought I, we obviously need more people in this family with all these empty seats and thus began our sixth adoption plus six years as foster parents. I showed him! </span></p><p><span style="background-color: white;">In all fairness to my wonderful husband, this van made our move to Oklahoma so much easier. How would we have ever moved Zoey our piggy or Max and Angie our goats plus six kids half way across the country without our Scooby Doo van? Even my dad, bless his heart, got involved and built a swine suite in the very back that Zoey shared with her goat brother and sister on the trip. You haven't fully experienced life until you've driven fourteen hundred miles in a Scooby Doo van with six kids, a pig and two goats. Oh yeah, I forgot about the dog, two cats and one bird. </span></p><p><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-H6KgahdUwuY/YKCkZ0q4n9I/AAAAAAAAJpU/LyRGi_wpec4AqJT0LWa2Ny0t_F1YWmKrgCLcBGAsYHQ/image.png" style="background-color: white; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img data-original-height="313" data-original-width="576" height="217" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-H6KgahdUwuY/YKCkZ0q4n9I/AAAAAAAAJpU/LyRGi_wpec4AqJT0LWa2Ny0t_F1YWmKrgCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h217/image.png" width="400" /></a></div><span style="background-color: white;"><br /><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="background-color: white;">Eventually, kids grew up and started to leave the nest so a couple of minivans were bought. Then sold.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-gHv68JvDeyU/YKCktAc-yUI/AAAAAAAAJpc/gvkl0oeS0_0iPn-t2RC8Oo4uTgiOkHAfACLcBGAsYHQ/image.png" style="background-color: white; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img data-original-height="500" data-original-width="950" height="210" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-gHv68JvDeyU/YKCktAc-yUI/AAAAAAAAJpc/gvkl0oeS0_0iPn-t2RC8Oo4uTgiOkHAfACLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h210/image.png" width="400" /></a></div><span style="background-color: white;"><br />A beautiful blue Suburban was purchased for me as a gift from my husband. I loved that car. Then, it was totaled by two teenagers that shall remain nameless. (<span style="font-size: xx-small;">Andrew and Belen</span>) A brown suburban replaced Blue Bette. No children were allowed to drive the new guy.</span><p></p><p><span style="background-color: white;">Finally, we were down to one kid and back into a minivan or two. Then, we were down to just the two of us and one truck for the last two years. When my car crapped out and with no kids to run around, I felt like I really didn't need a car anyway. Bob, on the other hand, drives an insane amount of miles for work, so we poured our money into his work truck. Until today.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-HYlAYIKHTFE/YKCikmjAIgI/AAAAAAAAJow/66pZN7T8yc4Fi5VZb2y0w5RHtewzu0q3wCLcBGAsYHQ/image.png" style="background-color: white; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="810" height="400" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-HYlAYIKHTFE/YKCikmjAIgI/AAAAAAAAJow/66pZN7T8yc4Fi5VZb2y0w5RHtewzu0q3wCLcBGAsYHQ/w300-h400/image.png" width="300" /></a></div><span style="background-color: white;"><br /><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="background-color: white;">Today we decided to car shop for me. This is something I hadn't done since I was seventeen, shop for a car that was just for me. On the way to the dealership, the Batmobile passed by. No, really! Look!! I wondered aloud if this was some kind of omen. Bob, being the great husband he is, asked if I wanted him to speed up or slow down to get better pictures. Isn't life amazing when you're both nuts in the relationship? Anyway, I got this picture as Batman sped by. I'm sure he was on his way to do some type of hero stuff. I did get a little excited when he followed us all the way to the dealership. I mean, what if the Batmobile was a trade-in? You know what I would have been driving home.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-vc60hNxWZtY/YKCizRtZ9zI/AAAAAAAAJo4/tebQYw1qYHE434Xb-1itPeJ9FE4TSopDgCLcBGAsYHQ/image.png" style="background-color: white; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img data-original-height="810" data-original-width="1080" height="300" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-vc60hNxWZtY/YKCizRtZ9zI/AAAAAAAAJo4/tebQYw1qYHE434Xb-1itPeJ9FE4TSopDgCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/image.png" width="400" /></a></div><span style="background-color: white;"><br /><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="background-color: white;">Thanks for the new ride, Mr. Hansen. I will be hiding the keys from you. Not that I don't trust you. </span></p><p><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></p><p><br /></p>Marlahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18000815937078399278noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9098515874635881752.post-8151874720284342032021-05-14T21:38:00.000-07:002021-05-14T21:38:53.171-07:00Free Advice Friday<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 14.85px;">Tonight's Free Advice:</span><div><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 14.85px;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14.85px;">Sometimes, hanging out with a smart ass is a wise choice. They'll keep you laughing and who doesn't need a good heehaw now and then?</span></span></span></div><div><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14.85px;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14.85px;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14.85px;"><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://lh3.googleusercontent.com/--TDjgWTkOJM/YJ9MHJpWL4I/AAAAAAAAJok/18jYCb_V0L8cqZZNn6H9MxKgQFzg0w9IQCLcBGAsYHQ/image.png" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img data-original-height="604" data-original-width="453" height="400" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/--TDjgWTkOJM/YJ9MHJpWL4I/AAAAAAAAJok/18jYCb_V0L8cqZZNn6H9MxKgQFzg0w9IQCLcBGAsYHQ/w300-h400/image.png" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Eeyore 💖</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br /></span></span></span></div>Marlahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18000815937078399278noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9098515874635881752.post-28751167969631943922021-05-13T23:10:00.001-07:002021-05-13T23:15:09.130-07:00The Best Laid Plans<p><span style="background-color: white;">I was reminded today of something. Motherhood is not easy. I would venture to say the same about fatherhood. Being a parent, from my view, is one of the greatest things to ever happen in my life but it wasn't and isn't always easy.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-AFcbFkLj5ec/YJ32Z7r81RI/AAAAAAAAJns/-vPNzDbA2uQFJeWG6fHM4FE3YuYwMGpLACLcBGAsYHQ/image.png" style="background-color: white; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img data-original-height="960" data-original-width="704" height="400" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-AFcbFkLj5ec/YJ32Z7r81RI/AAAAAAAAJns/-vPNzDbA2uQFJeWG6fHM4FE3YuYwMGpLACLcBGAsYHQ/w293-h400/image.png" width="293" /></a></div><p><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="background-color: white;">When Bob and I first found out we were going to have a baby, we both were absolutely giddy. I was nineteen and Bob was twenty-four. Even though we were both very young, we knew everything there was to know about parenting. No two people on the planet were smarter than we were when it came to being ready to raise a human being. And then we actually had one and quickly realized how stupid we both were. </span></p><p><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></p><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-Ny3NUMQyGr0/YJ32uoaqorI/AAAAAAAAJn0/ufEPr-b32kQyWh32xSrI9bBbES_uxtZKQCLcBGAsYHQ/image.png" style="background-color: white; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img data-original-height="831" data-original-width="1080" height="308" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-Ny3NUMQyGr0/YJ32uoaqorI/AAAAAAAAJn0/ufEPr-b32kQyWh32xSrI9bBbES_uxtZKQCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h308/image.png" width="400" /></a></div><p><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="background-color: white;">But, two years later, we had figured this whole parenting thing out well enough to give it another go. I mean, our first one seemed relatively happy and healthy so why not?</span></p><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span><p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-j7HeHjd4eBk/YJ320DySJtI/AAAAAAAAJn4/PvUfQboe8LszYOCMBPvb41gLETV9L0zggCLcBGAsYHQ/image.png" style="background-color: white; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img data-original-height="1506" data-original-width="1080" height="400" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-j7HeHjd4eBk/YJ320DySJtI/AAAAAAAAJn4/PvUfQboe8LszYOCMBPvb41gLETV9L0zggCLcBGAsYHQ/w287-h400/image.png" width="287" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="background-color: white;">Having two little boys was amazing. Bob has one sister and I have three sisters so having boys was a bit unexpected and wonderful. We adored these two little monkeys. We still do. All I wanted in life was to be a wife and mother so I threw myself into motherhood with everything in me. I wanted to be perfect for my boys. I wasn't but I sure wanted to be.</span></div><span style="background-color: white;"><br /><br /></span><p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-AMmz02XcDZk/YJ324qmAulI/AAAAAAAAJn8/8t_kbO5D7jINNz512g8IuAd63VwQ1YDywCLcBGAsYHQ/image.png" style="background-color: white; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img data-original-height="666" data-original-width="1080" height="246" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-AMmz02XcDZk/YJ324qmAulI/AAAAAAAAJn8/8t_kbO5D7jINNz512g8IuAd63VwQ1YDywCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h246/image.png" width="400" /></a></div><span style="background-color: white;"><br /><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="background-color: white;">I wanted ten kids and Bob wanted two so before long, number three was on the way. Funny how that happens. My dad offered to give Bob a gift certificate to a spay and neuter clinic. I think he was only half joking. Even though I was sick as a dog and hospitalized due to constant barfing with all three pregnancies, I was really happy. </span></p><p><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-OnqZx1NEHcU/YJ33sc1_4sI/AAAAAAAAJoI/cjHO_BeAhmQq-5Gq19K8ECklvANWpKeyQCLcBGAsYHQ/image.png" style="background-color: white; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img data-original-height="1528" data-original-width="1080" height="400" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-OnqZx1NEHcU/YJ33sc1_4sI/AAAAAAAAJoI/cjHO_BeAhmQq-5Gq19K8ECklvANWpKeyQCLcBGAsYHQ/w283-h400/image.png" width="283" /></a></div><p><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="background-color: white;">These three boys were and are my world. I loved them more than I thought possible. I still had the same goal of being the best mother to them and I still failed on the regular but I wouldn't have changed my life with them then or now. After Andrew was born, Bob said no more. We were done. Three kids was the limit.</span></p><span style="background-color: white;"><br /><br /></span><p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-N2gjE0827eY/YJ33witJtSI/AAAAAAAAJoM/MfIHTedFiU8tOR7h9-Fg_v6CLbBjG1PoQCLcBGAsYHQ/image.png" style="background-color: white; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img data-original-height="1654" data-original-width="1080" height="400" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-N2gjE0827eY/YJ33witJtSI/AAAAAAAAJoM/MfIHTedFiU8tOR7h9-Fg_v6CLbBjG1PoQCLcBGAsYHQ/w262-h400/image.png" width="262" /></a></div><span style="background-color: white;"><br /><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="background-color: white;">So, we adopted our two girls because who doesn't adopt a five and ten year old when you know that you know those girls are yours and belong in your family. I cried a lot of happy tears but not as many as Mr. No More Kids. Having our girls changed the dynamic of our family in so many ways and made us better and stronger. And of course, we were experts on adopting older kids before the girls actually came home then once they arrived, we realized how stupid we both were.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-PknmlGFg4no/YJ330G2HgiI/AAAAAAAAJoQ/YwTsRQD3ItIO-b-wATDkVjOyJxng1sf-QCLcBGAsYHQ/image.png" style="background-color: white; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img data-original-height="1612" data-original-width="1080" height="400" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-PknmlGFg4no/YJ330G2HgiI/AAAAAAAAJoQ/YwTsRQD3ItIO-b-wATDkVjOyJxng1sf-QCLcBGAsYHQ/w268-h400/image.png" width="268" /></a></div><span style="background-color: white;"><br /><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="background-color: white;">Bob and I both agreed our family was complete with five kids and then God laughed and we adopted the most beautiful baby on planet earth. We didn't know we needed a sixth child, our third daughter, but God knew and once she was home, we knew it too. But that was it. We were definitely closing up shop. Six kids was our max. We had all the Hansens needed to complete our whack-a-doo family. Not to mention, I was still trying to be the perfect mother to three boys, three girls and six very unique and distinct personalities and pretty much failing on the regular. Six was positively, absolutely it.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: white;"> </span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-QTLMR_1hqUs/YJ334NZZ3ZI/AAAAAAAAJoU/ewilzI241QsmGldoQc6FrxzwTpR9WLDMwCLcBGAsYHQ/image.png" style="background-color: white; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img data-original-height="1590" data-original-width="1080" height="400" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-QTLMR_1hqUs/YJ334NZZ3ZI/AAAAAAAAJoU/ewilzI241QsmGldoQc6FrxzwTpR9WLDMwCLcBGAsYHQ/w272-h400/image.png" width="272" /></a></div><span style="background-color: white;"><br /><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="background-color: white;">And then came number seven because God knew the only way to teach me that being the perfect mother was never an actual possibility and more importantly, it was never a requirement. It was always about two things. Love and acceptance. Loving the people He brought together to form our family and not only accepting each one but accepting how they would change me year after year.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: white;">That love and acceptance part was much harder when it came to loving and accepting myself for who I was as a woman and a mother. But seven little diamonds in the rough have knocked most of my hard edges off. </span></p><p><span style="background-color: white;">Today, I saw a young mother having a moment of struggle and it reminded me of my own struggles as a young woman. This isn't the first young mother I have tried to encourage and she won't be the last. I will always listen to them and let them know I not only hear and see them, I was them. When so many are harsh and critical towards young men and women doing their best to raise a family in an unforgiving world, I will point out everything they are doing that is good and I will try my best to convince them they are not doing it all wrong. Even when they're sure they are. Because I know that I know being the perfect mother or father is not a possibility and definitely not a requirement. Only love and acceptance and it starts with me and with you.</span></p><p><br /></p>Marlahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18000815937078399278noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9098515874635881752.post-49038413035140406822021-05-12T19:54:00.003-07:002021-05-12T19:54:30.218-07:00Happy Birthday, Maureen!!<p>Today is the birthday of one of my all-time favorite people in the entire world, my cousin, Maureen.</p><p><br /></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://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-Jk5pYlYamPk/YJyJvYo3b5I/AAAAAAAAJnI/lR2sZpU-dBEbbxscoqmd5vMJ7z0Vu_swQCLcBGAsYHQ/image.png" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img data-original-height="899" data-original-width="1223" height="294" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-Jk5pYlYamPk/YJyJvYo3b5I/AAAAAAAAJnI/lR2sZpU-dBEbbxscoqmd5vMJ7z0Vu_swQCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h294/image.png" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Barbara (standing) Maureen, Norman, Char, Marvin Paolini, Mickey</td></tr></tbody></table><br />Anyone that has read this blog for even a minute, knows how important Maureen is to our family. She is not only one of the huge cousins group, she is also Aunt Meta and Uncle Lorin's oldest daughter. The ranch was central to all of our lives which meant Maureen was part of that equation. I can't remember a time without Maureen in it. She has always been more like a big sister to me than a cousin. She always treated me more like a sister as well. Like the time, when I was about three years old and I had a brand-new baby sister who wore cloth diapers. I remember watching my mother rinse the dirty diapers in the toilet. So, it just made sense to me, when Maureen visited, to take her brand-new pantsuit from her suitcase and rinse it in the toilet. She responded like a sister. I'm not sure how I'm still alive. </p><p><br /></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-SFSAs56RlQo/YJyEixD0e3I/AAAAAAAAJmc/-py2gLKPj_MxPe3I2PPt-BZPbBMO65r2QCLcBGAsYHQ/image.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img data-original-height="599" data-original-width="720" height="333" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-SFSAs56RlQo/YJyEixD0e3I/AAAAAAAAJmc/-py2gLKPj_MxPe3I2PPt-BZPbBMO65r2QCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h333/image.png" width="400" /></a></div><p>Maureen lived with my parents for awhile. I would have been about ten years old. She and Char lived together in the backhouse in South Gate. They both wore those crazy beehive hairdos and bought matching camaros. Weirdos. I could never understand leaving the ranch to live in the city but Maureen fit right in. She's a fancy girl who loves animals. Truth be told, I worshipped both of them. They were perfect to me and they still are. </p><p><br /></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/--wwADweUVNA/YJyJ9w22UiI/AAAAAAAAJnM/SozWcPraly8LzuVWiQiuVzLbHAjRLXuaQCLcBGAsYHQ/image.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img data-original-height="1405" data-original-width="1080" height="400" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/--wwADweUVNA/YJyJ9w22UiI/AAAAAAAAJnM/SozWcPraly8LzuVWiQiuVzLbHAjRLXuaQCLcBGAsYHQ/w307-h400/image.png" width="307" /></a></div><br />Maureen has one daughter, my cousin Gwennie. She is going to kill me for posting this picture from her teenage weirdo years but hey, am I sorry? Not even maybe. I adore Gwennie. She is one of the best people in my life and I give her mother tons of credit for that. Maureen is not only a wonderful cousin/big sister, she is a really good mom who raised a really good human being. <p></p><p><br /></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-9mtHUOaPZ_s/YJyKEzo85LI/AAAAAAAAJnU/_jZFK5cyjUkeRpPiUn9-4Z5-M-YvAqF4QCLcBGAsYHQ/image.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img data-original-height="1603" data-original-width="1080" height="400" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-9mtHUOaPZ_s/YJyKEzo85LI/AAAAAAAAJnU/_jZFK5cyjUkeRpPiUn9-4Z5-M-YvAqF4QCLcBGAsYHQ/w270-h400/image.png" width="270" /></a></div><br />This is a picture of Maureen dancing with our cousin, Marvin at my parents fiftieth wedding anniversary. Maureen has always been so good to all of us in the family. My parents and sisters adored her as do all the family. Maureen is the person that always checked in on my parents, cooked and baked for them and later for Kelly when she was so sick. Honestly, Maureen cooks and bakes for all of us when she shows up at our houses. It's normal to have a full freezer by the time she leaves your house. This is who she is. Kind and loving and giving of herself and her time.<p></p><p><br /></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-ZSofz4kd0OQ/YJyKU3QedAI/AAAAAAAAJnk/g_68uMPDVmEEv_WY3PmDeTENfy4AhprtQCLcBGAsYHQ/image.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img data-original-height="1374" data-original-width="1080" height="400" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-ZSofz4kd0OQ/YJyKU3QedAI/AAAAAAAAJnk/g_68uMPDVmEEv_WY3PmDeTENfy4AhprtQCLcBGAsYHQ/w315-h400/image.png" width="315" /></a></div><br />I love this picture. It sits on a little table in my hallway with pictures of my kids and sisters and parents. Maureen and Mickey came to Oklahoma several times to stay with us. I loved every minute of their visits and always felt so loved that they would come all that way just to see us. Another thing about Maureen that endears her to me is her love for animals. She always has a dog. Always. And where she and Larry go, the dog goes. That is an animal lover and I love her for that. She also never calls me crazy for my crazy animal obsession. I love her for that.<p></p><p><br /></p><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-xERt3HY-h3s/YJyFrsvmsyI/AAAAAAAAJmk/qDFD3tvliUES7XBF-QK8g5SKcD1hEBV7QCLcBGAsYHQ/image.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img data-original-height="274" data-original-width="372" height="295" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-xERt3HY-h3s/YJyFrsvmsyI/AAAAAAAAJmk/qDFD3tvliUES7XBF-QK8g5SKcD1hEBV7QCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h295/image.png" width="400" /></a></div><br />These are my cousins, Noelyn, Mickey and Maureen with our oldest son, Matthew. They came all the way to Annapolis for our son John's graduation from the Naval Academy. That meant the world to me. Maureen has always and I mean always treated my kids really well. Even when they were little jerks, she loved them and showed nothing but support. All my kids call her Aunt Maureen because, like I said, she's more like a sister to me.<p></p><p><br /></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-Qu_xcHQbyq4/YJyINJFfTeI/AAAAAAAAJms/5k4r7_vlHmcssQAYBu3TUIwX6vKvZCYKgCLcBGAsYHQ/image.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img data-original-height="540" data-original-width="960" height="225" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-Qu_xcHQbyq4/YJyINJFfTeI/AAAAAAAAJms/5k4r7_vlHmcssQAYBu3TUIwX6vKvZCYKgCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h225/image.png" width="400" /></a></div><br />Ok, I stole this from her FaceBook page because I just had to point something out. See that look on her face? See the hands on her hips? This means run because she is probably heading to the kitchen any minute to get the polenta stick and you don't want any part of that when she starts swinging. And for all you yuppie, sissie people who have something to say about the psychological damage of spanking.... Shaddup! I got whacked and turned out fine. Ok, maybe not the best example.<p></p><p><br /></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-egpiTQP6U1o/YJyIdLjmPzI/AAAAAAAAJm0/Ooe1CwlgPPYyj6X8IOMkFI1YJYJHjyJeACLcBGAsYHQ/image.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="400" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-egpiTQP6U1o/YJyIdLjmPzI/AAAAAAAAJm0/Ooe1CwlgPPYyj6X8IOMkFI1YJYJHjyJeACLcBGAsYHQ/w300-h400/image.png" width="300" /></a></div><br />Look at these two. 💓 Maureen and Larry married a year before Bob and I. Larry loves her the way Bob loves me. This makes me love Larry because of the way he loves Maureen. It's a happy little circle.<p></p><p><br /></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-kX57ehGF7v8/YJyIqnBM8AI/AAAAAAAAJm4/unOWY4Gn89QA1APyqygCdS2w4anXIY7VQCLcBGAsYHQ/image.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img data-original-height="960" data-original-width="540" height="400" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-kX57ehGF7v8/YJyIqnBM8AI/AAAAAAAAJm4/unOWY4Gn89QA1APyqygCdS2w4anXIY7VQCLcBGAsYHQ/w225-h400/image.png" width="225" /></a></div><br />Ok, we get it. You like each other. In the words of my kids, old people love. Gross! Speaking of kids, watch the hands, Larry. Sheesh! I might be jealous of those gams. <p></p><p><br /></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-DagtMsndw9s/YJyJC6CVx4I/AAAAAAAAJnA/-WYpjrUqaTEYje9k1p8JAhWYbB-QLF1QwCLcBGAsYHQ/image.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img data-original-height="1530" data-original-width="2040" height="300" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-DagtMsndw9s/YJyJC6CVx4I/AAAAAAAAJnA/-WYpjrUqaTEYje9k1p8JAhWYbB-QLF1QwCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/image.png" width="400" /></a></div><br />Happy Birthday, Maureen!! I love you and Larry and Gwennie more than words can say and I'm so grateful you're my family.<p></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Marlahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18000815937078399278noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9098515874635881752.post-13736056926576709712021-05-11T21:34:00.001-07:002021-05-11T21:34:19.336-07:00“That doesn’t leave much time for dilly-dallying.”<p><i style="background-color: white;">I am working ridiculous hours right now, trying to finish putting my house back together, mail out more photos, buy a new car, get ready to fly to Texas for a week and make sure my chickens are well fed. All that to say, you're getting re-hash for blog dinner tonight, so take it or leave it, kids.</i></p><p><i style="background-color: white;">I decided to share this post I wrote eleven years ago for a very specific reason. I actually have friends that haven't seen The Princess Bride and it pains me. Hopefully, this will give them the gumption to get onboard and watch this classic flick.</i></p><p><i style="background-color: white;">And now, for your viewing pleasure....</i></p><h3 class="post-title entry-title" itemprop="name" style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 18px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; position: relative;"><span style="background-color: white;">I'm Not A Witch; I'm Your Wife.</span></h3><div class="post-header" style="color: #999999; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.5px; line-height: 1.6; margin: 0px 0px 1.5em;"><div class="post-header-line-1"></div></div><div class="post-body entry-content" id="post-body-96780250242550852" itemprop="description articleBody" style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 14.85px; line-height: 1.4; position: relative; width: 578px;"><span style="background-color: white;">Ok, let me start off by saying I am completely obsessed with the movie, The Princess Bride. There is something about the ridiculousness of it that I get. That should tell you a thing or two about me.<br /><br />Here's another thing about me you probably don't want to know.The last week of February has been especially tough for me emotionally. It has been a crappy week every stinking year for the last eight years. My mom died February 28, 2002. No matter how much I think I am good to go, every year I get freaky the last week in February. Most of the time I don't even realize I am doing it until something or someone points it out to me. Of course, on top of that, my dad died four months ago. So, there you go. Butts and Ashes.<br /><br />Anyway, as I have processed through the week as much as I could, missing my parents, missing my sisters, missing the old me, before I was a witch, I thought of The Princess Bride. The lines in that movie are classic sick. My kind of humor. Then I thought about my parents, also classic sick. My kind of people. So I said to myself, "Self, what better way to honor the old coots and snap out of this funk than to put some of your favorite TPB lines to pictures." Of course, what could I say but, "Wow, self....you are a genius!"<br /><br /><br /></span><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: white;">"It just so happens that your friend here is only mostly dead.</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: white;">There's a big difference between mostly dead and all dead.”</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/_N3ierXHX6hI/S4gaY0oY8QI/AAAAAAAAAZU/LlcUmRe9cOg/s1600-h/BLOGGY+PICS+065.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="background-color: white; color: #336699; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-decoration-line: none;"><img border="0" kt="true" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/_N3ierXHX6hI/S4gaY0oY8QI/AAAAAAAAAZU/LlcUmRe9cOg/s320/BLOGGY+PICS+065.jpg" style="border: none; position: relative;" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: white;">"Mawwage is what bwings us togwether today....”</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/_N3ierXHX6hI/S4gbjoT-2-I/AAAAAAAAAZc/EJWUdjHLyHI/s1600-h/BLOGGY+PICS+041.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="background-color: white; color: #336699; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-decoration-line: none;"><img border="0" kt="true" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/_N3ierXHX6hI/S4gbjoT-2-I/AAAAAAAAAZc/EJWUdjHLyHI/s320/BLOGGY+PICS+041.jpg" style="border: none; position: relative;" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: white;">"This is true love... you think this happens everyday?"</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/_N3ierXHX6hI/S4gcbVDQEWI/AAAAAAAAAZk/ZeBggocLbJM/s1600-h/BLOGGY+PICS+059.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="background-color: white; color: #336699; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-decoration-line: none;"><img border="0" kt="true" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/_N3ierXHX6hI/S4gcbVDQEWI/AAAAAAAAAZk/ZeBggocLbJM/s320/BLOGGY+PICS+059.jpg" style="border: none; position: relative;" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: white;">"When he said, "As you wish”,</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: white;"> what he really meant was, “I love you.”</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/_N3ierXHX6hI/S4gddtO9_2I/AAAAAAAAAZs/4dfusPebUGQ/s1600-h/BLOGGY+PICS+026.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="background-color: white; color: #336699; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-decoration-line: none;"><img border="0" kt="true" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/_N3ierXHX6hI/S4gddtO9_2I/AAAAAAAAAZs/4dfusPebUGQ/s320/BLOGGY+PICS+026.jpg" style="border: none; position: relative;" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></div><div align="left" class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="background-color: white;">So thanks Chuck and Bernie. Thanks for being an "us" so I could be a part of an "us". You taught me more than you know. I get it. I understand. Life .... marriage .... is about two imperfect people coming together in the hopes of making it through .... together. That, and embarrassing your children as often as possible. You'd be really proud to know, I am doing a bang up job on that last part. The legacy of crazy lives on.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: white;">“I'll explain, and I'll be sure to use small words so that you'll be sure to understand. You wart-hog-faced-buffoon!”</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/_N3ierXHX6hI/S4giZWrC7FI/AAAAAAAAAaE/aQsBS-mYty8/s1600-h/IMG_6280%5B1%5D.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="background-color: white; color: #336699; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-decoration-line: none;"><img border="0" kt="true" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/_N3ierXHX6hI/S4giZWrC7FI/AAAAAAAAAaE/aQsBS-mYty8/s320/IMG_6280%5B1%5D.JPG" style="border: none; position: relative;" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: white;">"Surrender!</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: white;">You mean you wish to surrender to me?</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: white;">Very well, I accept.”</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/_N3ierXHX6hI/S4gfty0jneI/AAAAAAAAAZ0/OehIXG5clco/s1600-h/BLOGGY+PICS+061.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="background-color: white; color: #336699; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-decoration-line: none;"><img border="0" kt="true" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/_N3ierXHX6hI/S4gfty0jneI/AAAAAAAAAZ0/OehIXG5clco/s320/BLOGGY+PICS+061.jpg" style="border: none; position: relative;" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: white;">"Since the invention of the kiss, there have only been five kisses that were rated the most passionate, the most pure. This one left them all behind.”</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/_N3ierXHX6hI/S4gjENmlUiI/AAAAAAAAAaM/6vMK_35HAdk/s1600-h/Christmas+2008+408.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="background-color: white; color: #336699; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-decoration-line: none;"><img border="0" kt="true" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/_N3ierXHX6hI/S4gjENmlUiI/AAAAAAAAAaM/6vMK_35HAdk/s320/Christmas+2008+408.jpg" style="border: none; position: relative;" /></a></div><span style="background-color: white;"><br /><br /><br /><br /></span><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: white;">“As you wish."</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/_N3ierXHX6hI/S4go5noFvzI/AAAAAAAAAaU/FDRadXCkN9s/s1600-h/BLOGGY+PICS+037.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="background-color: white; color: #336699; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-decoration-line: none;"><img border="0" kt="true" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/_N3ierXHX6hI/S4go5noFvzI/AAAAAAAAAaU/FDRadXCkN9s/s320/BLOGGY+PICS+037.jpg" style="border: none; position: relative;" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: white;">"In the meantime, rest well and dream of large women.”</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/_N3ierXHX6hI/S4gpTdTox1I/AAAAAAAAAac/8iRShnBeBRs/s1600-h/img017.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="background-color: white; color: #336699; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-decoration-line: none;"><img border="0" kt="true" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/_N3ierXHX6hI/S4gpTdTox1I/AAAAAAAAAac/8iRShnBeBRs/s320/img017.jpg" style="border: none; position: relative;" /></a></div></div>Marlahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18000815937078399278noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9098515874635881752.post-75483398843542830372021-05-10T20:42:00.002-07:002021-05-10T20:42:36.064-07:00Chickens Don't Fly So Why Should I?Well, it looks like I'm headed to Texas for a week. Home office is calling and I must go. Usually, I look forward to these trips. However, this time, not so much. I haven't flown for nine months and I already hate flying so I'm out of practice at relaxing and enjoying the adventure of it. I find myself taking deep breaths and wishing I wasn't going. Then there is the shoe issue. I still can't get a normal shoe on my left foot. This isn't a problem if I'm home wearing my cow slippers all day. Even though it's in Texas, I'm just not convinced home office would appreciate the cows. So, I get to go shoe shopping this week. I hate shopping. I hate the idea of being in a crowded store full of grouchy people. Ok, maybe just grouchy me but I still hate shopping. I should probably do something about my crazy hair and wild eyebrows as well. And my nails look like I hang out on a farm all day. I'm a mess and I just want to stay home and feed my chickens stale cereal. Is that too much to ask for?<div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-5Nk3Nf0qFmE/YJn7FISPXEI/AAAAAAAAJmU/LNpjEFo5FTszJYxivDtJpPOxA-sdyINDwCLcBGAsYHQ/image.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="810" height="400" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-5Nk3Nf0qFmE/YJn7FISPXEI/AAAAAAAAJmU/LNpjEFo5FTszJYxivDtJpPOxA-sdyINDwCLcBGAsYHQ/w300-h400/image.png" width="300" /></a></div><br /><br /></div>Marlahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18000815937078399278noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9098515874635881752.post-27973067672137608632021-05-09T19:52:00.003-07:002021-05-09T19:52:58.006-07:00Happy Mother's Day<p><span style="background-color: white;">She may not be here with me physically anymore but she is absolutely here with me every single day. I can't avoid or ignore her. I see her in the mirror every time I glance in one. I hear her words and voice every time I speak. She is more alive in my daytime thoughts and nighttime dreams than ever. </span></p><p><span style="background-color: white;">Thank you, Mom. For everything. I love you.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-MFeUSFe9qvA/YJieoxCDOOI/AAAAAAAAJmM/mR2-unern2sD7rMHgpFIiXy-cKecwm_uwCLcBGAsYHQ/image.png" style="background-color: white; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img data-original-height="960" data-original-width="720" height="640" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-MFeUSFe9qvA/YJieoxCDOOI/AAAAAAAAJmM/mR2-unern2sD7rMHgpFIiXy-cKecwm_uwCLcBGAsYHQ/w480-h640/image.png" width="480" /></a></div><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span><br /><p></p>Marlahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18000815937078399278noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9098515874635881752.post-6327880942072437402021-05-08T21:30:00.002-07:002021-05-08T21:30:21.645-07:00Biltmore Estate<p><span style="background-color: white;">What a day! We made it to North Carolina last night and spent today roaming the Biltmore Estate. This place is amazing. If you ever get the chance to visit, do it. The gardens alone are worth the trip and then there's the wonderful house with such a fantastic history. I'm so glad Cher and Kel made this happen. Thanks, cousins!</span></p><p><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-acnxiXgxWlk/YJdXiuUyUjI/AAAAAAAAJl4/zg8s2mmn214W8COalg1D5C6kQSQF7x4pQCLcBGAsYHQ/image.png" style="background-color: white; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img data-original-height="825" data-original-width="1080" height="306" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-acnxiXgxWlk/YJdXiuUyUjI/AAAAAAAAJl4/zg8s2mmn214W8COalg1D5C6kQSQF7x4pQCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h306/image.png" width="400" /></a></div><span style="background-color: white;"><br />It was so interesting to see the sign on a main street corner that appeared to lead to a rather ordinary neighborhood. But, once we turned on this street and headed up the hill, it turned into pure magic. The drive to the 8,000 acre estate is through an absolute wooded wonderland.</span><p></p><p><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-mI1xLJMukX0/YJdXfjvMYjI/AAAAAAAAJl0/yYDWLH_HIlcgVhVD2qcxryjROnTYKFhpgCLcBGAsYHQ/image.png" style="background-color: white; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img data-original-height="810" data-original-width="1080" height="300" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-mI1xLJMukX0/YJdXfjvMYjI/AAAAAAAAJl0/yYDWLH_HIlcgVhVD2qcxryjROnTYKFhpgCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/image.png" width="400" /></a></div><span style="background-color: white;"><br />The house is magnificent. I've been to Hearst Castle at least twenty times in my life and it's wonderful in a museum sort of way. Biltmore Estate felt more like a home. A ginormous, amazing home, but still, a home. And the people who work here are absolutely all about Southern hospitality. I can't tell you how many times I was told by different employees they hoped we'd come see them again. But not in a Wal Mart greeter kind of way. You can tell this place belongs to each one of them in an endearing way.</span><p></p><p><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-eqggNkTt9m4/YJdXZE8GAVI/AAAAAAAAJlw/3k6jD02QPEYDUDxADFf0KaDXutum3Lz8wCLcBGAsYHQ/image.png" style="background-color: white; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img data-original-height="810" data-original-width="1080" height="300" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-eqggNkTt9m4/YJdXZE8GAVI/AAAAAAAAJlw/3k6jD02QPEYDUDxADFf0KaDXutum3Lz8wCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/image.png" width="400" /></a></div><span style="background-color: white;"><br />The views from the property are stunning. So many of the rooms were specifically built around the view and you could understand why once you stood in those same spots the family stood in decades ago.</span><p></p><p><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-wZ5V3K2v9nA/YJdXVfu06kI/AAAAAAAAJlo/qarQ817c-nAoLQDMh5ObDfZB5Yio628bwCLcBGAsYHQ/image.png" style="background-color: white; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img data-original-height="810" data-original-width="1080" height="300" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-wZ5V3K2v9nA/YJdXVfu06kI/AAAAAAAAJlo/qarQ817c-nAoLQDMh5ObDfZB5Yio628bwCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/image.png" width="400" /></a></div><span style="background-color: white;"><br />The sights, sounds and smells of nature were completely intoxicating. I could have stood here watching the horses out on the hills and listening to the birds for hours.</span><p></p><p><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-b0dBGzaNC8g/YJdXOHt6iPI/AAAAAAAAJlc/0wvo3tquCa0eZ5f1DEQUof4f5OEl9-CywCLcBGAsYHQ/image.png" style="background-color: white; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img data-original-height="1005" data-original-width="1080" height="372" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-b0dBGzaNC8g/YJdXOHt6iPI/AAAAAAAAJlc/0wvo3tquCa0eZ5f1DEQUof4f5OEl9-CywCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h372/image.png" width="400" /></a></div><span style="background-color: white;"><br />The conservatory was not to be missed. They have just about every plant imaginable and a miniature train that runs through the main building, through the plants. This is another spot where I could have sat for hours and just soaked in all the beauty. Thanks again, Cher for talking us into this and thank you Kelly for pushing me around all day. I had to use a wheelchair because my foot is still too swollen to walk too far at one time so Kelly volunteered. Of course, this meant lots of threats to roll me down hills or into bushes which pretty much was what I did when my sister was in a wheelchair so....karma, baby. ha!</span><p></p><p><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-Osz2GL3SBXM/YJdXG0DhpzI/AAAAAAAAJlY/QMN0MDtk-_YMa6ObuQHnCSl9sL9xYZvoACLcBGAsYHQ/image.png" style="background-color: white; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="768" height="400" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-Osz2GL3SBXM/YJdXG0DhpzI/AAAAAAAAJlY/QMN0MDtk-_YMa6ObuQHnCSl9sL9xYZvoACLcBGAsYHQ/w300-h400/image.png" width="300" /></a></div><p><span style="background-color: white;">This outdoor sculpture is named Free as a Bird and was built onsite by artist, Patrick Dougherty. One of the employees gave us her undivided attention for quite awhile and answered all our questions about this amazing piece. Photos don't do it justice. It feels magical especially wandering through the inside of it.</span></p><p></p><p><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-1cBF6p1q7yY/YJdXD3e8dkI/AAAAAAAAJlU/OnuSf2WObjE6WNi5GcCqV7MD5OUfw0_lQCLcBGAsYHQ/image.png" style="background-color: white; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="768" height="400" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-1cBF6p1q7yY/YJdXD3e8dkI/AAAAAAAAJlU/OnuSf2WObjE6WNi5GcCqV7MD5OUfw0_lQCLcBGAsYHQ/w300-h400/image.png" width="300" /></a></div><span style="background-color: white;"><br />My understanding is it took seventeen days and six men to weave this piece using willow from New York. Check out the top. It reminds me of the finishing stitch on the edge of a blanket when I crochet. Just amazing.</span><p></p><p><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-e1WWRpYFStc/YJdXBLXjhAI/AAAAAAAAJlQ/XR-03FZqQnQBGV2X16rbWdRwhv0t2DXNgCLcBGAsYHQ/image.png" style="background-color: white; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="768" height="400" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-e1WWRpYFStc/YJdXBLXjhAI/AAAAAAAAJlQ/XR-03FZqQnQBGV2X16rbWdRwhv0t2DXNgCLcBGAsYHQ/w300-h400/image.png" width="300" /></a></div><span style="background-color: white;"><br />Here's another interesting thing. They used no tools. Just their gloved hands. Crazy!</span><p></p><p><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-Ej7oHvWSDOE/YJdW8zkaGVI/AAAAAAAAJlM/s50ZFhsBYXgxQ9m-vHmNTxWMI0Ymp1E6gCLcBGAsYHQ/image.png" style="background-color: white; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img data-original-height="763" data-original-width="904" height="338" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-Ej7oHvWSDOE/YJdW8zkaGVI/AAAAAAAAJlM/s50ZFhsBYXgxQ9m-vHmNTxWMI0Ymp1E6gCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h338/image.png" width="400" /></a></div><span style="background-color: white;"><br />I'm so glad we were able to see this amazing piece of art in this amazing place. I hope to come back here again when I can walk every inch of the house and grounds. We may even ride horses next time.</span><p></p><p><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></p><p><br /></p>Marlahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18000815937078399278noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9098515874635881752.post-6181713952821566122021-05-07T20:19:00.000-07:002021-05-07T20:19:42.980-07:00Free Advice Friday<span style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit;"> Tonight's Free Advice:</span><div><span style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit;">If your cousins invite you to go camping for the weekend because you've become a hermit, go. And if, as you're caravaning your way along the highway, you receive a text from your cousins who are a few miles ahead of you telling you to watch for the gator, wild pigs and sniper on the side of the road up ahead, just know, you're somewhere between Florida and Georgia. Obviously. </span></div><div><span style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-n7w6zUrxM5k/YJYCqO92H-I/AAAAAAAAJlE/Uy0WsS0vnscX2uTq7fInyeh-l9CxQ0VgACLcBGAsYHQ/image.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img data-original-height="1920" data-original-width="1080" height="640" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-n7w6zUrxM5k/YJYCqO92H-I/AAAAAAAAJlE/Uy0WsS0vnscX2uTq7fInyeh-l9CxQ0VgACLcBGAsYHQ/w360-h640/image.png" width="360" /></a></div><br /><br /></span></div>Marlahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18000815937078399278noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9098515874635881752.post-28504669502080650802021-05-06T20:46:00.059-07:002021-05-06T23:06:44.124-07:00Happy Birthday, Hannah Kelly Hansen<p> Well, as of today, we have another fourteen year old granddaughter. This one is my sister Kelly's namesake, sort of. She's her middle namesake, anyway. Hannah Kelly Hansen was quite the big thrill for Kelly. Of course, Kel thought Hannah's name should have been Kelly Kelly Kelly. Actually, she thought all my grandchildren should have had her triple moniker but since I'm not George Foreman, I wasn't going to push that idea. For those of you who have been sadly shielded from the joys of the boxing world, George Foreman named all five of his sons George Edward Foreman. You're welcome.</p><p>One other thing my sister Kelly and my granddaughter Kelly Kelly Kelly aka Hannah had in common was their love for baking. In truth, Hannah's cakes remind me of my sister and her baked goods. Honestly, I wish more than anything, Kelly was here today so she could enjoy the comparison. </p><p>Hannah Kelly Hansen, happy fourteenth birthday! I love you so very, very much and I'm happy you aren't named Kelly Kelly Kelly. Although, I think your sister Gracie could live up to that name but that's another story. Hannah, you are a wonderful person. Sharp as a tack, as the old folks say. I think it means you're smart. You're also beautiful and kind and loving. You might have your Aunt Kelly's name and baking skills but you got the rest from me. I'm claiming it anyway. I love you, Hannah. Happy Birthday!!</p><p><br /></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://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-y7bel3OtQ2Y/YJTYRu-gqII/AAAAAAAAJk8/PfFe7YkvE-8vsyJqf9zySS0ZKNeaLer7ACLcBGAsYHQ/image.png" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="810" height="400" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-y7bel3OtQ2Y/YJTYRu-gqII/AAAAAAAAJk8/PfFe7YkvE-8vsyJqf9zySS0ZKNeaLer7ACLcBGAsYHQ/w300-h400/image.png" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Yep, bakes just like her Aunt Kelly.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br /></p>Marlahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18000815937078399278noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9098515874635881752.post-53122951795910164672021-05-05T20:32:00.002-07:002021-05-05T20:32:49.893-07:00Happy Cinco de Mayo!<span style="background-color: white;">So, today Bob and I decided to leave work early and head out for a late lunch. Since it was Cinco de Mayo, we went to our favorite authentic Mexican restaurant. We love this spot and went at least several times a month before the world went mad last year. It's a small place, decorated quite authentically with a giant, hand painted mural on one wall of Vicente Fernandez, Frida Kahlo and luchadors. (Think Nacho Libre) All the kids working there are hispanic, many with thick accents, which makes me miss my parents. They would have been inviting everyone to our house for a BBQ or backyard wedding. No joke. Anyway, it's such a great place with Mexican music playing in the background and Novellas playing on the tv hanging over the bar. That's how I remembered it the last time we were there a year ago. But today? Madre de Dios!!!</span><div><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="background-color: white;">I knew we had probably picked the wrong day to make our grand screw-you-Covid comeback appearance as soon as we pulled in the parking lot and felt the bass booming through our truck windows and into our senior citizen heads. Since it was Cinco de Mayo, the restaurant had hired a DJ who was set up outside for the party that was happening inside and out on the patio. Now listen, normally, I would have jumped from the truck and done the merengue all the way to my table. Three shots for $5? Bring it on and Viva la Raza! Normally. But I haven't been normal since last year when fear drove me deeper into farm life isolation with a side of broken ankle. So when I gingerly stepped from the truck, I hung onto Bob for dear life, afraid of getting knocked down by the latin beat that was sending shock waves my way.</span></div><div><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="background-color: white;">Once inside, I was amazed and stressed by the number of people everywhere. Drinking people. Drinking, partying people. Even though these are usually my kind of people, the noise level was really overwhelming to me today. I absolutely realized clearly during lunch, I may be deserving of an official hermit card. I don't think I like that one bit. Anyway, to get in the spirit of the day, I ordered my usual coconut margarita and decided to relax and enjoy the moment. Lunch was served, it was as good as we remembered and a big tip was earned because of the great, as usual, service. Sounds good, right? Wrong.</span></div><div><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="background-color: white;">Before heading home, we decided to stop in Lowes to buy a few hanging plants for our patio. I mean, we we're doing almost normal again, right, with lunch in our favorite place. So, why not stroll the garden center next store. Bad, bad decision. Halfway through the store my stomach informed me, it did not appreciate mexican food and margaritas at three in the afternoon, when I had not had one drop of water all day. I'm pretty sure, as I limped my way to the restroom, I heard my stomach call me some unkind names. My sheet white, sweaty face verified what my stomach was saying. It was brutal. </span></div><div><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="background-color: white;">Anyway, we made it home. I drank a lot of water as penance and my stomach and face forgave me. I ate a bowl of cereal for dinner and called it a night. Until my daughter Rachel sent me this text.</span></div><div><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></div><div><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://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-7G0_NVl2RvE/YJNgLsAyMrI/AAAAAAAAJk0/k7RzeKoeHzgswJnbjVzFkNWsI5TRE5YfACLcBGAsYHQ/image.png" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit;"><img data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="810" height="400" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-7G0_NVl2RvE/YJNgLsAyMrI/AAAAAAAAJk0/k7RzeKoeHzgswJnbjVzFkNWsI5TRE5YfACLcBGAsYHQ/w300-h400/image.png" width="300" /></span></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Homemade Strawberry Margarita. See my granddaughters faces? Yeah, that's me right now.</span> <br /><br /></span><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit;">Happy Mexican Army's victory over the French Empire at the Battle of Puebla, Day!</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></div><div><br /></div>Marlahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18000815937078399278noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9098515874635881752.post-48610210901975761932021-05-04T20:30:00.076-07:002021-05-04T22:37:14.749-07:00Party Like It's 1999<p><span style="background-color: white;">So, we have two spare rooms in our little hippie house. One is named Sisi's room because it has all of her furniture and Cayucos/Walter family things in it. The other is called Grandpa's room because it has my dad's furniture and Casas family things in it. Yes, I understand I have made my two spare rooms into shrines for dead people. Yes, I understand some people might see this as creepy. No, I don't care. </span></p><p><span style="background-color: white;">Anyway, I was in Grandpa's room tonight, trying to unload all my kitchen stuff that we schlepped there back into the kitchen now that the painting and tiling is finally finished. Of course, I got sidetracked for a few minutes, ok, an hour, when the boxes of photos caught my attention. I know, squirrel! So, I started going through photos and then was distracted by the monument on the wall in front of me. And it made me realize something. Having parents like mine, that make everything in life a party for everyone including the garbage man, is a burden after they die.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-44CM6SE8qb4/YJIo7YC4-UI/AAAAAAAAJks/nyP9tg30gNcgKwalv8tnrqfXsCVu7nNDACLcBGAsYHQ/image.png" style="background-color: white; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img data-original-height="1290" data-original-width="1080" height="400" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-44CM6SE8qb4/YJIo7YC4-UI/AAAAAAAAJks/nyP9tg30gNcgKwalv8tnrqfXsCVu7nNDACLcBGAsYHQ/w335-h400/image.png" width="335" /></a></div><span style="background-color: white;"><br /><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="background-color: white;">Yes, a burden. A heavy load to carry. Because when they died everything stopped and the everything they created was massive. It involved everyone they knew. And all that being gone for all of us left behind, all the parties and adventures and crazy shenanigans, is unbelievably heavy for an empty box. But sometimes, that's exactly how it feels living without the Casas Chaos. Like carrying the heaviest emptiness imaginable.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: white;">I suppose this is the price of being loved by a hard-headed Swiss and a hard-to-handle Spaniard.</span></p>Marlahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18000815937078399278noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9098515874635881752.post-3244206284229002122021-05-03T19:19:00.007-07:002021-05-03T19:21:09.278-07:00This Place Looks Like A Tornado Went Through It<div><span style="background-color: white;"><i>Today is the 22nd anniversary of when the May 3rd, 1999 tornado hit our farm. I wrote this eleven years ago and thought I'd share it tonight. It's good to look back now and then and see how far we've come. It's also really good to see bad things can happen and it's possible to not only survive but to move forward. Thank you, God. Again and again and again.</i></span></div><span style="background-color: white;"><div><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></div><div><br /></div>May 3rd, 1999 started out just like any other ordinary day. My husband Bob, our children and I had risen early to prepare for school and work. There were breakfasts and lunches to make, backpacks to fill and faces to kiss goodbye. Once everyone was safely out the door I began my work day on our farm. We had two steers and six hogs going to market that morning so I headed out to the barn to prepare things and to feed our horses and goats. As I walked towards the barn I looked up at the sky noticing it had that eerie green shade so common during spring storms. I continued towards the barn not giving the weather another thought. </span><div><br /></div><div><br /><div><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="background-color: white;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-YJTEv9n1ov0/YJCps7T8_-I/AAAAAAAAJjk/7h4Bx7VKCSIuk5UFopGBR6zsxPsK6uaxgCLcBGAsYHQ/image.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-YJTEv9n1ov0/YJCps7T8_-I/AAAAAAAAJjk/7h4Bx7VKCSIuk5UFopGBR6zsxPsK6uaxgCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/image.png" width="400" /></a></div><br /></span></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><span style="background-color: white;"> As I entered the barn, I did what I had done since the day we purchased the farm. I thanked God for giving me my dream. How I loved that barn. It was almost 100 years old and boasted almost 4000 square feet to its two story wood frame. Every time I entered it, I felt my entire body relax with the sights, sounds and smells of the past and present sweetly coming together. </span></div><div><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="background-color: white;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-zjOvsqyM1RY/YJCp5wmgLII/AAAAAAAAJjo/yMIMGVg0s24hn-0yqH37AS-VStLYdBckwCLcBGAsYHQ/image.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-zjOvsqyM1RY/YJCp5wmgLII/AAAAAAAAJjo/yMIMGVg0s24hn-0yqH37AS-VStLYdBckwCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/image.png" width="400" /></a></div><div><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></div><br /><br /></span></div><div><span style="background-color: white;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-R7SKhJf94hE/YJCp_lm2w0I/AAAAAAAAJjw/tYdPmvv6J-oHk6JB4wcFlUMl09vLWlOkgCLcBGAsYHQ/image.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-R7SKhJf94hE/YJCp_lm2w0I/AAAAAAAAJjw/tYdPmvv6J-oHk6JB4wcFlUMl09vLWlOkgCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/image.png" width="400" /></a></div><div><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/--io2rhmzb2Q/YJCqD5gyKdI/AAAAAAAAJj0/dFquPxdnSyQQm0sTdh2H585_cbCdfJh4wCLcBGAsYHQ/image.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/--io2rhmzb2Q/YJCqD5gyKdI/AAAAAAAAJj0/dFquPxdnSyQQm0sTdh2H585_cbCdfJh4wCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/image.png" width="400" /></a></div><br /></span></div><div><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="background-color: white;"> The morning went by with the market animals picked up on time and the chores done quickly and easily. I settled in my favorite chair in our comfortable living room for a relaxing cup of coffee. As I sat there sipping my coffee, I looked around the room thinking about how much I loved the farm. It was truly the place I had dreamed of all my life. Some of my happiest moments since moving from California five years earlier to Oklahoma had been spent on this farm. </span></div><div><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="background-color: white;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-TYvANpROt4s/YJCqN-OLVcI/AAAAAAAAJj4/T5UTZh-3ru8jgsnelXgrONYlPS2uNnPrACLcBGAsYHQ/image.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-TYvANpROt4s/YJCqN-OLVcI/AAAAAAAAJj4/T5UTZh-3ru8jgsnelXgrONYlPS2uNnPrACLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/image.png" width="400" /></a></div><br /><br /></span></div><div><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="background-color: white;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-y7CvOrXm-58/YJCqRU8981I/AAAAAAAAJj8/6bvtR79sFCwiwHyRZRINV5bXw_QJkcgOwCLcBGAsYHQ/image.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-y7CvOrXm-58/YJCqRU8981I/AAAAAAAAJj8/6bvtR79sFCwiwHyRZRINV5bXw_QJkcgOwCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/image.png" width="400" /></a></div><br /><br /></span></div><div><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="background-color: white;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-iDncLnHepCY/YJCqYOoaSvI/AAAAAAAAJkE/ob7Xc4-lToYdPvrPInUnxVE7_33qkl6BACLcBGAsYHQ/image.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-iDncLnHepCY/YJCqYOoaSvI/AAAAAAAAJkE/ob7Xc4-lToYdPvrPInUnxVE7_33qkl6BACLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/image.png" width="400" /></a></div><br /><br /></span></div><div><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="background-color: white;"> Suddenly, my calm was shaken by the blaring of our weather radio. Since weather warnings were not an uncommon thing for the Oklahoma plains, I went into the bedroom fully expecting it to be the typical wind or storm warning. This time was different. There was something ominous in these warnings. I switched the radio off and went to the television knowing our local news would be giving the needed details. Yes, there were chances of multiple tornados but nothing solid yet. I shut the television off and called my husband. He assured me everything was fine and so we both continued our day as though it was. </span></div><div><br /></div><div><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="background-color: white;"> I went about my housework feeling a growing uneasiness. The weather seemed more brooding outside and the air in the house felt thicker by the moment. Within hours Bob called to say all schools were closing and he was leaving work to go get the kids and head home. Even though there were no sightings in our area, the schools were taking the necessary precautions. I felt sick but Bob assured me he and the children would be home soon. </span></div><div><br /></div><div><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="background-color: white;"> My oldest daughter Rachel and her husband Joel had purchased a new home just a few miles east of us. Today was to be their moving day. I decided to help pass the time, I would drive over and see if I could help them unpack. I called Bob to let him know where I would be and asked him to call me as soon as he and the kids got home. He assured me he would. </span></div><div><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="background-color: white;"> At my daughters I busied myself with the things associated with moving. She and I cleaned and unpacked boxes while Joel transported their belongings from the old house to the new one. Soon we received a phone call from Bob. He and the children had started the nine mile journey home when a tornado touched down in town. They quickly took shelter at the first house they came to. This would happen twice more before they were able to make it home safely. The kindness of strangers would prove to be immeasurable throughout that day and the days to follow. </span></div><div><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="background-color: white;"> We decided it was best for me to stay where I was until we knew for sure it was safe to travel home. As I felt the knots in my stomach getting larger and harder, I cleaned and unpacked with a vengeance. Shortly after the last phone call from Bob, the power went out. The cell phones would no longer work. The tornado sirens in town began to wail. I yelled for my daughter to get into the bathtub and cover herself with blankets as I ran to the sliding glass door in the dining room. As I stood there peering out into what should have been the blue sky of early dusk, I lost my breath. All I could see was the blackest, thickest, widest tornado even my own vivid imagination could not have dared to dream. I ran to the bathroom and told Rae, “I think we’re in trouble honey.” We both ran to the hall closet and closed ourselves in while praying that this would be the safest place. My chest began to hurt from the pressure of the tornado passing. We continued to pray. </span></div><div><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="background-color: white;"> After what seemed like hours the sirens stopped. Rae and I left the closet upon hearing a knock at the front door. A neighbor had come to see if we were okay. As we talked Joel drove up. Jumping from the truck he came running into the house crying. He had been on his way back to us with another load of belongings when a tornado had stopped him. He had taken shelter in the home of strangers. His greatest fear was that of losing his wife as he saw the huge monster heading our way. </span></div><div><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="background-color: white;"> Suddenly it occurred to me that I had not heard from Bob. The phones were not working and all I could think of was getting home. Joel wouldn’t let me go alone so the three of us got into his truck and headed west to the farm. We had only gone two blocks when the siren began its horrible wail once again. The police flagged us into a safe house refusing to allow us to continue on. As we took shelter with strangers I prayed for the safety of my husband and children. </span></div><div><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="background-color: white;"> Hours would pass before we were allowed to continue our journey back home. Joel refused to take the dirt back roads that would quickly lead us to our farm. He felt it best to stay on the paved roads as much as possible. I was frustrated with that decision. Later I would learn of two more tornados passing through those back roads at the very moments we would have been on them. </span></div><div><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="background-color: white;"> When we finally came to our road I saw the first images of the destruction. It was now after 10 pm. The sky was black and the lights that normally dotted the county roads were all gone, destroyed by the tornadoes. There were police and fire trucks everywhere. The eerie lights from those vehicles along with our truck headlights illuminated more than I wanted to see. We would have to drive one mile down the dirt road before getting to our house but I already knew. I could see pieces of our barn and home along the road. I began to hyperventilate. </span></div><div><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="background-color: white;"> Pulling in front of what was once our home, now crawling with emergency workers and neighbors; I jumped from the truck and ran to the edge of the front lawn. Even in the darkness I could see the barn was gone. The house looked like something from a Halloween horror movie. It was battered beyond recognition with doors and windows gone and lace curtains blowing from the inside to the outside. The wind howled through the empty shell. I looked across the driveway to see my husband’s car crumpled and destroyed. I dropped to the grass screaming thinking I would never see Bob or our children again. As neighbors tried to comfort me, I sank deeper into darkness, my mind swirling with the sight before me. Just when I thought I couldn’t take another breath, a familiar pair of arms enveloped me. Bob held me close as I sobbed with relief. One by one our children joined him by wrapping themselves into the family embrace. They had arrived home minutes before the tornado hit giving them just enough time to take shelter in our basement. </span></div><div><br /></div><div><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="background-color: white;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-3YweXtM-QP0/YJCrV2NApwI/AAAAAAAAJkU/G2QdT6-aZUsvVW-5qHUYTCyZ-kkeXTuygCLcBGAsYHQ/image.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-3YweXtM-QP0/YJCrV2NApwI/AAAAAAAAJkU/G2QdT6-aZUsvVW-5qHUYTCyZ-kkeXTuygCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/image.png" width="400" /></a></div><br /><br /></span></div><div><br /></div><div><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="background-color: white;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-d0I9fkusnBE/YJCrZOMh_tI/AAAAAAAAJkY/oUuDE7s4NXE8pZdVDylaL8kgF7zNWqfZwCLcBGAsYHQ/image.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-d0I9fkusnBE/YJCrZOMh_tI/AAAAAAAAJkY/oUuDE7s4NXE8pZdVDylaL8kgF7zNWqfZwCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/image.png" width="400" /></a></div><br /><br /></span></div><div><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="background-color: white;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-iUxF4OzGABc/YJCrb1cOroI/AAAAAAAAJkc/g8AUQ9Tt1lkQwQe3EjP5gFr62P67P2tswCLcBGAsYHQ/image.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-iUxF4OzGABc/YJCrb1cOroI/AAAAAAAAJkc/g8AUQ9Tt1lkQwQe3EjP5gFr62P67P2tswCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/image.png" width="400" /></a></div><br /></span></div><div><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="background-color: white;"> Sixty-six tornadoes would pass through Oklahoma on May 3rd, 1999 killing forty-eight people. It would be recorded as the most prolific tornado outbreak in Oklahoma history.</span></div></div>Marlahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18000815937078399278noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9098515874635881752.post-91392086171446048842021-05-02T22:31:00.001-07:002021-05-02T22:31:21.555-07:00Marry Your Best Friend<p>Tonight, after a full day of working plus trying to piece the house back together, Bob and I finally collapsed on the couch to eat a crappy dinner and watch some even crappier tv. As usual, we ended up laughing about things as we discussed the day and some upcoming future plans. That's when I asked this question;</p><p>"Bob, did you ever think that after almost 48 years together, we'd be this happy and laughing so much?"</p><p>And his answer?</p><p>"Yes, I did."</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://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-A3di6op38HM/YI-Io68rfuI/AAAAAAAAJjc/2QBTe3B7u7odCGiLinlrGC22jZUwcOV-gCLcBGAsYHQ/image.png" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1249" data-original-width="1080" height="240" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-A3di6op38HM/YI-Io68rfuI/AAAAAAAAJjc/2QBTe3B7u7odCGiLinlrGC22jZUwcOV-gCLcBGAsYHQ/image.png" width="208" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">How did I ever get so lucky?</td></tr></tbody></table><br /></p>Marlahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18000815937078399278noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9098515874635881752.post-33414474169399837992021-05-01T23:46:00.000-07:002021-05-01T23:46:11.479-07:00Fat Not Phat<p>My mother was obsessed with feeding people. If you showed up at my parents house, there was going to be a massive amount of food put out for you, hungry or not. It didn't matter if you had just eaten, my mother was going to feed you again. It was how she loved people. She fed them.</p><p>The other crazy thing was how she fed everyone. You could look through the refrigerator and pantry and not find anything to eat as a kid. But, the minute people showed up, my mom started loading the table with incredible delicacies. It was like The Great Hall at Hogwarts. Food just seemed to magically appear and it was always pretty spectacular. I could never figure out how she did it when I was young but I was always so happy when it happened. And it happened a lot because our house was always full of people.</p><p>No matter how unhappy my mom might be, the minute she had people to cook for, she was absolutely joyful. I loved watching her chop, slice and dice, moving from stove to sink to fridge and back to the cutting board. It was this beautiful dance she did all alone in a world she would never allow us to enter. All preparation, cooking, baking and serving was done by my mother in our house. I don't think she trusted any of us to do it right because, as she always said, she had a special way of doing everything. She wasn't wrong.</p><p><br /></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://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-T4vbvueL3fw/YI487mG5ICI/AAAAAAAAJjQ/RxzqyRCEazc2FHd3X0MfEdgIKWeFq50jQCLcBGAsYHQ/image.png" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img data-original-height="891" data-original-width="1362" height="261" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-T4vbvueL3fw/YI487mG5ICI/AAAAAAAAJjQ/RxzqyRCEazc2FHd3X0MfEdgIKWeFq50jQCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h261/image.png" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Just a little Christmas Buffet Bernice threw together. Oy!</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br /></p><p>Years later, once I had a family of my own, I somehow found the same magic. I was able to fill our table with more than decent meals morning, noon and night. The kids would complain there was nothing to eat and before they knew it, the pots were bubbling on the stove and something wonderful was in the oven. I love cooking but more importantly, I love feeding people. Something happens to make me really happy when I serve food to those gathered around our table. I don't know that I understand what it is at its core but I know it's the same magic my mother possessed. </p><p>There's some weird connection however to the struggle my mother had for decades with her weight. None of my sisters have weight issues but they all feed people just like our mother did. I, however, have struggled with being fat for most of my adult life. I hate it and yet, I can't seem to change it. Not so far anyway. </p><p>Food is more than sustenance to me. It represents love and comfort and a feeling of peace, even if only for the moment. That's what makes it so dangerous to me. It's what I turn to when I'm sad, or lonely or feeling broken. I feel those things more than I like to admit. Then the shame follows. Looking in mirrors is torture because I am reminded of my constant and ongoing failure as a person. I worry about embarrassing my children or friends, so I avoid people more than I should. That's just the truth.</p><p>I have been called out and shamed by family and friends, more than you would believe. It has not been helpful or necessary as I carry enough guilt already. Most people would never know this has been a burden for me because I have always used my sense of humor to cover the real feelings behind my weight. Ultimately, I blame no one but myself for my life. I get the credit for what I've done right. I get the blame for all that is effed up. That's also the truth.</p><p>So, I won't stop feeding people or cooking. It's a big part of who I am and I like that part of me. But, I will be seeking therapy to get to the bottom of this nightmare. It has affected my life for too long and I'm tired. This isn't about losing weight anymore. I've done that. Over and over and over. It's about something much deeper. I'm also not doing this for anyone but myself. I spent most of my life trying to please other people so they would love me or like me or include me. That's exhausting and stupid. </p><p>I struggled with sharing this part of my life but I've felt compelled for awhile now to share the truth with whoever reads this. Maybe someone else is struggling with their own demons and can't seem to find the way out. There is a way and it's ok to ask for help finding the exit door. Do it for you because you matter more than you know.</p><p><br /></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><br /><p></p>Marlahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18000815937078399278noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9098515874635881752.post-82948726837499561402021-04-30T20:43:00.002-07:002021-04-30T21:50:02.707-07:00Free Advice Friday<p><span style="background-color: white; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span><span style="color: #333333;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Tonight's Free Advice:</span></span></span></p><p><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></p><p><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="font-family: inherit; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-XLuenKXtf14/YIzc8JAmv-I/AAAAAAAAJjA/F3HRj4Y3JZ42r_JiGo-3BOYq9yHlKi6AgCLcBGAsYHQ/image.png" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img data-original-height="810" data-original-width="1080" height="300" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-XLuenKXtf14/YIzc8JAmv-I/AAAAAAAAJjA/F3HRj4Y3JZ42r_JiGo-3BOYq9yHlKi6AgCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/image.png" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #333333; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Keep family traditions alive.</span></span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="font-family: inherit; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-czDLCw_cCDU/YIzdLEjisOI/AAAAAAAAJjE/abcuhQZshjQvtN9m2lt0x0rmBOGCE7d5QCLcBGAsYHQ/image.png" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="810" height="400" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-czDLCw_cCDU/YIzdLEjisOI/AAAAAAAAJjE/abcuhQZshjQvtN9m2lt0x0rmBOGCE7d5QCLcBGAsYHQ/w300-h400/image.png" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Pass them on to your children and grandchildren.</span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br /></span></span></p><p><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 14.85px;"><br /></span></p>Marlahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18000815937078399278noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9098515874635881752.post-58344614081228159092021-04-29T20:51:00.003-07:002021-04-29T20:55:16.758-07:00Throwback Thursday Because I'm Living In (Remodel) Hoarder Hell Right Now And Can't Find Anything<p><i style="background-color: white;"> I wrote this eleven years ago to the day. Not much has changed. We don't live with a twelve year old anymore however we both still act like twelve year olds and one of us still does most of the talking. Oh well, some things never change. </i></p><p><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-BZ4NeSVQewo/YIt8z9s_S4I/AAAAAAAAJi4/mVp2TKJ53dgAHh3QZCYpMNTCnToZBH49wCLcBGAsYHQ/image.png" style="background-color: white; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img data-original-height="661" data-original-width="1242" height="213" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-BZ4NeSVQewo/YIt8z9s_S4I/AAAAAAAAJi4/mVp2TKJ53dgAHh3QZCYpMNTCnToZBH49wCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h213/image.png" width="400" /></a></div><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></p><h3 class="post-title entry-title" itemprop="name" style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 18px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; position: relative;"><span style="background-color: white;">Wanted: One Talkative Cabana Boy</span></h3><div class="post-header" style="color: #999999; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.5px; line-height: 1.6; margin: 0px 0px 1.5em;"><div class="post-header-line-1"></div></div><div class="post-body entry-content" id="post-body-2240215134828374561" itemprop="description articleBody" style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 14.85px; line-height: 1.4; position: relative; width: 578px;"><span style="background-color: white;">So, after my last post, I noticed people requested to hear Bob’s side of the story. I, for one, loved the idea. Think about it. Bob giving his side of the story would mean he would actually have to share what is going on inside that brain of his. This was going to work out better than I could have even imagined. Or so I thought.<br /><br />When Bob walked in the door Tuesday night he was laughing as he asked,<br /><br /><br />“So, are you ready to apologize?”<br /><br /><br />That’s when I started laughing.<br /><br /><br />“Apologize? For what? For telling the truth?”<br /><br /><br />Ok, so now we are both laughing hard enough to make it difficult to speak but not too difficult to chase each other through the house pushing one another. Yeah, we are quite mature like that. Of course, our twelve year old is also laughing and running with us by this time even though she has no idea why.<br /><br /><br />Anyway, when I told the Great Orator that people were requesting his side of the story, he was thrilled. He promised to let the entire blog world including “all those blog people of yours” know the truth once and for all.<br /><br /><br />Waiting.<br /><br /><br />Waiting.<br /><br /><br />Waiting.<br /><br /><br />Finally, last night when I asked him when he planned on responding to my post, I got this shockingly uncharacteristic reply. (sarcasm most definitely intended)<br /><br /><br />“Sorry. I got nuthin.”<br /><br /><br />Point proven. Case closed.<br /><br /><br />One last thought. This may be why middle-aged women leave their husbands after 35 years for talkative Cabana boys. I’m just saying……<br /><br /><br /><br /></span><br /></div>Marlahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18000815937078399278noreply@blogger.com0