tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-55821005727357702032024-02-06T18:29:50.277-08:00My Scarlet LettersBarbie Scarlethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13135787844153234947noreply@blogger.comBlogger160125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5582100572735770203.post-28890152147674247672014-07-13T21:45:00.000-07:002014-07-13T21:45:13.253-07:00July 13, 2014In Chicago. At the Cubs game. World cup is on the plasma screen in the bar somewhere over my shoulder. July 13, 2014.<br />
In a strange, new place and thinking of my favorite soccer player...<br />
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Happy Birthday, you!Barbie Scarlethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13135787844153234947noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5582100572735770203.post-5581505124688566622012-11-22T10:52:00.002-08:002012-11-27T22:50:30.566-08:00Thanksgiving; A Spiritual Practice<br />
Thanksgiving, November, this time of year, in general, is probably my favorite. The holidays, the chill in the air, the turn of the weather, the leaves floating and falling.... a season of gratitude.<br />
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And it just doesn't feel like there can ever be too much gratitude....<br />
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In her article <b><span style="color: #6aa84f;">The Seven Best Gratitude Quotes</span></b>, (published November 23, 2011 in The Mindful Self-Express) <span style="color: #6aa84f;">Melanie A. Greenberg</span> writes...<br />
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<span style="color: #6aa84f;"><i>Gratitude is an integral part of a spiritual practice. </i><br /><i>Develop a gratitude practice to open your heart and rewire your brain. </i><br /></span><br />
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<span style="color: #6aa84f;"><b style="font-style: italic;">Gratitude Quotes </b></span></div>
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<li><i>"Let us be grateful to people who make us happy; they are the charming gardeners who make our souls blossom." - </i>Marcel Proust </li>
<li><i>"We can only be said to be alive in those moments when our hearts are conscious of our treasures." - </i>Thornton Wilder </li>
<li><i>As we express our gratitude, we must never forget that the highest appreciation is not to utter words, but to live by them. </i>John F. Kennedy<i> </i></li>
<li><i>At times our own light goes out and is rekindled by a spark from another person. Each of us has cause to think with deep gratitude of those who have lighted the flame within us. </i>Albert Schweitzer </li>
<li><i>The deepest craving of human nature </i><i>is the need to be appreciated. -- </i>William James </li>
<li><i>"Be thankful for what you have; you'll end up having more. If you concentrate on what you don't have, you will never, ever have enough." -- </i>Oprah Winfrey </li>
<li><i>He is a wise</i><i> man who does not grieve for the things which he has not, but rejoices for those which he has." - </i>Epictetus </li>
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<b style="font-style: italic;">How to Bring Gratitude into Your Life </b></div>
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<i>To begin bringing gratitude into your life, you can deliberately meditate on all the things in your own life that help you or give you pleasure. You can also write a gratitude diary, posting pictures and writing about the things you feel grateful for each day. The holidays are a great time to express your gratitude to friends and family by writing cards and exchanging thoughtful, personal gifts. Baking cookies for neighbors or sharing food with the poor are other ways to express appreciation for the abundance of food that we have in this country. Gratitude can lead to feelings of love, appreciation, generosity and compassion, which further open our hearts and help rewire our brains to fire in more positive ways.</i></div>
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<span style="color: #38761d; font-size: x-small;"><span style="text-align: start;">The Seven Best Gratitude Quotes; by Melanie A. Greenburg</span><span style="text-align: start;"> </span></span><br />
<span style="text-align: start;"><span style="color: #38761d; font-size: x-small;">Published November 23, 2011 in The Mindful Self-Express</span></span></div>
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And because I find searching for quotes on gratitude to be a bit addictive, </div>
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here are a few more from www.quotegarden.com/gratitude</div>
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<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i>The struggle ends when the gratitude begins. </i></span><br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i>~ </i>Neale Donald Walsch</span></div>
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<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i>Silent gratitude isn't much use to anyone. </i></span><br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i>~ </i>G.B. Stern</span></div>
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<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i>If you want to turn your life around, try thankfulness. It will change your life mightily.</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i>~ </i>Gerald Good</span><br />
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<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i>I would maintain that thanks are the highest form of thought. </i></span><br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i>~ </i>G.K. Chesterton</span></div>
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<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i>Praise the bridge that carried you over. </i></span><br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i>~ </i>George Colman</span></div>
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<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i>There is no such thing as gratitude unexpressed. If it is unexpressed, it is plain, old-fashioned ingratitude. </i></span><br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i>~ </i>Robert Brault<br /><br /><i>Grace isn't a little prayer you chant before receiving a meal. It's a way to live. </i></span><br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i>~ </i>Attributed to Jacqueline Winspear<br /><br /><i>Not what we say about our blessings, but how we use them, is the true measure of our thanksgiving. </i></span><br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i>~ </i>W.T. Purkiser<br /><br /><i>As each day comes to us refreshed and anew, so does my gratitude renew itself daily. </i></span><br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i>~ </i>Terri Guillemets<br /><br /><i>When eating bamboo sprouts, remember the man who planted them.</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;">~ Chinese Proverb<br /><br /><i>Feeling gratitude and not expressing it is like wrapping a present and not giving it.</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;">~ William Arthur Ward<br /><br /><i>Most human beings have an almost infinite capacity for taking things for granted. </i></span><br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;">~ Aldous Huxley<br /><br /><i>If the only prayer you said in your whole life was, "thank you," that would suffice. </i></span><br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;">~ Meister Eckhart<br /><br /><i>The unthankful heart... discovers no mercies; but let the thankful heart sweep through the day and, as the magnet finds the iron, so it will find, in every hour, some heavenly blessings! </i></span><br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i>~ </i>Henry Ward Beecher<br /> <br /><i>The Pilgrims made seven times more graves than huts. No Americans have been more impoverished than these who, nevertheless, set aside a day of thanksgiving. </i></span><br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i>~ </i>H.U. Westermayer</span><br />
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<i><span style="color: #674ea7;">For each new morning with its light,</span></i></div>
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<i><span style="color: #674ea7;">For rest and shelter of the night,</span></i></div>
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<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i><i>For health and food, for love and friends,</i></i></span></div>
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<i>For everything Thy goodness sends.</i></div>
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<span style="color: #674ea7;">~ Ralph Waldo Emerson</span></div>
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<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i> Do not take anything for granted — not one smile or one person or one rainbow or one breath, or one night in your cozy bed. </i></span><br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i>~ </i>Terri Guillemets<br /><br /><i>There is no greater difference between men than between grateful and ungrateful people. </i></span><br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i>~ </i>R.H. Blyth<br /><br /><i>We often take for granted the very things that most deserve our gratitude.</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i>~ </i>Cynthia Ozick<br /><br /><i>The only people with whom you should try to get even are those who have helped you. </i></span><br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i>~ </i>John E. Southard<br /><br /><i>Who does not thank for little will not thank for much. </i></span><br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i>~ </i>Estonian Proverb<br /><br /><i>Gratitude is a quality similar to electricity: it must be produced and discharged and used up in order to exist at all. </i></span><br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i>~ </i>William Faulkner<br /> <br /><i>You say grace before meals. All right. But I say grace before the concert and the opera, and grace before the play and pantomime, and grace before I open a book, and grace before sketching, painting, swimming, fencing, boxing, walking, playing, dancing and grace before I dip the pen in the ink. </i></span><br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;">~ G.K. Chesterton<br /><br /><i>Two kinds of gratitude: The sudden kind we feel for what we take; the larger kind we feel for what we give. </i></span><br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i>~ </i>Edwin Arlington Robinson<br /><br /><i>With arms outstretched I thank. With heart beating gratefully I love. With body in health I jump for joy. With spirit full I live.</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i>~</i>Terri Guillemets<br /><br /><br /><br /></span><br />
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<i style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="color: #674ea7;">Saying thank you is more than good manners. </span></i></div>
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<i style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="color: #674ea7;"> It is good spirituality. </span></i></div>
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<span style="color: #674ea7;"><i></i>~ Alfred Painter</span></div>
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Barbie Scarlethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13135787844153234947noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5582100572735770203.post-20105782413353988112012-08-13T10:39:00.001-07:002012-08-13T17:19:23.992-07:00Marcella It's happened again. Someone slipped out of my life when I was paying inadequate attention. The last time this happened, when Pete died a few years ago, I swore it would not happen again. That those very few, but priceless and pivotal people in my life would be fully aware of my gratitude for them. For their energy. For their light. For their influence.<br />
That my appreciation would not go unspoken.<br />
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There are simply some people that I cannot imagine my life without. Marcella was one of those people. An unusual gem and source of endless support and love and encouragement. She was one of the most forgiving and non-judgmental people I've ever known. She was far more forgiving of me than I've ever been. It was easier to breathe when I was around Marcella. Which is so funny, as she toted oxygen around with her. Air on a tether.<br />
I hope I was half the blessing to her that she's been to me. And I'm so, so guilty that it had been so long since I'd last seen her. Me, living my ordinary life, just assuming her presence in my world. I see that these words here are about me. For me. But grief is like that. And if it's easier to stay in a place of self-loathing and self-pity for a bit, instead of just letting myself feel the raw and painful sadness, then so be it. <br />
Marcella, thank you so much. I miss you so.Barbie Scarlethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13135787844153234947noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5582100572735770203.post-56331344129958191322012-07-31T20:48:00.002-07:002012-07-31T20:48:55.606-07:00Tuesday's Child<br />
I was born on a Tuesday. July 24, 1962.<br />
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According to 'Monday's Child,' the classic children's poem, Tuesday's child is full of grace.<br />
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<i><span style="color: #351c75;">Monday’s child is fair of face,<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="color: #351c75;">Tuesday’s child is full of grace,<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="color: #351c75;">Wednesday’s child is full of woe,<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="color: #351c75;">Thursday’s child has far to go,<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="color: #351c75;">Friday’s child is loving and giving,<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="color: #351c75;">Saturday’s child works hard for a living,<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="color: #351c75;">And the child that is born on the Sabbath day<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="color: #351c75;">Is bonny and blithe, and good and gay.</span></i><o:p></o:p></div>
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You knew this about me, right?<br />
Who hasn't heard that phrase.... "Oh yeah, that Barbie! She's so full of grace."<br />
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1962:</div>
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JFK was president.</div>
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On the Chinese calendar, the Year of the Tiger.</div>
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The Rolling Stones debuted. </div>
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To Kill a Mockingbird was in theaters.</div>
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Marilyn Monroe died.</div>
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Julia Child first appeared on television.</div>
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Ringo Starr replaced Pete Best as Beatles' drummer.</div>
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John Glenn orbited the earth.</div>
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Closer to home, Seattle hosted The Century 21 Exposition.<br />
More commonly known as the 1962 World's Fair and the opening of the Space Needle.<br />
For her 50th birthday, The Space Needle was recently painted Galaxy Gold.<br />
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Fifty years later, 2012, July 24th fell again on a Tuesday and I'm 50 years old.<br />
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I could see it coming from a distance. My 50th birthday. Peeking at me from the horizon. Of course I wanted a celebration. But I felt some pressure to make it <i><b>my</b></i> celebration. Something specifically appropriate for me. Symbolically radiating my energy.<br />
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There would be a couple of events to commemorate the actual day:<br />
An evening gathering with friends.<br />
A sweet 'Barbie-esque' family occasion.<br />
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Such memorable birthday celebrations are wonderful, but still I sought something more. Short of painting myself Galaxy Gold, I was sure there was a unique idea waiting just out of my creative reach.<br />
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A few months ago, in a casual conversation completely unrelated to birthday thoughts, I happened to mention to someone at work that I'd never ridden on a Harley Davidson. Other motorcycles, sure. I'd even driven a dirt bike back in high school. But that I'd never even been on a Harley. We continued our friendly discussion and after, I didn't think about it much.<br />
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Then a few days later, that co-worker came over to my department and said <i>"Justin said he'd give you a ride on his Harley!!"</i><br />
<i><span style="color: #741b47;">"Justin? Over in delivery 'Justin?'"</span></i><br />
<i>"Yeah, Justin."</i><br />
<i><span style="color: #741b47;">"I didn't know he had a Harley."</span></i><br />
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Now, other than the occasional "<i>Hi, how ya doing?</i>" in the halls at work and the fact that his wife is one of my favorite co-workers, I didn't know Justin and Justin didn't know me.<br />
But I'm game, right? Right. I went to him to make sure he'd felt no pressure and he convinced me that he was fine with it. We'd pencil it in for a few weeks out.<br />
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Then this single 'Thing I've Never Done' (riding on a Harley), sprouted and took root.<br />
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My mind began to wander.<br />
<i><span style="color: #741b47;">"What other things have I never done?? Hmmmm?"</span></i><br />
Thinking...<br />
<i><span style="color: #741b47;">"Well, let's see...I've never traveled anywhere by train." </span></i><br />
It was kind of fun, this line of thought.<br />
<i><span style="color: #741b47;">"What else?"</span></i><br />
More thinking...<br />
<i><span style="color: #741b47;">"Ummm, I've never gambled in a casino." </span></i><br />
It became a welcome and energizing distraction, this mental list. My imagination began to act like Hermione Granger when a professor asked a question, to which of course she knew the answer. The right hand of my imagination shot up in the air..<i><span style="color: #741b47;">"Oh, I know!<b> I know!</b> I've never flown first class!"</span></i><span style="color: #741b47;"><i> </i></span><br />
Things snowballed from there.<br />
<i><span style="color: #741b47;">"I've never been in a hot air balloon."</span></i><br />
Mental click..<br />
<i><span style="color: #741b47;">"<b>WAIT!</b> My 50th birthday!. I'll come up with 50 things I've never done before and do them in my 50th year!"</span></i><br />
And the angels sang in joyous harmony.................<i><span style="color: #351c75;">"Hallelujah! Hallelujah! Fa la la la la, la la la la!"</span></i><br />
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<b>50 New Things</b> in the next 52 weeks.<br />
So that's the plan. The plan that rang bells within me the moment it gasped its first breath!!<br />
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I'm so excited! Who knows what lies ahead..??<br />
Fifty Shades of <span style="color: #f1c232;"><b>Galaxy Gold?</b></span><br />
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I have more to write about the plan, the couple of non-rules, the recruitment and inclusion of my Band of Merry Followers, Friends, Pranksters. The Dream Team. Their role. Their generosity of spirit and passion.<br />
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Here is the link to the <b>50 New Things</b> blog.... <a href="http://barbies50newthings.blogspot.com/">http://barbies50newthings.blogspot.com/</a><br />
The inaugural post there is a duplicate of this one, as I sent the new link directly to most of you.<br />
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Please join me at 50 New Things for further details....right now I need to go write about<b> </b>The Very First of<b> My 50 New Things</b>, which happened a couple days ago!! (Things are happening faster than I can write.....)<br />
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You know, I have no problem turning 50. I'm elated, in fact. Maybe that's because I still think of myself as a child. Tuesday's Child.<br />
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Thanks for reading. Love ~ B<br />
<br class="Apple-interchange-newline" />Barbie Scarlethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13135787844153234947noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5582100572735770203.post-7123840060495914242012-07-03T20:36:00.013-07:002012-11-22T10:53:06.343-08:00Connor and the Pink Peony<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%;"><span style="font-size: 100%;">Recently, at the end of a long drive with Connor and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Colton</span> in my car, we pull into Papa Lynn's driveway. I have to drive very slow, attempting to successfully circumnavigate the impressive potholes, of which I'm not sure I can actually see the </span></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%;"><span style="font-size: 100%;">bottom. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%;"><span style="font-size: 100%;">About half way down the drive, </span></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%;"> I spot a splash of pale pink peaking at us </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%;">a</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><span style="font-size: 100%;">cross the top of the field of crazy-tall, free-range grass that used to be my children's front yard. I</span> stop the car.</span></div>
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"Connor. Look," I say, pointing out the car window, to the far corner of the house. "See that flower <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">WAAAAY</span> over there?"</div>
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"Yeah, BB," he says. </div>
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"That's a pink peony. See it? It's <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">BB's</span> favorite flower."</div>
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"Your favorite flower?" he repeats. <br />
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"Yep, pink peonies. My favorite."</div>
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We pull the rest of the way up the drive, away from the lone pink bloom, as Connor tells me that he doesn't like pink flowers. They are not his favorite. He likes white flowers.</div>
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When the ride comes to a full and complete stop, Connor unbuckles himself and jumps out of the car, heading straight for all the stray and strewn <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">Tonka</span> and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">Tonka</span>-Wanna-Be tractors he left along the gravel walk the last time he was there. </div>
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The well-loved and thoroughly abused toys are dirty, bent, peeling and broken. Also, formerly his father's.</div>
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There's a grader, a backhoe, a couple dump trucks, a bulldozer and a crane. </div>
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The crane is in the worst shape. Poor thing, more moving parts and all. Wheels that won't turn, broken "glass" in the cab, hopelessly knotted cable to control the rusted 'claw' at the end of the bent and double-jointed metal arm. </div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><span style="font-size: 100%;">Connor begins managing and </span>maneuvering<span style="font-size: 100%;"> equipment for some fantastical construction </span>scenario <span style="font-size: 100%;">that only he has the powers to see. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><span style="font-size: 100%;">At the same time, I manage and maneuver my own objective: unbuckling <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">Colton</span>, who is not as adept at "Car Seat <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">Escapery</span>" as his older and more 'time-out' prone older brother.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><span style="font-size: 100%;">As his parents pull into the driveway a few minutes later, Connor is busy fiddling and fussing with the intricacies of the crane. It seems odd to me that this most broken of the construction vehicles has drawn his unwavering attention. 'Hello' and 'How did it go?' exchanges with my fellow adults, standing by the cars, Connor at our feet. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><span style="font-size: 100%;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">Connor's dad bends down to see if he can aid the attempt to get this vehicle mobile once more. Eventually, crane straightened out to Connor's satisfaction, on all fours and ready to roll, Connor stands up and yanks the crane by the claw, trying to pull the whole thing behind him. Like a wagon. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">It promptly falls over and slides along the wet grass on its side, behind the three year old.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">"Connor, hang on," calls his father. "Let's fix it so you can pull it easier." Connor keeps walking. "Connor, wait." </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">But off he goes, dragging the crane through the thick jungle grass and around the corner of the house to the front yard. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">Dad scrambles to catch the boy who is arguing over his shoulder, at the top of his lungs, when he sees his father g</span><span style="font-size: 100%;">etting close.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">"Connor, don't drag it through the grass. Tip it back over." But to no avail.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">Then Dad is diverted by Colton, the nearly-two year old, who is heading for the mail box, near the road. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">It's like the two boys had a conversation in the car before we pulled into the driveway. </span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">"Okay, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">Colton</span>, you distract everyone by heading for traffic and then I'll get to slide off the radar and get away with whatever I want." </span>To which <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">Colton</span> says, "Uh!" And the deal is sealed.</div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">From a distance, I follow Connor around the corner and all along the front of the house. Maintaining a space between us that keeps him from feeling threatened by the possibility of unnecessary adult intervention. The rusty metals edges and corners of the toy catching clumps of grass </span><span style="font-size: 100%;">and dirt as it clunks along behind the determined boy.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">I figure he is either headed for the tire swing that is so old and tired now, it scrapes the dirt beneath it when you dare to make it swing. The Old Tired Swing.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">Or he is headed around the next corner as well, to circle the entire house. (A well-worn track he never tires of.)</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">When we get almost to the corner, by Papa Lynn's bedroom window, instead of staying on the grass, Connor starts walking straight into the muddy and soggy flower bed. </span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">(Calling this area a 'flower bed' is an exercise in blind faith, as it is completely overgrown with shrubs and bushes and this one puny little peony plant with a single pink blossom.) </span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">I try to get him back on the grass but he dodges my reach and tromps right into the mushy earth. </span></div>
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<div>
<div>
<br /></div>
</div>
</div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">His dad heads our way, telling the three year old to get out of the flower bed. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">Stopped now, with all his strength Connor works and works to get the rusty hinge of the claw to loosen. Working it opened and closed. </span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">As we stand near the pink flower that I pointed out to him earlier, Connor clamps the jaw of the crane's claw onto the stem of the pink peony. Just below the full and boisterous head, he tugs with everything he has. </span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">"No, Connor," his dad says. "Don't pick the flower. That's Papa Lynn's flower." </span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">"Actually, it's not Papa Lynn's," I say. "I planted that peony when I lived here. It's mine." Then looking down at the crane operator, I nod. "It's okay, Connor. You can have the flower. Go ahead." </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">He yanks on the plant with the jaws of the bent and rusted steel (or whatever <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">Tonka</span> Knock-offs are made of) and the head of the bloom pops off. Connor pulls it from the clamp's teeth and hands it to me. "Here BB!" </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">My favorite flo</span>wer. My single most favorite flower of all time.</div>
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<img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5761403586751447122" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXTaMVKJGPUmoBGvpWvEfTFkO_g_zuBtPgNIUE8E2cZVFqirjslp_5OQHwvOjYT5miWYtKjZTZfVsapP-GUnWMQsGkrJ8qhJ6Tsu5Ls75e90I2jsJVWqOHgq_RaWk2GFNOUpPTUPMvg34/s200/0623122004.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 200px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 150px;" /></div>
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Barbie Scarlethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13135787844153234947noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5582100572735770203.post-33701609323884725942012-07-02T10:13:00.001-07:002012-07-04T14:08:13.566-07:00Okay, It's not krumping exactly, but still...I want dance credit!I am kind of known for hating a big surprise. <div style="font-style: normal; "><br /></div><div style="font-style: normal; ">If you ask me why this is, I'll look you straight in the face and say that it's because I love looking forward to something, at least as much as I like the something itself. </div><div style="font-style: normal; "><br /></div><div style="font-style: normal; ">Which is technically true but kind of like the 'rationalization-flavored' frosting atop the real reason cake. </div><div style="font-style: normal; "><br /></div><div style="font-style: normal; ">I have a tiny little control freak as the network administrator of my mind. Don't scold me; I'm working on it. </div><div style="font-style: normal; "><br /></div><div style="font-style: normal; ">As uncomfortable as it can be for me when others surprise me with some grand event (I said, "I'm working on it!!"), I get a huge rush when I surprise myself. I love when this happens. </div><div style="font-style: normal; "><br /></div><div>Taking oneself by surprise. Impossible to orchestrate that, but I sing and twirl when it happens......<i>even</i> (and I have witnesses) in the rain on the loading dock. </div><div style="font-style: normal; "><br /></div><div style="font-style: normal; "><br /></div>Barbie Scarlethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13135787844153234947noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5582100572735770203.post-70110347256735089062012-06-23T17:23:00.013-07:002012-06-24T09:03:45.173-07:00"I'm off at 4:00"<p class="MsoNormal" style="font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; "></p><span style="font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; "><span>During the scary parts of a movie, I hide my eyes. </span></span><div style="font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; "><span><span><br /></span></span></div><div style="font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; "><span><span>Sometimes from behind my hands, I strategically peek through my fingers. </span></span></div><div style="font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; "><span><span><br /></span></span></div><div style="font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; "><span><span>Or I’ll pull a blanket up to my face and peer over the edge. </span></span></div><div style="font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; "><span><span><br /></span></span></div><div style="font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; "><span><span>If it’s really scary, I squint through the weave of the blanket. </span></span></div><div style="font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; "><span><span><br /></span></span></div><div style="font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; "><span><span> Other times I’ll bring the collar of my jams up over my nose, just beneath my eyes. Because the monster or dragon can’t get me if I’m just barely watching. </span></span></div><div style="font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; "><span><span><br /></span></span></div><div style="font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; "><span><span>Like my grandson who thinks if he hides his eyes from you, that you can’t see him. </span></span></div><div style="font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; "><span><span><br /></span></span></div><div style="font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; "><span><span>Everyone I’<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">ve</span> talked to about the movie ‘We Bought a Zoo’ really likes it. Most love it. Me, too. I imagine if I took a formal or informal survey, that no one would say there are any scary parts to this movie. </span></span></div><div style="font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; "><span><span><br /></span></span></div><div style="font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; "><span><span>Okay, maybe it is a bit frightening that the care and feeding of the cherished child cherub, Rosie, is left to the two struggling male family members. But clearly, she is magic and their tendencies will not have the power to drag her down. She will instead continue to shine light where ever she smiles. So that’s not the scary part for me. </span></span></div><div style="font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; "><span><span><br /></span></span></div><div style="font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; "><span><span>There is a lot I could write about this movie: </span></span></div><div style="font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; "><span><span>Profound points to discuss, important but uncommonly known life lessons, an abundance of dazzling quotes to scoop up. </span></span></div><div style="font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; "><span><span><br /></span></span></div><div style="font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; "><span><span> I can see five or six different ‘Zoo’ blog posts, in my future. </span></span></div><div style="font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; "><span><span>Perhaps on topics such as:</span></span></div><div style="font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; "><ul><li><span style="font-size: 100%; ">Recognizing the posture of a “<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">quittin</span>’ man”</span></li><li><span style="font-size: 100%; "><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">MacCready</span>’s speech about ‘thieves of the spirit’</span></li><li><span style="font-size: 100%; ">Weathering the trials in order to enjoy the triumphs</span></li><li><span style="font-size: 100%; ">The laziest word in this century</span></li><li><span style="font-size: 100%; ">Twenty Seconds of insane courage</span></li><li><span style="font-size: 100%; "> Attempting to bottle the infectious energy of the real estate agent</span></li><li><span style="font-size: 100%; ">A completely innocent fascination with <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">MacCready</span>’s kilt. (The same fascination I had for it in <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">Braveheart</span>.)</span><span style="font-size: 100%; "> </span></li></ul><span style="font-size: 100%; ">Today, however, I’m writing on just one point. The one that made me hide my face the first time I watched this movie.</span></div><div style="font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; "><span style="font-size: 100%; "><br /></span></div><div style="font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; "><span style="font-size: 100%; "> </span><span style="font-size: 100%; ">I’<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">ve</span> started a whole new collection of favorite movies. And movie quotes. New-to-me movies and their associated quotes.</span><span style="font-size: 100%; "> </span></div><div style="font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; "><span style="font-size: 100%; "><br /></span></div><div style="font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; "><span style="font-size: 100%; "></span><span style="font-size: 100%; ">This one for starters: <span>"It's a new day for you, Mr. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">Mee</span>….’New’ is the new ‘Old.’”</span></span><span style="font-size: 100%; "> </span></div><div style="font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; "><span style="font-size: 100%; "><br /></span></div><div style="font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; "><span style="font-size: 100%; "></span><span style="font-size: 100%; ">We Bought a Zoo was the first flick to make the new collection and so holds a special spot for me.</span><span style="font-size: 100%; "> </span><span style="font-size: 100%; ">The timing was serendipitous.</span><span style="font-size: 100%; "> </span></div><div style="font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; "><span style="font-size: 100%; "><br /></span></div><div style="font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; "><span style="font-size: 100%; "></span><span style="font-size: 100%; ">So, what could have possibly been the scary part for me? Watching thirteen year old, Lily. </span><span style="font-size: 100%; "> </span><span style="font-size: 100%; ">The <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">blonde</span>, courageous and crazy-bold young girl who helps with the animals and works at the zoo restaurant.</span><span style="font-size: 100%; "> </span></div><div style="font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; "><span style="font-size: 100%; "><br /></span></div><div style="font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; "><span style="font-size: 100%; "></span><span style="font-size: 100%; ">I can’t do it. I can't watch this sweet, pure child, head-on. This magical and special creature. She's too familiar. Biting the edge of my blanket. The bell rings in my head and I can't hear anything except alarms going off. All I can see is the pain, dead ahead. I see myself in this child. Standing right out there with her heart in her hand, offering it up freely.</span><span style="font-size: 100%; "> </span><span style="font-size: 100%; ">For everyone to see. It's painful to watch her risk so bravely. </span></div><div style="font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; "><span style="font-size: 100%; "><br /></span></div><div style="font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; "><span style="font-size: 100%; ">I want to jump in front of her, block the inevitable betrayals and obliteration ahead.</span><span style="font-size: 100%; "> </span></div><div style="font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; "><span style="font-size: 100%; "><br /></span></div><div style="font-weight: normal; "><i><span style="font-size: 100%; font-size: 100%;"></span><span style="font-size: 100%; ">"Don't do it, Lily!"</span><span style="font-size: 100%; "> </span></i></div><div style="font-weight: normal; "><span style="font-size: 100%; "><i><br /></i></span></div><div style="font-weight: normal; "><i><span style="font-size: 100%; font-size: 100%;"></span><span style="font-size: 100%; ">"Stop, do not show your spirit so openly. This honest, hopeful, faith will not be honored, Lily. Don't do it."</span><span style="font-size: 100%; "> </span></i></div><div style="font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; "><span style="font-size: 100%; "><br /></span></div><div style="font-weight: normal; "><i><span style="font-size: 100%; font-size: 100%;"></span><span style="font-size: 100%; ">"Protect yourself. Hide your heart away, Sweetie."</span><span style="font-size: 100%; "> </span></i></div><div style="font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; "><span style="font-size: 100%; "><br /></span></div><div style="font-weight: normal; "><i><span style="font-size: 100%; font-size: 100%;"></span></i><span style="font-size: 100%; "><i>"This is </i>not<i> a good idea, magic child. There is no one worthy."</i></span><span style="font-style: italic; font-size: 100%; "> </span><span style="font-style: italic; font-size: 100%; "> </span><span style="font-style: italic; font-size: 100%; "> </span></div><div style="font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; "><span style="font-size: 100%; "><br /></span></div><div style="font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; "><span style="font-size: 100%; "></span><span style="font-size: 100%; ">Lily is not the first. I’<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">ve</span> run across ‘this girl’ before but <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">didn</span>’t recognize the uncomfortable feeling in my chest until I saw We Bought a Zoo. There’s Julie and Kaylee, just two recent examples.</span><span style="font-size: 100%; "> </span></div><div style="font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; "><span style="font-size: 100%; "></span><span style="font-size: 100%; ">Julianna Baker, in the book Flipped by <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">Wendelin</span> Van <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">Draanen</span>.</span><span style="font-size: 100%; "> </span><span style="font-size: 100%; ">(And movie too.)</span><span style="font-size: 100%; "> </span></div><div style="font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; "><span style="font-size: 100%; "></span><span style="font-size: 100%; ">Kaylee, the mechanic aboard Serenity in the series Firefly.</span><span style="font-size: 100%; "> </span></div><div style="font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; "><span style="font-size: 100%; "><br /></span></div><div style="font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; "><span style="font-size: 100%; "></span><span style="font-size: 100%; ">E</span><span style="font-size: 100%; "><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12">ach</span> of these girls put themselves right out there.</span><span style="font-size: 100%; "> </span><span style="font-size: 100%; ">Causing me to wince when I see them so vulnerable. So trusting.</span><span style="font-size: 100%; "> </span></div><div style="font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; "><span style="font-size: 100%; "><br /></span></div><div style="font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; "><span style="font-size: 100%; "></span><span style="font-size: 100%; ">The story line of a girl who is drawn to a boy, for reasons she may not understand, and tells him so, in one way or another. Watching these sweet, believing spirits expose themselves so freely, each to individuals completely unworthy of the offering. Offering her heart, her laughter, her undeserved devotion. She presents herself, wholly open and holding nothing back.</span><span style="font-size: 100%; "> </span></div><div style="font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; "><span style="font-size: 100%; "><br /></span></div><div style="font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; "><span style="font-size: 100%; "></span><span style="font-size: 100%; ">She can be found in movie/book portrayals pretty often, but she’s rarely the heroine. She’s usually the goofy best friend. The typical lead female character is tough and ‘strong’ and she plays aloof, indifferent, ‘hard to get.’</span><span style="font-size: 100%; "> </span></div><div style="font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; "><span style="font-size: 100%; "><br /></span></div><div style="font-weight: normal; "><span style="font-size: 100%; font-size: 100%;"></span><span style="font-style: normal; font-size: 100%; ">In another movie recommended to me recently, I heard this quote:</span><span style="font-style: normal; font-size: 100%; "> </span><span style="font-size: 100%; "><i><span>“You are not supposed to show him your regular self until you’<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_13">ve</span> been married five years."</span></i> This is what our culture tells us is smart. We are socially trained to hide our hearts away.</span></div><div style="font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; "><span style="font-size: 100%; "><br /></span></div><div style="font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; "><span style="font-size: 100%; ">For the most part, the ‘Lily’ character in any story is seen as weak or stupid because she puts herself out there. We feel sorry for her. Poor thing. Because we know what’s coming.</span><span style="font-size: 100%; "> </span></div><div style="font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; "><span style="font-size: 100%; "><br /></span></div><div style="font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; "><span style="font-size: 100%; "></span><span style="font-size: 100%; ">Julianna in Flipped, takes a long time to learn the lesson but eventually pulls back because the price of pain is just more than she can bear.</span><span style="font-size: 100%; "> </span></div><div style="font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; "><span style="font-size: 100%; "><br /></span></div><div style="font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; "><span style="font-size: 100%; "></span><span style="font-size: 100%; ">Kaylee in Firefly, so blatantly crazy about the so blatantly oblivious and unworthy doctor aboard her cherished ship, portrays it dead on.</span><span style="font-size: 100%; "> </span></div><div style="font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; "><span style="font-size: 100%; "><br /></span></div><div style="font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; "><span style="font-size: 100%; "></span><span style="font-size: 100%; ">Kathleen Kelly (the exception to the observation above about leading ladies) in You've Got Mail </span></div><div style="font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; "><span style="font-size: 100%; ">lives with her heart right out loud.</span><span style="font-size: 100%; "> </span></div><div style="font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; "><span style="font-size: 100%; "><br /></span></div><div style="font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; "><span style="font-size: 100%; "></span><span style="font-size: 100%; ">But I <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_14">didn</span>’t realize the mirror I was looking into with these women, until I watched We Bought a Zoo. An eye-witness to how Lily holds her heart out to the brooding, dark, too-cool Dylan and realizing why I literally hurt inside when I watch or read these women. She's just too close to home.</span><span style="font-size: 100%; "> </span></div><div style="font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; "><span style="font-size: 100%; "><br /></span></div><div style="font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; "><span style="font-size: 100%; "></span><span style="font-size: 100%; ">Watch the scenes with Dylan and Lily. See how he gives her nothing. NOTHING. For all her shine and light, he gives her nothing in return. He just absorbs the offering, with an edgy smirk on his face. Yet she believes so completely, that she's still remains all in. </span></div><div style="font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; "><span style="font-size: 100%; "> </span><span style="font-size: 100%; ">Is she embarrassingly brave? Or insanely foolish?</span><span style="font-size: 100%; "> </span></div><div style="font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; "><span style="font-size: 100%; "><br /></span></div><div style="font-weight: normal; "><span style="font-size: 100%; font-size: 100%;"></span><span style="font-size: 100%; ">I've always done this. Walk right up. Show my hand. <i>“Look here. See who I am and how I feel.”</i></span></div><div style="font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; "><span style="font-size: 100%; "><br /></span></div><div style="font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; "><span style="font-size: 100%; "> </span><span style="font-size: 100%; ">Poker players (and most everyone else) would scoff at such foolishness. I don't know how to keep things close to the vest. I don't even like vests. Except for those reflective crossing guard vests, I really wanted to wear one of those in grade school.</span><span style="font-size: 100%; "> </span></div><div style="font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; "><span style="font-size: 100%; "><br /></span></div><div style="font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; "><span style="font-size: 100%; "></span><span style="font-size: 100%; ">I put myself right out there. Emotionally naked. And vulnerable. The entire time, thinking that it will be rewarded with reciprocal courage. Equal honesty. And that it will be found adorable and unique. But the fear within others keeps them timid and afraid of such forward behavior.</span><span style="font-size: 100%; "> </span></div><div style="font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; "><span style="font-size: 100%; "><br /></span></div><div style="font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; "><span style="font-size: 100%; "></span><span style="font-size: 100%; ">I have given it much thought. Looked at it from every angle. Sitting on my hands. Standing on my head. But I don’t think I could do it any other way. Growing up, I was this girl. </span><span style="font-size: 100%; "> </span><span style="font-size: 100%; ">If I liked someone, they knew it. There was no question. </span></div><div style="font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; "><span style="font-size: 100%; "><br /></span></div><div style="font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; "><span style="font-size: 100%; "> </span><span style="font-size: 100%; ">I couldn't see the advantage to doing it any other way. And even if I had, I would not have </span><span style="font-size: 100%; ">known</span><span style="font-size: 100%; "> any other way. Stepping out on that tenuous limb with my heart in my hands. And held out in front of me.</span><span style="font-size: 100%; "> </span><span style="font-size: 100%; "> </span></div><div style="font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; "><span style="font-size: 100%; "><br /></span></div><div style="font-weight: normal; "><span style="font-size: 100%; font-size: 100%;"></span><span style="font-size: 100%; ">I feel like Merrill in the movie, Signs. Muttering to myself that it <i><span>"Felt wrong not to swing."</span></i></span><span style="font-style: normal; font-size: 100%; "> </span></div><div style="font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; "><span style="font-size: 100%; "><br /></span></div><div style="font-weight: normal; "><span style="font-size: 100%; font-size: 100%;"></span><span style="font-size: 100%; ">Yet living with the haunting and mocking voice of Lionel <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_15">Prichard</span> in my head: <i><span>“He would just swing that bat as hard as he could every time. Didn't matter what the coaches said, didn't matter who was on base. He would just whip that bat through the air as hard as he could. Looked like a </span></i></span><i><span><span style="font-size: 100%; ">lumberjack chopping down a tree. Merrill here has more strikeouts than any two players.”</span><span style="font-size: 100%; "> </span></span></i></div><div style="font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; "><span style="font-size: 100%; "><br /></span></div><div style="font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; "><span style="font-size: 100%; "></span><span style="font-size: 100%; ">Which is more painful? Putting your heart out there and having it shattered? Or the regret of clinging the easy way and never really letting yourself hang all the way out there? Letting the pitch fly by with the bat still up on your shoulder. Cashing out, and always wondering. </span></div><div style="font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; "><span style="font-size: 100%; "><br /></span></div><div style="font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; "><span style="font-size: 100%; ">Are such bold women foolish?</span><span style="font-size: 100%; "> </span><span style="font-size: 100%; ">Yes. But not for putting their heart on the line as they do. But instead because they put their heart on the line in the direction of such unworthy souls. </span><span style="font-size: 100%; "> </span><span style="font-size: 100%; ">Souls - oblivious, cowardly, pathetic and ultimately blind to the miracle of enchantment.</span><span style="font-size: 100%; "> </span></div><div style="font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; "><span style="font-size: 100%; "><br /></span></div><div style="font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; "><span style="font-size: 100%; "></span><span style="font-size: 100%; ">It’s unfortunate but we tend to take for granted that which is given to us freely. Including love. The sweet, silly, naive, smitten girl is so incredibly 'all in,' that the person she offers herself to really doesn't have to do anything. He never has to take a step in her direction at all. He could, if he wanted to, but in my experience he will not. Taking it just as long as it's handed over without his having to put forth an ounce of effort. She comes directly to him and he just goes along for the ride. Until anything reciprocal is asked. </span></div><div style="font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; "><span style="font-size: 100%; "><br /></span></div><div style="font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; "><span style="font-size: 100%; "> </span><span style="font-size: 100%; ">Kaylee in Firefly.</span><span style="font-size: 100%; "> </span></div><div style="font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; "><span style="font-size: 100%; "></span><span style="font-size: 100%; ">Julianna in Flipped.</span><span style="font-size: 100%; "> </span></div><div style="font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; "><span style="font-size: 100%; "></span><span style="font-size: 100%; ">Lily in We Bought a Zoo.</span><span style="font-size: 100%; "> </span></div><div style="font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; "><span style="font-size: 100%; "></span><span style="font-size: 100%; ">Lydia in Pride & Prejudice.</span><span style="font-size: 100%; "> </span></div><div style="font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; "><span style="font-size: 100%; "></span><span style="font-size: 100%; ">Erica Barry in Something’s Gotta Give.</span><span style="font-size: 100%; "> </span></div><div style="font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; "><span style="font-size: 100%; "><br /></span></div><div style="font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; "><span style="font-size: 100%; "></span><span style="font-size: 100%; ">This is the character type that’s most difficult for me to watch. </span><span style="font-size: 100%; "> </span><span style="font-size: 100%; ">And when she turns up, I’ll be looking from behind my blanket because they are simply too familiar and revealing. Scary.</span><span style="font-size: 100%; "> </span></div><div style="font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; "><span style="font-size: 100%; "><br /></span></div><div style="font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; "><span style="font-size: 100%; "></span><span style="font-size: 100%; ">Maybe there’s a type that especially difficult for you to watch. </span><span style="font-size: 100%; "> </span><span style="font-size: 100%; ">Too close to your deepest fear about yourself.</span></div><div style="font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; "><ul><li><span style="font-size: 100%; ">The person who has completely shut down. All cynicism and defense.</span></li><li><span style="font-size: 100%; ">The one who can only pretend. Never daring to show anything real. Always covering.</span></li><li><span style="font-size: 100%; ">The cowardly, timid character.</span></li><li><span style="font-size: 100%; ">The narcissist. Wholly absorbed in self-assigned grandeur.</span></li><li><span style="font-size: 100%; ">The chameleon. Completely dependent on those around him.</span></li><li><span style="font-size: 100%; ">The Tin Man. Born without a heart. </span></li></ul><span style="font-size: 100%; ">It's hard to look at our true self in the eye. We flinch and turn away. Change the subject. </span><span style="font-size: 100%; "> </span><span style="font-size: 100%; ">Run. </span></div><div style="font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; "><span style="font-size: 100%; "><br /></span></div><div style="font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; "><span style="font-size: 100%; "> </span><span style="font-size: 100%; ">I can’t be the only one to close one eye, turn my head sideways and in my peripheral vision, still see myself.</span><span style="font-size: 100%; "> </span><span style="font-size: 100%; "> </span><span style="font-size: 100%; "> </span><span style="font-size: 100%; "> </span><span style="font-size: 100%; "> </span></div><div style="font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; "><span style="font-size: 100%; "><br /></span></div><div style="font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; "><span style="font-size: 100%; "></span><span style="font-size: 100%; ">On a more fun note, I love a list. And with ‘new-to-me’ movies, come new quotes. </span></div><div style="font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; "><span style="font-size: 100%; ">Without cheating on IMDB, do you know to which movies the quotes below belong? </span></div><div><ul><li style="font-weight: normal; "><i><span><span style="font-size: 100%; ">“Oh, this Twinkie thing, it ain’t over yet!”</span><span style="font-size: 100%; "> </span></span></i></li><li style="font-weight: normal; "><i><span><span style="font-size: 100%; "></span><span style="font-size: 100%; ">“So. There we are. Where are we?”</span><span style="font-size: 100%; "> </span></span></i></li><li><i><span><span style="font-size: 100%; font-size: 100%;"></span><span style="font-weight: normal; font-size: 100%; ">“The </span><span style="font-size: 100%; "><b>one</b></span><span style="font-weight: normal; font-size: 100%; "> night I dress up!”</span><span style="font-weight: normal; font-size: 100%; "> </span></span></i></li><li style="font-weight: normal; "><i><span><span style="font-size: 100%; "></span><span style="font-size: 100%; ">“A is for AWESOME!”</span><span style="font-size: 100%; "> </span><span style="font-size: 100%; "> </span></span></i></li><li style="font-weight: normal; "><i><span><span style="font-size: 100%; ">“That’s what they do before you become chips and salsa.”</span><span style="font-size: 100%; "> </span><span style="font-size: 100%; "> </span></span></i></li><li style="font-weight: normal; "><i><span><span style="font-size: 100%; ">“Nice! Solid joke.”</span><span style="font-size: 100%; "> </span></span></i></li><li style="font-weight: normal; "><i><span><span style="font-size: 100%; font-size: 100%;"></span><span style="font-size: 100%; ">“What are you doing? Two shows a night?” </span></span></i></li><li style="font-weight: normal; "><i><span><span style="font-size: 100%; ">"Circus money, man!" </span></span></i></li><li style="font-weight: normal; "><span style="font-size: 100%; "> </span><span style="font-size: 100%; "><i><span>“You Fucking guy!”</span></i></span><span style="font-style: normal; font-size: 100%; "> </span><span style="font-style: normal; font-size: 100%; ">(Which I formerly associated with Something’s Gotta Give, but turns out Erica Barry was quoting another movie completely. I love when there’s a quote within a quote.) </span></li><li style="font-weight: normal; "><span style="font-size: 100%; "> </span><span style="font-size: 100%; "><i><span>“Lobster Todd.”</span></i> (For whom, I’m holding out.)</span><span style="font-style: normal; font-size: 100%; "> </span></li><li style="font-weight: normal; "><i><span><span style="font-size: 100%; font-size: 100%;"></span><span style="font-size: 100%; ">“Whatever is wrong with you, is no little thing.” </span><span style="font-size: 100%; "> </span><span style="font-size: 100%; "> </span></span></i></li><li style="font-weight: normal; "><i><span><span style="font-size: 100%; "></span><span style="font-size: 100%; ">“Oh stop being all….bilingual!”</span><span style="font-size: 100%; "> </span></span></i></li><li style="font-weight: normal; "><i><span><span style="font-size: 100%; "></span><span style="font-size: 100%; ">“Aim for the bushes!”</span><span style="font-size: 100%; "> </span></span></i></li><li style="font-weight: normal; "><i><span><span style="font-size: 100%; "></span><span style="font-size: 100%; ">“Not as dumb as he looks, folks.” </span></span></i></li><li style="font-weight: normal; "><i><span><span style="font-size: 100%; "> </span><span style="font-size: 100%; ">“Greetings, Sled God!”</span><span style="font-size: 100%; "> </span></span></i></li><li style="font-weight: normal; "><i><span><span style="font-size: 100%; font-size: 100%;"></span><span style="font-size: 100%; ">“Do you get hit a lot?”</span><span style="font-size: 100%; "> </span></span></i></li><li style="font-weight: normal; "><i><span><span style="font-size: 100%; font-size: 100%;"></span><span style="font-size: 100%; ">“You gotta throw the small ones back.”</span><span style="font-size: 100%; "> </span></span></i></li><li style="font-weight: normal; "><i><span><span style="font-size: 100%; ">"Well, put it in the pile of gifts from my other suitors."</span></span></i></li><li style="font-weight: normal; "><i><span><span style="font-size: 100%; "></span><span style="font-size: 100%; ">“I’m your fan, man. Don’t you know that by now?”</span><span style="font-size: 100%; "> </span></span></i></li><li style="font-weight: normal; "><i><span><span style="font-size: 100%; "></span><span style="font-size: 100%; ">“Did that go the way you thought it was gonna go? Nope!”</span></span></i></li><li style="font-weight: normal; "><i><span><span style="font-size: 100%; ">“Travel the stages of grief. Yet stop just before zebras get involved.”</span><span style="font-size: 100%; "> </span><span style="font-size: 100%; "> </span></span></i><span style="font-style: normal; font-size: 100%; "> </span></li></ul><span style="font-size: 100%; ">And a quote WAY too long to drop in casual conversation but I'll find a way to work it in one day: </span></div><div><i><span><span style="font-size: 100%; "> </span><span style="font-size: 100%; ">“Whatever happened to chivalry? Does it only exist in 80's movies? I want John Cusack holding a boombox outside my window. I wanna ride off on a lawnmower with Patrick Dempsey. I want Jake from Sixteen Candles waiting outside the church for me. I want Judd Nelson thrusting his fist into the air because he knows he got me. Just once I want my life to be like an 80's movie, preferably one with a really awesome musical number for no apparent reason.”</span><span style="font-size: 100%; "> </span></span></i></div><div><span style="font-size: 100%; "><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: 100%; "></span><span style="font-size: 100%; "><i>“That’s the worst goodbye I’ve ever heard, and you stole it from a movie.”</i> </span><span style="font-size: 100%; "> </span><span style="font-size: 100%; "> </span><span style="font-size: 100%; "> </span><span style="font-size: 100%; "> </span><span style="font-size: 100%; "> </span><span style="font-size: 100%; "> </span></div><div style="font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; "><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p></div>Barbie Scarlethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13135787844153234947noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5582100572735770203.post-25952521417741478852012-06-02T22:19:00.005-07:002012-06-03T10:15:15.401-07:00Tipping the Scale<p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; ">There is something amazing and magic about taking special and tender care of yourself. We are so hard on our souls. <o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; ">We wake to a startling alarm, we scramble to work then we scramble back home, we scarf down our dinner and how often does that meal come from a box or from the deli case because we don’t have the energy to make anything ‘real.’ </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; "><span style="font-size: 100%; ">We sit down in front of the TV, telling ourselves that we need to unwind, zoning out to Danger Jim’s Breaking New.’ Or in front of our electronic device of choice, playing some online game, clicking on news and sport snippets to feel current. With an adult beverage in our fist. Red, white or amber. Telling ourselves we deserve it after a long day. Trying to compensate for something that's missing. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; "><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; "><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; ">We work at a job that does not hold our heart, week after week, month after month and try to make up for all that soul sacrifice by taking a long weekend out of town three or four times a year. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; ">Our culture if filled with popular behavior choices, of which the sole purpose is the numbing of our minds so that we do not have to actually feel the truth of our choices. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">What feeds your spirit?<br /><span style="font-size: 100%; ">What nourishes your health?<br />What does being kind to yourself look like for you?<i> (Not a rhetorical question...)</i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 100%; ">Is it dipping your toes in the surf? Staring at the bright, pearl-white moon from your deck as it rises from behind the purple blue clouds in the evening sky? Is it eating a salad fresh from your own little garden? Is it surrounding yourself with the most amazing sources of support and encouragement? Those who believe in you most? </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 100%; ">Or jumping in a puddle with your favorite small child? Crawling into the most comforting, soft sheets, washed in the soothing, calming fragrance of lavender? Is it having someone tell you a bed time story until you drift peacefully off? Is it taking the <i>extra</i> time to fully express your gratitude? Twirling down the sidewalk in your favorite skirt? Or filling your home, your sanctuary, with the colors, the scents, the textures that make you smile and breathe so much easier?</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; "><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; ">I understand it’s easy to just go through your day, every day. Caught, entrenched in the routine. I’ve been guilty too. But I also have a very sensitive radar for that moment when I’ve done the self-care thing just right. And if I slow down or, even better, come to a complete stop, I can make this magic happen on a regular basis. <o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; ">I find the proportion with which I fail to do this successfully, is directly connected to my need to fill my life with empty ‘care.’ When I’m taking the best care of me, I am much, much less likely to find myself mindlessly surfing the Internet or some other form of emotional anesthesia because my brain is mush and mud from the inconsequential, superficial immediate gratification that ultimately saps my spirit of its organic spark and magic. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; "><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; "><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; "><o:p> </o:p></p>Barbie Scarlethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13135787844153234947noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5582100572735770203.post-50798168974559298902012-05-25T17:14:00.004-07:002012-05-29T12:34:01.082-07:00The Size of Kindness<p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt">'The smallest acts of kindness.'</p><br /><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><?xml:namespace prefix = o /><o:p></o:p></p><br /><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"></p><br /><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt">I started to tell someone today that even the smallest act of kindness brings tears to my eyes lately. But then I stopped and asked myself, "Are there any 'small' acts of kindness?" </p><br /><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><o:p></o:p></p><br /><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"></p><br /><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt">Really. Isn't that a little bit like saying something was a 'little bit wonderful?' ‘Wonderful’ doesn't seem quantifiable, does it?</p><br /><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><o:p></o:p></p><br /><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"></p><br /><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt">I feel the same way about kindness. The sweet and thoughtful gesture of someone who cares about you...the friend who not only<span class="apple-converted-space"><i> </i></span><i>thinks about</i> showing you a kindness, but then follows through...</p><br /><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><o:p></o:p></p><br /><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"></p><br /><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt">Invitation to lunch.<o:p></o:p></p><br /><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"></p><br /><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt">The colorful card left on my chair at work.<o:p></o:p></p><br /><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"></p><br /><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt">Wearing a kilt for me.<o:p></o:p></p><br /><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"></p><br /><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt">The leisurely phone call for no specific reason.<o:p></o:p></p><br /><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"></p><br /><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt">Late night Skype.<o:p></o:p></p><br /><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"></p><br /><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt">A hand-picked wildflower left for me.<o:p></o:p></p><br /><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"></p><br /><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt">A "Hey, how are you?" Scottish email.</p><br /><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><o:p></o:p></p><br /><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"></p><br /><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"></p><br /><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt">All important and all appreciated and not a single one of them could be called small.</p><br /><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><o:p></o:p></p><br /><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"></p><br /><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt">I have someone who texts me almost every morning to help me get my day started on the most positive note. Texts. Do you know how many times I've 'lovingly' mocked and teased those who text as a regular form of communication? But now it's one of my precious lifelines.</p><br /><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><o:p></o:p></p><br /><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"></p><br /><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt">Kindness is, by definition, abundance.<o:p></o:p></p><br /><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><br /></p><br /><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><br /></p>Barbie Scarlethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13135787844153234947noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5582100572735770203.post-50787028418957467962012-05-23T20:16:00.007-07:002012-05-23T20:44:19.847-07:00Tae-draucht<span style="font-style: normal; font-size: 100%; ">Look out my window at work today....and what do I see? </span><div style="font-style: normal; "><span style="font-size: 100%;">Real man in real kilt, looking back at me. </span></div><div style="font-style: normal; "><i><span><br /></span></i></div><div><i><br /></i></div>Barbie Scarlethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13135787844153234947noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5582100572735770203.post-30342501476900701132012-05-09T20:55:00.001-07:002012-05-09T20:58:46.350-07:00Wide OpenThe most difficult thing that I've ever experienced in this life is watching helplessly as one of my children suffer and struggle.<br />
<br />
It is really like no other difficulty I've ever known.<br />
<br />
Nothing makes me feel smaller and more helpless.<br />
<br />
I become so acutely and painfully aware of my short-comings and my infuriating lack of super powers. And how I never had any business doing this parenting thing. How utterly unworthy and incapable I am.<br />
<br />
I have to remind myself to breathe. Deliberately. Consciously. <br />
"Okay, it's been a while since you've exhaled. How 'bout it?"<br />
<br />
And I may be losing my perspective but I think the older they grow, my children, the more devastating this becomes. I'm not positive it is possible to accurately convey the grip upon my heart when one of my grown children cries out to me. The sound of their terror. Their grief. Whether on the phone or in my arms, my child thinking there is some way for me to magically fix what has brought them to their knees. I'm the mom, I should be able to fix it, right?<br />
<br />
You know that dream when you are in some form of grave danger and you need to cry out. Want frantically to scream at the top of your lungs. You gulp a desperate breath and open your mouth but not a sound comes out?Barbie Scarlethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13135787844153234947noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5582100572735770203.post-56028762637287195912012-04-29T13:21:00.000-07:002012-04-29T13:21:58.985-07:00Big Smile!!<br />
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I have been writing in my head about these flowers since
they were delivered to me Wednesday. It was such a bright spot that I just
couldn’t help it.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I had a really bad day this week. Tuesday. <o:p></o:p></div>
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And near the end of the work day for most people in my
building, I stopped by a friend's desk, a diversion or release, I’d hoped. And
she could see that I was a mess. She very kindly proceeded to just let me be a
mess. A good friend will do that for you. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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When I'd released some of the breath I'd been holding for
most of the day and really had little left to vent, she asked me what I could do for myself in the form of comfort. Self-care.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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<i>“Is there anything you can think of that sounds calming and
peaceful?”</i> she asked.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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<i>“Well, I don’t really rely on ‘Retail Therapy’ for comfort
but I sure wish I had just a bit of money, cash unspoken for, that I could use
for a thrift store splurge. Or to buy myself tulips for my desk. For my home.”
</i>She nodded her understanding. And I went back to work. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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The next day when someone from the front desk opened the
door to my department, I turned to see her carrying flowers. <i>“They’re for you,”</i>
she said. They were the most cheerful thing I could imagine appearing spontaneously before me. Tulips, daisies, and card that read: <i><b>Big Smile!!</b></i><o:p></o:p></div>
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The card was unsigned.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Of course, I was sure I knew who they were from. So I went to
her desk. The same one as the evening before. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<i>“I thought about it, but it wasn’t me,”</i> she said, when I
asked. I looked at her with doubt. <i>“Swear to God,”</i> she said.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I asked a couple more people. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<i>“I wish it had been me, but it wasn’t.” </i><o:p></o:p></div>
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<i>“Not me, but I’m happy to take the credit.” </i><o:p></o:p></div>
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But then before I ran out of people to check with, I decided
that it was better not knowing. At first I couldn’t stand the thought of not
getting to say Thank You, to whom ever sent them. But that was about me, wasn’t
it? It was a much better idea to not know. To just let it be an unsigned gift.
To let it be.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The flowers. <o:p></o:p></div>
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At my desk while I worked. To remind me of the angels in my
life. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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And now, the flowers, sitting here near my foot stool, in
front of the drum set. Speaking to me. <br />An absolutely deliberate act of kindness.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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I love not knowing.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I <i>adore</i> not knowing. <o:p></o:p></div>
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As long as I don't know, then these flowers could be from
ANYONE. And I mean anyone. My imagination runs wild, near and far. Like
Schroedinger’s Cat, all options are possible. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>(But don’t get me wrong, I’m not kidding myself about who
they are not from.) </i></span><o:p></o:p></div>
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It really could be anyone. It could be you! Hey <i>YOU</i>, thanks
for the flowers. They absolutely made my day. My week. Well done, <i>You!!</i><o:p></o:p></div>
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I've said it before just recently and I'll say it again,
<i>"So shines a good deed in a weary world." </i><o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>Barbie Scarlethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13135787844153234947noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5582100572735770203.post-89719937885705828802012-04-10T19:57:00.006-07:002012-04-10T20:27:52.026-07:00April 10, 1987Where were you April 10, 1987? My first child was born that day. <div style="font-style: normal; ">He turned 25 years old today. </div><div style="font-style: normal; ">I have been a bit lost as to what to do for his birthday. </div><div style="font-style: normal; "><br /></div><div style="font-style: normal; ">I count on the universe revealing to me the perfect gift idea as long as I'm open to see. </div><div style="font-style: normal; "><br /></div><div style="font-style: normal; ">I headed into work this morning without a clue. </div><div style="font-style: normal; "><br /></div><div style="font-style: normal; ">He likes pie.</div><div style="font-style: normal; ">He likes Red Robin.</div><div style="font-style: normal; ">He likes many TV series.</div><div style="font-style: normal; ">He likes anything made of Kevlar. </div><div style="font-style: normal; "><br /></div><div style="font-style: normal; ">This is a start but nothing is really clicking with me. I figure I'll just keep driving toward his work to wish him Happy Happy trusting that something will come to me. </div><div style="font-style: normal; ">Key Peninsula Hwy</div><div style="font-style: normal; ">Purdy Spit</div><div style="font-style: normal; ">Hwy 16</div><div style="font-style: normal; ">I - 5</div><div>Still nothing. Balloons? Big Mac? (You'd have to know Colin to know just how funny that was.) I know I can't go wrong with bullets but in my world, the gift needs to fit the 'giver' as much as the 'givee.' Bullets are not my idea of the perfect gift. <i>Okay, well maybe in some unique and specific situations. But generally speaking, </i>no.</div><div style="font-style: normal; "><br /></div><div style="font-style: normal; ">Driving past the Tacoma Mall, watching all the idiots realizing at the last second that they need to take the 56th street exit and cutting across the lanes. </div><div style="font-style: normal; "><br /></div><div style="font-style: normal; ">Thinking "gift, gift, gift. Need the perfect gift."</div><div style="font-style: normal; "><br /></div><div style="font-style: normal; ">Thinking "There's a K-Mart between me and his work, maybe there will be something..." (kidding)</div><div style="font-style: normal; "><br /></div><div style="font-style: normal; ">Then I catch a glimpse of the Ted Brown music store in the corner of my eye. I cut across the lanes between me and the 72nd street exit and next thing I know I'm driving past Hooters and on to Ted Brown.</div><div style="font-style: normal; "><br /></div><div><span style="font-style: normal; ">My son is a drummer. And he'd never tell you how much he loves it or how talented he is, but I will. </span><i>Another time.</i> </div><div style="font-style: normal; "><br /></div><div style="font-style: normal; ">I know he needs a new snare for his kit but I don't know the first thing about what kind, what brand, what color. No, that's not true, I'd be pretty good at finding the best color. Then it hit me. Since he first got his drum kit in junior high school he's wanted a double base pedal. And the sweet relief of knowing, I've just hit the perfect gift idea. *sigh* </div><div style="font-style: normal; "><br /></div><div style="font-style: normal; ">I got the best one I could afford. Packed it into my trunk and headed to his work. It's a bit of a drive. He is not expecting me. </div><div style="font-style: normal; "><br /></div><div style="font-style: normal; ">"What are you doing here?" He's not unhappy but surprised.</div><div style="font-style: normal; "><br /></div><div style="font-style: normal; ">"Wishing you Happy Birthday," I say. "Come out to the car. I have something for you."</div><div style="font-style: normal; "><br /></div><div style="font-style: normal; ">"What?" he asks as we walk to where I've parked.</div><div style="font-style: normal; "><br /></div><div style="font-style: normal; ">"Birthday cake. A big, sugary thing with inch thick frosting and sprinkles all over."</div><div style="font-style: normal; "><br /></div><div style="font-style: normal; ">"I hate birthday cake. I'd rather have pie."</div><div style="font-style: normal; "><br /></div><div style="font-style: normal; ">"Sorry, I got you a cake."</div><div style="font-style: normal; "><br /></div><div style="font-style: normal; ">I popped the trunk. I watch his face. He gingerly lifts the flap on the plain cardboard box. (He's always on alert for booby traps.) </div><div style="font-style: normal; "><br /></div><div style="font-style: normal; ">"What did you do?" he asks. Unable to keep the glee out of his voice, which is very unusual for this kid. </div><div style="font-style: normal; "><br />I'm giddy. "I know, right!" </div><div style="font-style: normal; "><br /></div><div style="font-style: normal; ">My eyes water. "Oh I wish I'd taken the day off," he says. "Then I'd be able to go set it up and play right now." He could not have said Thank You more clearly. </div><div style="font-style: normal; "><br /></div><div style="font-style: normal; ">I was so happy. </div><div style="font-style: normal; ">He was so happy. </div><div style="font-style: normal; ">Considering our beginnings together, this is a miracle. These few minutes before I head to my job for the day. </div><div style="font-style: normal; "><br /></div><div style="font-style: normal; ">My son. 25 years old today. He's an amazing kid. I am blessed beyond measure. </div><div style="font-style: normal; "><br /></div>Barbie Scarlethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13135787844153234947noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5582100572735770203.post-61880777259072710632012-04-08T19:27:00.007-07:002012-04-10T19:56:43.661-07:00Seen any bad movies lately?<span style="font-style: normal; font-size: 100%; "> Oh my gosh. What would I do with the money spent to make this movie? The score, the cast, the crew, the location, the craft services? What would I do with that money?</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: normal; font-size: 100%; "> I've written before about how, in general, I am not a big techie. I mock and I shun. I make fun. I love this about me. But I've also written before about how every once in a great while, I notice an exception. The gadget, the website, the software that indeed makes this world a better place. At least my world.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: normal; font-size: 100%; "> The little slice of 'technology' I'm so appreciating especially today is the x2, x4, x8 Play feature on my DVD player. You know the one, the button you push and people start killing each other much faster and without the suspenseful music? </span><div style="font-style: normal; font-size: 100%; "><br /></div><div style="font-style: normal; "><span style="font-size: 100%;">Of course you may argue </span><span><i>(this is me anticipating you arguing with me)</i> </span><span style="font-size: 100%;">that if a movie needs to be x2'd to get through, then maybe I should not be watching it at all.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-size: 100%;"> But I say right back to you (</span><i><span>in this conversation that really lives only in my head and on this blog)</span></i><span style="font-size: 100%;"> that if x2 helps me get through the stupid boy parts of <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Braveheart</span> in order for me to enjoy the long hair and kilts of the movie, then more power to me, right?</span><br /><br /><span style="font-size: 100%;"> I started a movie just recently. It's not unusual for a movie to start a little slow, right?</span></div><div style="font-style: normal; "><span style="font-size: 100%;">And a little weird, right? </span></div><div><span style="font-style: normal; font-size: 100%; ">And this movie is something called 'acclaimed.' It says so right on the case. </span><br /><span style="font-style: normal; font-size: 100%; "> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Sundance</span></span><i style="font-style: normal; font-size: 100%; "> Blah Blah Blah.</i><br /><i style="font-style: normal; font-size: 100%; "> Blah Blah </i><span style="font-style: normal; font-size: 100%; ">this film festival and that film festival</span><i style="font-style: normal; font-size: 100%; ">.</i><br /><span style="font-style: normal; font-size: 100%; "> Nominations for the</span><i style="font-style: normal; font-size: 100%; "> something something</i><span style="font-style: normal; font-size: 100%; "> award...</span><br /><span style="font-style: normal; font-size: 100%; "> ...with the names of previously interesting actor types across the top of the case.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: normal; font-size: 100%; "> It seemed like a good idea at the time. Honestly. </span><div style="font-style: normal; font-size: 100%; "><br />However.... I learned something important as this movie played in my DVD player.<br />Turns out that x8 is my limit. When a movie is moving so slowly that it is still boring at x8?</div><div style="font-style: normal; font-size: 100%; "><br /></div><div style="font-style: normal; font-size: 100%; "> Here's what you do...<br /><br /><ul style="font-style: normal; "><li>Stop the DVD player. </li> <li>Remove the DVD disk. </li> <li>Put said disk back into the flimsy library case.</li> <li>Do <b><i>not</i></b> look back. </li> <li>Then call and thank me. </li> </ul><br />Do you want to know the title of this movie? I'm not telling. But if I had the money spent to make this impossible-to-justify film, I would be set. Oh my goodness, SERIOUSLY? Was this absolutely necessary?<br /><br />Someone should be brought up on charges for wasting my time, as far as I'm concerned. </div><div style="font-style: normal; font-size: 100%; "><br /></div><div style="font-style: normal; font-size: 100%; ">And tell me who I speak to about the popcorn and M & Ms that I'm out. Somebody owes me. </div><div style="font-style: normal; font-size: 100%; "><br /></div><div style="font-size: 100%; "><i>Care to guess the title? I'll tell you it was released in the last year. </i></div><div style="font-style: normal; font-size: 100%; "><br /></div></div>Barbie Scarlethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13135787844153234947noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5582100572735770203.post-18998787141724895562012-03-09T18:38:00.004-08:002012-03-09T19:11:01.864-08:00The Consolation Prize<p style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; font-style: normal; ">You know February whizzed right by me. No blog post since January 1st. </p><p style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; font-style: normal; ">It's not that I haven't been blogging, it's just that I haven't been doing it out loud. I blog quite regularly in my head. I may have mentioned this before.</p><p style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; font-style: normal; ">When I start working on a blog topic in my head, the future post is short and crisp. It's clever and quick. It's funny and it's profound. </p><p style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; ">But then this thing happens.... in my head: I hear voices. </p><p style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span style="font-size: 100%; ">Not the kind of voices manageable by medication. Slightly less menacing than that. I hear the voices of my readers. Your voice. Specifically, the voice in </span><i style="font-size: 100%; ">your</i><span style="font-size: 100%; "> head. </span></p><p style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span style="font-size: 100%; ">You know the one, the voice that argues with the guy who just cut you off in traffic.<br />The one that practices the talk you need to have with your boss.<br />The voice that rationalizes that questionable decision you just made.<br />The one that travels into the past and speaks the perfect words, instead of the words that haunt you at night when you can't sleep. </span></p><p style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; ">Is it a super power, that the inside of my head can hear the inside of your head? </p><p style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; ">I will be simply minding my own blog business, composing my post internally when your voice starts arguing against my point. Trying to find the flaws. Eager to prove me wrong. The voice in your head will roll its eyes at the words being written in my head. It scoffs at my grammar. Mocks my presumption and arrogance. "Who are you to write these ridiculous words? These posts? Who do you think you are? And who do you think wants to read your opinion and observation?" </p><p style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; ">"HA!" You point and laugh, in your head. But I can hear you, you know!</p><p><span ><span style="font-size: 100%;">Now you'd think, being able to hear all this negativity and </span>criticism from within your head would discourage me. Make me less likely to continue the writing that I'm doing in my head. But instead I just start mentally writing more. I start defending my point. Justifying myself and my opinion. My right to observation. I hear your arguments before they escape your lips and I'm ready. I think of all the possible rebuttals you might have but I'm ready with my <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">pre</span>-<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">buttal</span>! Take that. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; ">So really a good deal of my blog posts are preemptive arguments. I am so completely sure that you're going to disagree with me and call me foolish, crazy even, that the voice in my head jumps on her horse and runs like crazy to head the voice in your head off at the pass.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; ">Unfortunately this often makes for a long and messy post. Full of rationalizations and double talk. Working both ends of the conversation. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; ">It's exhausting trying to cover every argument eventuality. Especially those that exist in the far reaches of<i><b> your</b></i> head. It's like a game show that is impossible to win. Can't you just hear the Sorry, you're a loser music now? <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">Wuh</span>, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">wuh</span>, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">waaaa</span>. </span></p><p><span >So the post never gets written. Because it's just too much. I have dozens of unwritten posts. Three in the last week. One on the truth of our dreams. One on chivalry. And one that begs the question: Why does my car run so much better when my gas tank is full and my favorite song is playing on the stereo? </span></p><p><span >But no. And it's all your fault. Or the fault of that voice in your head. That I can totally hear right now, by the way. </span></p><p><span >Take that BACK! </span></p>Barbie Scarlethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13135787844153234947noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5582100572735770203.post-13985485803425342612012-01-01T23:04:00.000-08:002012-01-01T23:37:16.873-08:00New Years Revolution<div><br /></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmbWadHe86fQk0ctZFi2dN-zmSq91JPtsVlySaUGeDyexajgbBAwFW3wxpjRHdN-O_2yI6srr6bT3C5_jMc6Sfhx2qqThhKbiXBxJQNsQZI5tn0Q0ER8M6B_dNnO6Uz0gfr7MsZ1MlWcg/s1600/DSC_0367%255B1%255D.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 132px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmbWadHe86fQk0ctZFi2dN-zmSq91JPtsVlySaUGeDyexajgbBAwFW3wxpjRHdN-O_2yI6srr6bT3C5_jMc6Sfhx2qqThhKbiXBxJQNsQZI5tn0Q0ER8M6B_dNnO6Uz0gfr7MsZ1MlWcg/s200/DSC_0367%255B1%255D.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5692932610794616930" /></a><div><span ><u><br /></u></span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 132px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhimFdctfYrhePO3YU1_SDntkWndKiHEqpbCaKYnSFJgcXbDX-CAXESywiMYIzQ6ubRuABFuq-vevNkL4bOoYPKBG5bbI5P9_6pK223NsvYgv-vc0Rcppw1aLS2jYoL_-nC1wO9DsdcGrY/s200/DSC_0368%255B1%255D.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5692932623707032706" /><br /><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmbWadHe86fQk0ctZFi2dN-zmSq91JPtsVlySaUGeDyexajgbBAwFW3wxpjRHdN-O_2yI6srr6bT3C5_jMc6Sfhx2qqThhKbiXBxJQNsQZI5tn0Q0ER8M6B_dNnO6Uz0gfr7MsZ1MlWcg/s1600/DSC_0367%255B1%255D.JPG"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbkR-T2dXxSlODLTFh2DmHuJkMM5NUsgcGVz71Hf2ilaoZT3hJp_Bbu5AkcOYbml10n0JmW7WKlA4CfqvsrwSmdPpe0ensOw819E5AiJBv02N0L7tvuPgzbcp7Y-pzhu0BichV4WkpB8w/s200/DSC_0369%255B1%255D.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5692932634309741634" style="float: left; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 10px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 0px; cursor: pointer; width: 132px; height: 200px; " /></a></div></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 132px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2Vql7a_Wr59HYBQSxxtiv5CgBzZXPN4bOWHajSc8KR__AEzWk9ueeFJI50nCW-4kGxKUoXIJlLKYgEdB4N3_grGcW2J7QWtnqKo0XfZGnTCYGwYqz62F-I5-k0utlB5mKRK5yMzI-OOA/s200/DSC_0366%255B1%255D.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5692932607330805410" /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhLbCDvgO68LGaUdTMeWsMmzeebXq534NiD_Kz8TVcynOJPwWIE9HVP8C_qZdVnnV45_7sE3-ok2nsQExDr6t_ML9CyWwdDDn0dNMiwxq-TML62RHdjr_BLUZ3ENgi4LyUukMQ3dZEjaw/s200/DSC_0370%255B1%255D.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5692932642762461282" style="float: left; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 10px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 0px; cursor: pointer; width: 132px; height: 200px; " /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Barbie Scarlethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13135787844153234947noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5582100572735770203.post-7204677891684228732011-12-24T21:25:00.000-08:002011-12-24T23:11:49.565-08:00Long Lay the WorldFor the past two Christmas seasons I've had a blog waiting for its time. Chewing at my thoughts.<div><br /></div><div>It starts with the line "I have a bone to pick with George Bailey." Just a few observations about the movie: It's a Wonderful Life. Some potentially controversial, potentially clever or potentially crap. Possibly criticizing Capra's Christmas Classic. "What? Less than glowing things to say about the Mother of all Christmas movies?"<div><br /></div><div>Not today. Maybe next week. Maybe next Christmas. Sorry Clarence.</div><div><br /></div><div>I feel the need to talk about Christmas Tradition.</div><div><br /></div><div>Parenting was impossibly difficult and defeating for me. I just COULD NOT DO IT WELL <b><i>ENOUGH</i></b>. It simply wasn't possible. Isn't possible. There are a few things however, that I somehow nailed. At least things that I felt like I nailed. Christmas Traditions was one of them.</div><div><br /></div><div>The first one I hold way up over my head as a great thing: Every Christmas until the year they moved out, my children woke up in their own bed. </div><div>I loved this about my own childhood. I woke up, ran into the living room, noting happily that the cookies and milk were gone and some new shiny toy or bike had been left by Santa as I'd slept in the next room. We did not travel on Christmas Day. </div><div>Because of my love for this, I told my children's grandparents that very first year, "If you want to see us on Christmas, you'll have to come to us." We did not pack up presents and our Christmas pajamas and drive to Yakima, Edgewood or any other family location. That would not have been a real Christmas, but a sad substitute. Christmas morning at home. Period. </div><div>Then even <i>after</i> they moved out, my kids would still come home some years and spend the night Christmas Eve so they could enjoy that same tradition they grew up with. </div><div><br /></div><div>The second tradition I love and take some pride in is their yearly ornaments. And I am NOT talking about those cliche Hallmark collections here, thank you very much. No imagination in that, at all. Starting the year they were born, except for Brian who came to live with us when he was six, each Christmas, my kids received their own new ornament. With their name and the date. And if possible, relating to something significant about their past year: A clay figure on a miniature snow board the first year Brian learned to fly and fall down snowy hillsides. A little ceramic snare drum the year Colin started playing percussion. A tiny snow globe with a girl kicking a soccer ball inside, hanging on a string the year Ciara went out for soccer. </div><div>They love their collections. And I loved the yearly hunt for the perfect one. Every Christmas when we decorated the tree, they each unpacked and organized their previous ornaments in order, recalling and retelling the significance of each and eager to see what the new ornament would be. Then each taking their turn hanging their personal assortment on the evergreen boughs. </div><div>And at the age when they moved out of the house, each had their own cherished collection of at least eighteen ornaments to start out on their own.</div><div><br /></div><div>Also each year, after attending Christmas Eve service at our church, our family drove through a few favorite neighborhoods on the way home, to 'ooh' and 'aah' over pretty Christmas light displays. And as we drove, taking strict turns picking our favorite holiday carol, we'd sing in the car together. Some of us picking the same song every time. </div><div>Lynn: <i>O come All Ye Faithful. </i></div><div>Me: <i>O Holy Night.</i></div><div>Ciara: <i>The First Noel. </i></div><div>Brian: <i>We Wish You a Merry Christmas</i></div><div>Nana (my Mom): <i>Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer</i></div><div>Colin: <i>The 12 Days of Christmas</i>. We tried to save Colin for last. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Another tradition we enjoyed was reading just before bedtime on Christmas Eve. Each year, cozy and warm, in our Christmas jams and in the red glow of the Christmas tree (because my personal tradition and preference was all red lights), we would read two 'stories': </div><div><ul><li>First, <i>T'was the Night Before Christmas</i> by Clement Moore</li><li>Then Luke 2:1-14; the Gospel of Luke's record of Christ's birth.The King James Version being my favorite for this.<i> "And it came to pass in those days, that there went out a decree..." </i></li></ul></div><div> </div><div>I treasure each of my family's precious Christmas traditions. </div><div><br /></div><div>As of this year, each of my children are now married and starting to create Christmas traditions of their own. </div><div>One of which I <i>should</i> have seen coming but instead was proceeding blindly through the Christmas season just like I knew what I was doing..... </div><div><br /></div><div>My Grandboys are all going to wake up in their own beds tomorrow morning. This will have a dramatic affect on my Christmas morning.</div><div><br /></div><div>It is just as it should be. </div><div><br /></div><div>I fell into the old habit of thinking we'd all get together in the same house. The house in which we've spent Christmas morning for the past 20 years. Of course assuming the Grandboys would all be there but completely forgetting about that 'Christmas morning at home. Period!' thing. </div><div><br /></div><div>When I asked my daughter-in-law a couple weeks ago what time they would be over for Christmas morning, she said, "We're staying home. We're not going anywhere all day Christmas. People are welcome to come see the boys if they want to. But we aren't going anywhere." Genius. Of course. I felt stupid that it had not occurred to me.</div><div><br /></div><div>The other Grandboy, living in Richland, is staying home as well. It turns out my kids feel strongly about the Christmas morning tradition they grew up with. I love this. </div><div><br /></div><div>Another consequence of the traditions I've nurtured and cherished is that I don't have any of their ornaments on my tree. There is not a single familiar ornament when I look over. I'm fine with this but it is a little hard to remember it's Christmas. Or that the tree in my living room is <i><b>my</b></i> tree. My three grown children each have a Christmas tree standing in their new homes with their young families, decorated with, among others, the ornaments they grew up with. Feels like a good way to start a tree and tradition of their own. My tree this year is quite small and so doesn't need many ornaments. Mostly it has decorations of paper and chocolate. With a multi-color light string. Not sure how I feel about every change.</div><div><br /></div><div>I'm having some type of Out of Body Christmas Experience this year. The first year for me without any of those tradition moving forward, including living in a different house. In some ways it might as well be mid-January or early November. Simply doesn't feel like Christmas. This is not necessarily a complaint but an observation. Change is important and a constant opportunity. But I keep having to remind myself that it is the day before Christmas. There are still gifts left to be wrapped but my heart is not into it. (Maybe that Apathy Fairy was paying attention after all.) It started off a perfectly cozy and quiet Christmas Eve that I might have appreciated upon reflection but then it sort of melted into a completely ordinary day. I spent a good portion alone, which was odd yet surprisingly comforting and then even when given the choice of company, I preferred to remain alone. I've never had a Christmas Eve, or Christmas Season, for that matter, like this one.</div><div><br /></div><div>I get to visit two and a half of the four Grand-kiddos tomorrow. I can't wait. It's 10:20 p.m. Christmas Eve. They should each be tucked in by now. All a bit young to understand what's coming tomorrow morning. Even so, there is nothing better than spending Christmas with a kid.</div><div><br /></div><div>I wonder what next year's Christmas chapter will be titled for me. </div><div><br /></div><div> </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div></div>Barbie Scarlethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13135787844153234947noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5582100572735770203.post-8172669658690408822011-12-14T23:15:00.000-08:002011-12-15T00:23:54.361-08:00Empathy for the Anti-ApatheticBegging for some apathy here! God, how I wish I could be more apathetic sometimes. It looks so, so, so I'm not sure what, but it really looks like it.<div><br /></div><div>A relief, maybe?<br /> <div><div>I remember so clearly during some of the most disheartening and lowest points in my marriage when I actually got onto my knees praying to care less. The price of full investment is quite steep. <i>(Often while on my knees, my well sharpened rationalization skills would kick in and ask myself 'Would he truly prefer a wife who cared less?' I found this hard to imagine, yet that was precisely the case.)</i></div><div><br /></div><div>And on most days, I'm happy to pay the high price because I wouldn't want to be the type of heartless soul who doesn't give a shit. But once in a while......a day, or a person, or an issue gets the best of me, beats me down to a bloody mess and I wish I could just wish it away. The passion. The caring. I wish I may. I wish I might. <span class="Apple-style-span" ><i>Poof.</i></span> <b>Gone. </b></div><div><br /></div><div>Indifference looks very sweet from where I sit some days. Give me indifference. </div><div><br /></div><div>At the same time, there's also part of me that thinks in a silent declaration to people in my life: "Be very, VERY careful what you wish for." </div><div><br /></div><div>"Oh well, whatever, never mind," sang Kurt Cobain. </div></div><div><br /></div></div>Barbie Scarlethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13135787844153234947noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5582100572735770203.post-90477608337258869022011-12-11T20:28:00.000-08:002011-12-11T22:14:49.190-08:00I Hate Sucking!! (Or Learning to Excel at Imperfection...)<div><br /></div><div>My parents put me in violin lessons in second or third grade. Now today this would not be so outlandish but this was in the early 70's and back then the default parenting mantra was not "sign them up for everything," as it is today. </div><div><br /></div><div>I was an enthusiastic and energetic (precocious) child. I think someone must have told my parents that they should try to find an outlet for all my genius yet unruly and sideways momentum.</div><div><br /></div><div>So, the violin. It was terrible. I was terrible. I hated it. I think I had to learn some patriotic song. Can't remember which. And then play in front of people at some point. It was terrible. And I sucked. Needless to say, it didn't stick. I can't remember anything about playing the violin. Except that I really liked how you stuck out your little pinky finger down at the end of the bow. Made me feel unusually ladylike. And that I learned how to hold the violin between my chin and my shoulder. Look Mom, no hands!!</div><div><br /></div><div>Then in fifth or sixth grade they put me in saxophone lessons. Alto sax. Guess why. That's right because we had free access to an alto sax. My Uncle Mike played it in marching band and was happy to let me borrow it. We are estranged now; I haven't spoken to him since fifth or sixth grade. </div><div><br /></div><div>The saxophone. This was terrible as well. I hated it. It was just an opportunity to suck at a much louder and more squawk-y level. And it was frickin' heavy, that thing. Did I mention I walked to school ten miles each way? In the Yakima winters? Uphill both ways? It was terrible. I sucked at just lifting it up off the ground. I'm not a tall person now, imagine my height in elementary school. The perpetually cracked reed and I could look at each other square in the eye. A stare-down. The goose-call-like instrument won! I played one recital or concert or violation of the Geneva Convention or something and I believe that was the last time I touched that thing. </div><div><br /></div><div>Then in high school when my sister started taking piano lessons, I stomped my foot and said that I wanted music lessons too. "Drums, please." "No," said my father. "Too loud." Shit. Okay then "Guitar, please." (The guys who taught guitar at the music store where my sister took piano were <i><span class="Apple-style-span"><b>foxy</b></span></i> (...the 70's, remember?).) Conveniently enough, we had an acoustic guitar in the extended family so this worked out well. </div><div><br /></div><div>Until I went to my first lesson and the instructor told me I'd have to clip my fingernails. Now I don't care how cute this guy was, in the era before acrylics, long nails were a virtue, probably a sign of royalty. Long beautiful nails were not something you could purchase if you had 45 spare dollars and 45 spare minutes. </div><div>No thank you, handsome older man with curly blond hair, brown eyes and a mustache. </div><div><br /></div><div>Then when my children began taking piano lessons, I thought, while they were gone to school each day, I'd sit down at our piano and teach myself to play with their Piano for Beginners work books. I'd sung alto in my high school choir; I knew how to read music. Every Good Boy Does Fine, right? </div><div><br /></div><div>I plucked my way through a couple of basic songs but I was not willing to suck at Old McDonald long enough to get any better. I was terrible. Frustrated. And would not be teaching myself how to play piano. </div><div><br /></div><div>I am now 49 1/4 years old. And it feels a little bit late to be learning my first musical instrument.</div><div><br /></div><div>Then you know how things tend to happen exactly as they are supposed to happen...</div><div><br /></div><div>While poaching my daughter's Facebook account recently (with her permission and in order to see some of her photography), I noticed a former boss of mine was wishing her father-in-law Happy 101th Birthday. And that he began professionally dancing at 75. And began writing at 93 years old. (I own one of his books, myself.) Suddenly I felt much younger.</div><div><br /></div><div>So I decided that before my 50th, I'd learn an instrument. Drum set. I want drum lessons. (I KNOW!) </div><div><br /></div><div>Now, when I looked back at how I pretty much hated all previous attempts at an instrument, I was a bit worried about my ability to commit to sucking long enough to get 'good' at it. </div><div><br /></div><div>I kept talking about it but not doing anything. I looked online for drum teachers in the Gig Harbor area. Nothing was really clicking or lining itself up for me. (That's a real thing, you know.) </div><div><br /></div><div>My son plays drums. He is actually quite gifted this way. Kind of a natural. But I really didn't think it was a good idea to have him teach me. Seemed like a recipe for a killing spree. Plus I thought he'd scoff. I hate scoffing when it's aimed in my direction. I was just sure he'd point and mock and never believe that I'd really follow through. I wasn't going to ask him. I wasn't. I wasn't. I was decided. Period.</div><div><br /></div><div>Then one day when I went to his house to watch his two boys for a couple hours, the words "Colin, do you want to teach me drum set?" flew out of my mouth before I could stop them. </div><div><br /></div><div>To which he replied: "Yeah, sure. When do you want to start?"</div><div>"Thursday," I blurted out for no particular reason. </div><div>There was more discussion to follow but I really can't remember any of it as I was in some kind of coma for the rest of the day. </div><div><br /></div><div>Well, that was easy. But then I remembered the drum set was stored in my ex-husband's garage. My ex-husband who lives alone in a four bedroom house. "Hmmmmm....you know what would be so cool," I thought to myself. "If we could set up the drum kit in one of the empty bedrooms and Colin could teach me out there once a week."</div><div><br /></div><div>I knew my ex would mock and laugh, for sure. But I was used to this and didn't care too much, so I called and asked him if we could work something out. He didn't even scoff a little bit. "Sure," he said. "I'll clean out Ciara's old room." Later that week I got a text that said 'The room is ready. Brought the kit in from garage. Drums all set up."</div><div><br /></div><div>I could not believe this. It was all happening so easy. No fussing. No resisting. Especially from two men in my life who have a lot of practice resisting me. Everything was lining up perfectly. (I told you it's a real thing.)</div><div><br /></div><div>Now the only thing left to fall into place, or not, was me. Would I be able to stick with it? Would I be willing to suck long enough to get to the point were I could play (or completely butcher) 'Come Together' for my friends and family? </div><div><br /></div><div>I took my first lesson and LOVED it. It is the first music lesson I've ever taken that I had a great time. I was atrocious but it was so fun. A blast. And my son, it turns out, is a great teacher. Even with his mom, which I think is saying a lot. I paid him in cash and Fig Newtons. </div><div><br /></div><div>Check back with me in couple months so I can give you my progress report and any gigs I might have lined up.</div><div><br /></div><div>Do you think Hell's Kitchen would ever have a Beatles' Tribute Night? </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Barbie Scarlethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13135787844153234947noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5582100572735770203.post-72741209993773117052011-12-01T23:05:00.000-08:002011-12-11T22:23:29.095-08:00Giving Thanks<div>One Gratitude Post for each day of November 2011: Check.</div><div><br />November 1 - I am grateful for gratitude.<br />November 2 - I am so grateful for Microsoft Office. Word, specifically.<br />November 3 - I'm grateful for Sharpies.<br />November 4 - I'm crazy, I mean grateful for a cut, crisp, slick styled, sharp dressed man.<br />November 5 - I'm grateful for the symmetry of nature.<br />November 6 - I am grateful for the 'extra hour' this weekend.<br />November 7 - I am grateful for a glimpse of personality.<br />November 8 - I am grateful for my right brain. Bless her heart.<br />November 9 - I'm grateful for my favorite kid movies.<br />November 10 - I'm so very grateful for the laughter of a child.<br />November 11 - I feel deep gratitude to all American citizens, past and present, who have served our country in the military.<br />November 12 - I am grateful when I stumble upon a new treasure.<br />November 13 - I am grateful for the 13th day of every month<br />November 14 - I am grateful for a good, juicy list.<br />November 15 - I'm grateful for the technology that I'm not addicted to<br />November 16 - I was and remain all gratitude for my window<br />November 17 - I am grateful for every word so far.<br />November 18 - I am ever grateful for the aforementioned co-worker: Midge.<br />November 19 - I am grateful for movie quotes.<br />November 20 - I am grateful for opportunity to grow and learn a new way.<br />November 21 - I'm grateful for a good reader.<br />November 22 - I am grateful for your feedback.<br />November 23 - I am grateful that I have unconditional permission to write a full-fledged AWFUL rough, sloppy, shitty first draft.<br />November 24 - I'm grateful for libation free-license<br />November 25 - I am grateful for the magic that is this boy. Connor.<br />November 26 - I'm eternally grateful for room service.<br />November 27 - I'm grateful for contradictions and exceptions.<br />November 28 - I'm grateful to be so wrong sometimes.<br />November 29 - I'm grateful for the energy of gratitude.<br />November 30 - I am, as ever, grateful for men with facial hair. And I am grateful for the pants on the dining room table.</div><div> <br />It's been a very good month and I'm thankful. <br /> </div>Barbie Scarlethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13135787844153234947noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5582100572735770203.post-2830754265247496082011-11-30T23:30:00.000-08:002011-11-30T23:57:41.459-08:00Congratulations, novelist! You won!<img class="aligncenter" alt="" src="http://files.content.lettersandlight.org/nano-2011/files/2011/11/Winner_100_100_white.png" width="100" height="100" /><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><b>"And now, 50,000 words and one month later, you are a NaNoWriMo Winner!"</b></span></div><div><br /><div><br /></div><div><b>I'm grateful for the pants on the dining room table.</b> </div><div><br /></div><div>If it weren't for those pants, I'd have never started writing my 50,000 words on November 1, 2011. </div></div><div><br /></div><div>And now on November 30, it's late. I'm sitting in my living room with a fire in the wood stove, the water out there in the dark, quiet tonight and right here with me is my first reader of these words. (<i>There was no reading allowed until 50,000 was reached. Or more like "I won't read it until you reach 50,000.)</i></div><div>Every time he laughs I have to know what part he's reading. His eyes water with laughter. Is there any better form of encouragement? I'm so grateful.</div><div><br /></div><div>Even though November 2011 is over and I reached my goal: </div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><i>50,000 words, BABY!</i></span> I'll keep at this story until it tells me it's finished. </div><div><br /></div><div>When it's done, I'll need some readers for pre-editing feedback. </div><div>The story is called Hiding Madore. </div><div>Think about whether you'd be willing to read it for me and then <i>(gulp)</i> give me honest feedback so I can go back in for the 're-write.' Meditate on it. Light a candle or whatever. </div><div><br /></div><div>I'll be in touch. </div><div><br /></div>Barbie Scarlethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13135787844153234947noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5582100572735770203.post-88015200579731823772011-11-29T22:22:00.000-08:002011-11-30T01:01:35.026-08:00Flying in the Face<div>I'm coming right up on the end of November:</div><div><ul><li>National Novel Writing Month</li><li>the month of a gratitude post each day</li><li>the National month of the pomegranate </li><li>and the month also known as Movember </li></ul></div><div>I'm exhilarated and sad at the same time. </div><div>I'm jacked because <b>I wrote my 50,000 words</b>, people. I did it. From the 1st, starting at 12:01 a.m. (actually sitting up in bed with my netbook upon my lap) to this morning (11/29) around 11:00 a.m. I wrote 50,104 words. My novel. My first NaNoWriMo attempt. I'm so pleased. </div><div><br /></div><div>Now, this is not to say that I was able to type the words 'The End' this morning. Because when I look at it realistically, I'm probably only about 1/3 of the way through telling the story of the seven women in my book. But I've accomplished the first hurdle, which was 50,000 words in thirty days. A couple of words over my goal and a day early. On October 31st, NaNoWriMo Eve, I did not think I could do it. <b>I'm grateful to be so wrong sometimes</b>.</div><div><br /></div><div>I've posted a statement of gratitude for every day this month. Some days this was easier than others. It got better as the month progressed. And now I find myself with just tomorrow left but not really wanting to stop. I've enjoyed these daily thanks. And<b> I'm grateful for the energy of gratitude</b>. </div><div><br /></div><div><b>I am, as ever, grateful for men with facial hair</b>. Happy Movember. Nice job, men. </div><div>I wish you'd hang onto it a bit longer than just Movember. <i>"All I want for Christmas is...." </i></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Now speaking of men, facial hair or not, I have to let the other side of my thoughts have their fair share. I wrote a few words about some of the men to whom I could not explain my attraction. (Just some...) Now I'm going to take a moment to express my inability to explain the opposite.</div><div>Here is a list of men for whom I DO NOT get the attraction. These men, I believe have been generally thought of as attractive, pop culture-wise. But I simply don't get it. And this may seem rather harsh but there are a couple of men on this list that I have a hard time even looking at long enough to try and figure out what people see in them. Explain it to me if you want to.</div><div><br /></div><div>Patrick Swayze</div><div>Brendon Fraser</div><div>Jamie Foxx</div><div>Robert Pattinson</div><div>Joaquin Phoenix</div><div>Tiger Woods (even before)</div><div>James McAvoy</div><div>Justin Timberlake</div><div><br /></div><div>And the "Okay, I get it but I disagree" list"</div><div>Hugh Jackman</div><div>George Clooney</div><div>Benjamin Bratt</div><div><br /></div><div>Who do you 'not get?' </div><div><br /></div>Barbie Scarlethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13135787844153234947noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5582100572735770203.post-35350933168413882632011-11-27T21:07:00.000-08:002011-11-27T22:04:50.298-08:00Simply, No AccountingIf someone were to tell me, "I am so attracted to you but I'm not exactly sure why," I think I might be a little offended.<br /><br />And yet...<br /><br />Is there anyone in the world to whom you are deeply, but unexplainedly attracted? They simply do not fit your standard criteria for attractive?<br /><br />I mean, if you were to announce that you find Brad Pitt quite handsome, no one would bat an eye, right? No surprise.<br /><br />But if you were to mention aloud, 'Holy shit, that Bob Costas really does it for me,' you might get some quizzical looks.<br /><br />My Partial List:<br />Bob Costas (The aforementioned)<br />David Caruso (What the hell, right?)<br />Joe Buck<br />Kevin Calabro<br />Will Patton<br /><br /><br />When I look at this incomplete list, the most striking common denominator that I notice is intelligence. It is my impression (and PLEASE God, do not enlighten me if I'm mistaken) that they are each quite intelligent and articulate (or they play one on TV).<br /><br />And as far as I know, and again please do not go enlightening me, they are not complete and utter ass-holes. Sometimes that is all one can hope for.<br /><br /><strong>I'm grateful for contradictions and exceptions.</strong> <br /><br /><br />It is <strong>too</strong> a word!<br />Webster's says: "Rarely used adverbial inflection of the adjective <em>unexplained</em>Barbie Scarlethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13135787844153234947noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5582100572735770203.post-71230933854405865372011-11-26T14:03:00.000-08:002011-11-27T15:06:10.871-08:00Talk Dewey To Me!If the title to this blog post is not already printed on a t-shirt or bumper sticker somewhere, then I want the rights to it.<br /><br />There are some very common vacation destination desires that I lack. There are places on the planet that I think would be wonderful to visit but at the same time, some other, more commonly held (popular) locations, fail me.<br /><br />New York City is one.<br /><br />Now, up until today, only under the right circumstances would I have been happy to take a trip to New York City.<br /><br /><br />The Conditions being:<br /><br /><br />On someone else's dime with no financial restrictions.<br /><br /><br />With someone who really knew their way around NYC (but whose company I would have to ADORE).<br /><br /><br />When it wasn't freezing cold nor muggy and hot.<br /><br /><br />With front row ticket to Michael Buble at MSG during my lengthy, non-rushed stay.<br /><br />But today as I was working around Word Count 43,130 of my novel, I needed the name of a high end, well known NY hotel. (My head says "I know there's one that starts with a 'P.' What was that one again?)<br /><br />Fortunately I couldn't remember The Plaza and consequently, during the Google search I stumbled upon this place, which doesn't fit my needs for the purpose of my novel story line but absolutely does fits my needs in other more important ways. <a href="http://www.libraryhotel.com/index.cfm">http://www.libraryhotel.com/index.cfm</a><br /><br />Go there now. This place looks too cool. I'm going.<br /><br />One of the tabs on their site is titled: The Dewey Decimal Concept. Be still, my old school heart.<br /><br />They have a room called The Erotic Literature Room.<br /><br />I wear a garnet and diamond band on my left third finger, symbolizing my commitment never to get married again.<br /><br />But if I die and come back as some rookie who has no such commitment, this is the location at which I will have the ceremony, the reception, the extended honeymoon and all subsequent meals for the rest of my days.<br /><br />Haven't you always wanted to LIVE in a beautiful hotel? The entire top floor. All mine.<br />That Eloise had it made, in my nine year old opinion.<br /><br /><strong>I'm eternally grateful for room service.<br /></strong><br /><br />Go take a look at the website. This place is for me.<br /><br /><br />Isn't life great?Barbie Scarlethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13135787844153234947noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5582100572735770203.post-56546794412639445952011-11-25T22:01:00.000-08:002011-11-27T15:06:55.358-08:00Stay A While<em>"Take off your shoes, BB!"</em> Connor insists.<br /><br /><br />He has learned through trial and error, over the first two and half years of his life, that you aren't allowed to leave his house unless you have your shoes on.<br /><br />I wonder how many times he's heard, "Connor, get your shoes. We can't leave until you have your shoes on."<br /><br />He has thus surmissed that if someone comes to his house and takes off their shoes, they can't leave.<br /><br /><em>"Take off your shoes, BB!"<br /></em>Connor buying a bit of insurance that I will be there for awhile.<br /><br /><strong>I am grateful for the magic that is this boy. Connor.</strong><br /><strong></strong><br /><strong></strong>Barbie Scarlethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13135787844153234947noreply@blogger.com0